Give Me a Sign: Chapters 24–32

Last night might never have happened if I’d been wearing my hearing aids—if I had abided by the wishes of the hearing world.

“Are you mad because Isaac’s gone?” Max is perceptive.

“You’re afraid?” It usually seems like nothing can faze Phoebe.

“Of course—everything that is new has the potential to be terrifying. But with change, we adapt. Like disabled people have done for, you know, all of human history. Modify, adjust, transform, innovate.”

I nearly jump out of my seat when the three little dots dance at the bottom of my screen. I hold my breath as Isaac types a response. But he stops writing and the ellipsis disappears.

Then he finds a key on his lanyard and unlocks the door.

Up until this summer, wearing my hearing aids was nonnegotiable. I diligently put them in every morning without question.

I squint to read the screen through the harsh sunlight, imagining I just got a text from Isaac. But it’s just an irrelevant notification.

“I need to talk to him about it.”
Natasha agrees, signing emphatically. “So many kids are implanted super young, without consent.”

“You’re only now noticing?” Natasha asks. “How is that possible?”
She’s about to chastise him further, but Jaden shows up and sits next to her.

“I mean, if I’m allowed. I’m not sure I was exactly the most stellar junior counselor this camp has ever seen. And I’m still working on my ASL.”

I toss my backpack on the top of the picnic table, not caring that the surface is still damp from a light smattering of afternoon rain.

The fire starts to dwindle, so Isaac reaches forward and tosses in another log.

Knowing I’ll be back next year, I try not to be too sad as this year winds to a close, but it’s hard not to get nostalgic as everything turns into a last. Last time at the beach. Last time hiking along the path.

No matter how repetitive some things seem after an entire summer’s worth—the same songs performed at each talent show, the same cannonball jumps at the lake, and soon, the same tearful farewells that inevitably plague every camp at the end of the season—it’s hard not to be upset that this season is almost over.

“That’s the plan,” Oliver says. “For me, at least.”
Ben gives a noncommittal nod.

“Being deaf isn’t something that needs to be fixed.”
“I know, sweetie. Hindsight is much clearer,” my mom continues. “But it can be scary as a new parent. You got your diagnosis at a couple of weeks old.”

With Isaac nearby, attuned to my comprehension, I’m confident. I never feel lost in the conversation when he's by my side.

The only thing better than the view from the train ride into the city is driving down Lake Shore Drive at night, when the whole view is illuminated by city lights while the lake is an expansive darkness to the east.

Isaac leads me over to a two-story brick building decorated with baseball iconography on the outside.

He picks up a bat from the back and hands it to me, helping me find my stance at the plate.

We get some sodas to drink, and by the time we leave, it’s no longer scalding hot, since the sun has begun to set behind the buildings.

We make it through security, show our tickets, and walk into the crowded concourse.

“Am I deaf enough?”
Do I need his affirmation?

Have I been searching for approval to claim the word “Deaf” or even “deaf” as my own, worried I didn’t meet some specific criteria—not having a profound loss, not being fluent in sign language, not facing some of the same obstacles in life because I speak?

What summer camp will Gary end up at next year, since he’s passing on the mantle to Ethan?

I’m sure Ethan’s de facto uniform will be a whole closet of Deaf-pride attire.

I’m so relieved they don’t think I’m slowing them down anymore, or at least I’ve endeared myself to them enough that they no longer care.

Max has already decided to go ahead with the cochlear implant, so that procedure is scheduled for the start of next summer so he has ample time for recovery, as well as time to retrain his brain with the new device, before classes start back up.

To play it safe, he’s decided that he only wants to get it on one side, even if his other ear ever becomes eligible in the future.