Invincible Summer(22)

“Yeah,” I croak out. “Awesome.”

I’m hanging up my apron after work that day, still struggling to get that goddamn voice to stop playing in my ears, when Mom calls my cell phone. She says, “Could you find your brother, please?”

“Uh, which one?”


“Both of them. I made an appointment with a speech therapist here—she’s supposed to be fantastic—and Noah was supposed to have Gideon there an hour ago. And she just called and says she’s waiting around in her office with no sign of them.”

“How do you expect me to find him?”

“Can you please be Can-Do Chase and not Sullen Chase?”

Oh, all right.

Tracking down Noah is, honestly, not that hard. Most of the time when he runs away now, he’s with Melinda. So I call Shannon.

“I know he thinks the speech-therapy thing is stupid.”

Shannon’s on the beach—I can hear the waves. I want to tell him bringing a cell phone out to the beach with you is so not okay, but I’m afraid he’ll hang up. Or leave the beach.

“Yeah, he would. When’d you see him last?”

“He and Melinda had lunch together like an hour ago.

Uh, Melinda?”

I listen to him talk to her for a minute, try not to strain to hear her voice, try to cover my ears, try to not picture her mouth. “He told Melinda he’s taking Gideon to the swings?”

“Thanks, Shannon.”

The park’s right downtown, just down the parking lot and across the street from where I work. As soon as I get to the end of the lot, I see Noah pushing Gideon in his favorite swing.

Problem is, Noah sees me, too. By the time I’ve climbed over the gate into the playground, Noah’s found a largish stick among the gravel and is brandishing it in my direction. “Help, help!” he calls when I keep coming toward him.

“Candy Kitchen boy’s trying to steal my baby!”

It’s then that I realize I’m still wearing my white linen hat.

“Shitdamn.” I take it off and crumple it in my hand.

“Noah, come on. I’m sure Mom’s paying, like, billions of dollars for this speech therapist.”

“He doesn’t speak. What does he need a f*cking therapist for?”

“I’m sure she knows sign language. She can teach him new signs. Come on, man.”

“He doesn’t need new signs. This talking thing is bullshit, Chase. It’s bullshit.”

It’s then that I realize Noah’s actually upset.

“Look.” He returns to the swing, where Gideon’s dragging his feet in the gravel. “This is communication,” he says, wrapping his arms around Gideon’s little body. “Learning more hand gestures to yell at him so he’ll do what Dad or whatever wants him to do? Not communication.”

“Yeah, and the speech therapist is going to take away your ability to hug Gideon. You’ve figured it all out.”

Noah stuffs his hands in his pockets.

“Look,” I say. “Stop pouting. Give me the directions and I’ll take him, whatever, and you can run away and be happy.

Okay? But don’t teach him this split-when-it-gets-rough-or-doesn’t-get-rough thing. Jesus, he’s already too much like you.”

“Ooh, inspirational speech much, Dad? You’re reaaaally qualified to bitch about us turning into each other. Shitdamn. ”

I sigh.

“You don’t have your license,” he says.

“I can drive. Give me the f*cking directions.”

Noah picks Gideon up like he’s Lucy’s age. “You’re not driving him without a license.”

“Then come on.”

He looks at Gideon.

“Noah, I’m not leaving. What are you going to do, run?

I’m faster than you. Especially when I’m not weighed down by a seven-year-old.” “Fuck you, Chase.”

“Come on.”

I don’t know how, in this, I convinced Noah, but in a second he’s driving Gideon and me to the speech therapist. As if his only job is to prove everyone wrong, Gideon’s babbling to himself in the backseat.

“He’s happy,” Noah says. “Happy to not make sense. And unlike everyone else, he knows he’s not making sense.”

I say, “Don’t you think he’d be better off if he could talk more?”

“What does he need to say that he can’t mime out for

us?”

“Nothing now, Noah, he’s seven goddamn years old.

Christ. But . . . but what about when he’s older? Trying to talk to a girl?”

“A deaf girl?”

“Either one.” Though I can’t picture Gideon with a hearing girl. “Sign or English, he’s . . . not proficient.”

“He has that smile. People just want to touch him. No words can compete with being the guy people just want to touch.” Noah shakes his head. “You can live a nice life that way.”

“Personal experience, much?”

“Personal experience this, Chase. He’s my little brother and I want him to be happy, and I’m always happiest when

people don’t make me talk.”

“What about when I make you talk?”