Page 106 of The Voice We Find

As the theater lights dim and the curtain rises, Portia and her husband, Nick, take center stage. He signs a greeting to the audience in ASL first while Portia interprets. The two of them take turns welcoming us to the winter showcase, cracking multiple jokes to lighten the atmosphere and warm up the crowd. They teach the hearing-only crowd how to give applause in ASL—by raising both hands and shaking them in the direction of the stage. They then highlight the donation boxes in the lobby and the QR code on the back of the program allocated for their future efforts at commencing a deaf theater. A dream the two of them have shared since they married nearly twenty years ago. Despite the unsettled feeling in my gut since I walked in, their passion to create theater that can meld two worlds in a way I didn’t even know existed draws me in.

By the time the couple exits stage left and a male narrator introduces the first act over the surround speakers, closed captioning of his words on the background screen, I’ve all but forgotten my resistance to being here. The lively song and dance number by two young people—one deaf and one hearing—invites audience participation as the two sign ASL to the lyrics in sync with each other. Bonnie leans forward in her seat, clutching at her program and squinting at the stage through her foggy glasses. I’m honestly not sure how she can see anything through those smeared lenses.

After the fourth act, Portia comes back on stage and announces a fifteen-minute intermission. I help Bonnie retrieve her walker. While I unfold it, I ask the young usher waiting nearby if there’s a place Bonnie might satisfy her “hankering for a Snickers bar.” She’s only brought it up to me five times in so many minutes, so it’s only fair I widen the circle of communication. Thankfully, the kid’s brother is the one working the concessions table, and he offers to take her money and purchase her one while she makes use of the facilities closest to us. Not trusting myself to stay clear of the backstage area,I remain exactly where I am, harboring a foolish hope that I might actually get out of here without running into Sophie.

Upon Bonnie’s return, the same young usher approaches us again, carrying a king-sized candy bar in one hand and a tiny flashlight in the other. He leans toward me and speaks in a hushed tone. “Sir, I’ve just confirmed with our director that we have two open seats in the second row. Center stage.” His smile makes no effort to hide his pride. “They’re reserved for guests with your mother’s specific accessibility needs.”

“Oh, uh,” I begin uncomfortably, “she’s not my...”

“We’ll take them,” Bonnie exclaims loudly, clapping me on the back with a force that nearly knocks the wind out of me. “Don’t leave your program behind, August. I don’t like to share. Oh, and please grab my tissue pack from the armrest there. My nose tends to drip the later the night goes on.”

And this is how I end up trailing after Bonnie as she navigates her walker down the center aisle of Twilight Theater at the speed of a tax audit. There’s no chance we have not alerted every eye in the auditorium as our quest continues long after the theater lights flicker and signal the return of the show. As our eager usher shines his baby flashlight beam on the floor near Bonnie’s feet, she sneaks her contraband Snickers bar from the basket of her walker and stuffs it into the pocket of her dress pants. She then has the audacity to tap a finger to her lips.

I’m still working on collapsing her walker for storage when the next act is announced on stage. I break into a sweat. When I finally take my seat beside Bonnie, the waving motion directly across the aisle from me catches in my periphery.

Even in this low lighting, Aunt Judy’s smile is easy to discern. It costs me whatever pride I have left to wave back.

From these seats, everything appears larger than life. The faces and hands of the performers are sharper and more expressive, and I can’t help but wonder how far along I’d be in my own ASL training if I hadn’t chosen to pursue the path that made me a stranger in my own home.

Through the entire seventh act, my mind is everywhere but on the stage. I can’t say if the act is a song or a drama or even a practiced comedy routine. But I do know that every minute that ticks by is another minute closer to whatever Gabby has planned for her performance.

As the applause hands come down and the clapping noise quiets, Portia and her husband introduce Gabby and ask her to please join them on the stage.

I sit up straighter.This is different.

My sister’s posture is confident when she steps out from behind the curtain and waves at the audience. Both Portia and her husband take a step back, and I look to Bonnie as if she has an explanation. But she’s too busy sneaking bites of her Snickers bar to weigh in.

“Hello,” my sister says directly to the audience. “My name is Gabriella Tate, and I’m a cast member in tonight’s showcase, as well as a student of the Pimentels.” Gabby is speaking and signing at the same time, and I’m completely mesmerized by her poised stage presence. “Due to an accident I suffered two and a half years ago, I’m profoundly deaf. And in just a few minutes, I’m going to share a little bit of my story with you. But first I wanted to share a little about what Twilight Theater and the Pimentel family have meant to me.”

She stops speaking for a moment and grins at Portia and Nick before resuming. “I’m still a student of ASL, but my growing vocabulary and immersive training is thanks to Portia and Nick, and their son, Tyler.” She twists her head to the side of the stage and smiles. “This family has been so patient to teach me—along with many others in this room tonight—exactly why inclusivity matters to both the deaf and hearing communities and why we should hope for a brighter, more communicative tomorrow. Before you leave here tonight, I hope each of you will consider donating to this special theater and its special cause. Thank you for believing in their vision enough to become a bridge builder.” Gabby bows slightly, and the packed auditorium erupts with applause when she encourages Portia and Nick to bow, as well. The couple hugs Gabby before they leave her alone on the stage. A spotlight illuminates her.

“For tonight’s final act, I’ve asked a good friend of mine to be my voice in English so that I can focus on communicating this narrative in ASL without having to break up the natural flow to code-switch for interpretation, the way I’m doing now. We’ve rehearsed our respective scripts in each language. But though there will be two languages represented on this stage, there is only one story.”

Pride swells in my chest, and I clap for her once again. It’s then my sister catches my eye. Discreetly, she touches her chin with her fingertips and proceeds to thank me in ASL. I nod, hoping it somehow conveys that there’s no place I would rather be than right here.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” a male narrator says over the loudspeaker as the same words flash on the screen behind my sister. “Without further ado, the Twilight Theater proudly presents Gabby Tate and Sophie Wilder in an original dramatic narrative titledThe Rescue.”

Every cohesive brain cell in my head retreats to standby when Sophie’s name is announced. And like the trained professional I know her to be, she all but floats across the stage—an actress who’s performed in dozens of live productions in dozens of venues, who is actively standing up against the past I accused her of avoiding only three weeks ago.

My palms itch to applaud her. They itch to do a lot more than that.

The millisecond I detect a break in her focus, our gazes meld.

I love you.The words burst from the confines of my heart like an involuntary declaration, and I cannot take my eyes off her.

“That’s your girl up there.” Bonnie leans into me and points to Gabby.

No, I silently correct.That’s both of my girls up there.

In a blink, the atmosphere in the theater changes. The lights are low when two separate spotlights capture them. Their heads are bowed as the large multimedia screen that stretches behind them brightens with a scenic picture of a country I’ve visited in a past life with my parents many years ago: Colombia.

The soft notes of a synth pad play a progression of four chords over a prerecorded track. D, A, G, B-minor.

WhenGabby lifts her head and peers into the audience, she is not the sister I know today at sixteen. Her facial expression is young, and somehow it matches the movements of her hands, as well. And even before Sophie narrates word one, I know where she’s starting: at the orphanage, on the day we came to take her home.

“You are so loved, Gabby girl. We are your family now—you don’t need to be afraid.” Sophie’s narration is spoken in a reassuring tone meant to represent a man I wish I could beg forgiveness from.

Gabby moves the story along, skipping time like rocks in a lake. The screen pauses on a pool as Gabby acts out the day I taught her how to swim.

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