Page 40 of The Voice We Find

Voice Memo

Gabby Tate

5 months, 3 weeks, 1 day after the accident

I met with my new ASL tutor/speech therapist today. Honestly, it was one of the best days I’ve had in a long time. The nurse at my audiologist’s office told my brother about her, and I’m so glad he agreed for us to meet. And it’s so crazy that her home office is only a few blocks from our house!

She has a super fun personality, and she seemed impressed with what I’ve learned online so far. As soon as my brother walked out of the room, she asked me how I was liking my new hearing aids. I told her the truth. That I don’t like them much at all. I told her how everybody still sounds like an alien and how my left ear rings constantly. She seemed to really care about my answers, like she wants to help me, even though she has two fully working ears herself. Later on she told me that her son and her husband are both deaf. I’ve never met anyone who can’t hear anything at all. Although, I suppose that could be my story someday.

Before I left her office, I saw a flyer on her bulletin board about an ASL interpretation ministry at the big church on the other side of town. When I asked her about it, it took all my strength not to start crying. She probably thought I was getting emotional due to the story she told me about becoming an interpreter so that her husband could attend services with her. But really, I was thinking about the last time I went to the little church I grew up in. August and I went together a few weeks ago at Aunt Judy’s request because she insisted we thank all the people who brought us dinners and sent cards and flowers.

But neither of us were prepared for how hard it would be. So manypeople came up to us after the service, hugging us and telling us how much they miss Mom and Dad and how sorry they are for our loss. It was the funeral all over again. August didn’t leave my side the entire time, even though I could tell he couldn’t wait to go home. But all the “we’re praying for you and your brother” conversations wasn’t the hardest part for me. The hardest part was seeing the seats my parents used to sit in every Sunday filled by people who weren’t my mom and dad.

August and I didn’t talk on the drive home that day. And even once we parked in the driveway, August went straight to the garage to get his tool belt so he could go fix something that probably didn’t even need fixing. I headed straight for my parents’ bedroom where I wrapped my mom’s wedding quilt around me and then tucked myself into their closet, careful to slide the mirrored door all the way closed before I touched the box I promised not to open without my brother.

I wish he would tell me why he’s so upset over Pastor Bedi’s letter. Maybe then I could understand why he refuses to go near this box, or our parents’ room, for that matter. Sometimes my brother treats me like I’m eight and not nearly fifteen. I pray he’ll change his mind about the box soon.

I also pray he’ll change his mind about attending church and come with me to this new one.

10

August

If not for the guilt-induced compromise I made with Gabby after our argument on Friday night, I never could have imagined walking into the megachurch where my sister spends the majority of her free time. And if not for said compromise, I would have timed my arrival to be well after the threat of small talk in the lobby was over and the song service had ended. But today, I remind myself, is about supporting my sister. Which is the only reason I’m here five minutes early. That, and the chance to have a little chat with Tyler, man to man.

While I’ve dropped her off here dozens of times to meet up with her tutor and, eventually, her friends from the youth group, I’ve never attended a full service. It’s been a sore spot in our relationship to be sure—one I’ve tried to smooth over as gently as possible. But despite my efforts, she still doesn’t understand my reasonings. And honestly, that’s probably for the best. Gabby deserves the comfortshe’s found in her faith, even if comfort is the last thing I feel when I walk through the large lobby.

My first real observation of note is the vast difference between this church and the small neighborhood chapel Gabby and I grew up attending with our parents. For that, at least, I’m grateful.

If this church was a video game, I passed the first level with bonus points when I scored a parking spot that wasn’t a fifteen-minute hike to the front doors. Level two is to dodge every welcome greeter posted outside the sanctuary doors with breath mints and bulletins. This challenge takes a bit more strategy, but as soon as I see an older gentleman get caught in a conversation about his grandkids, I make my move, undetected. Level threeshouldbe fairly straightforward: find a seat near the back where I can avoid being asked to fill out one of those visitor information cards advertised all over the lobby like it’s Times Square.

The visitor marketing campaign looks to be an exchange program of sorts, the card for a free gift located at one of the kiosks near the cafe. But not even the coolest free pen or plastic water bottle in the world is enough to convince me to take a second glance at that card. Perhaps if the incentivized gift was an indefinite no-small-talk pass, the number of responses would be infinitely larger.

I’m side-shuffling down a row near the back of the sanctuary, in search of the perfect seat for invisibility, when I spot a face through the massive crowd that must be a doppelgänger. Because there is simply no other explanation for why Sophie Wilder would be in this room, much less for why she would be speaking to a young woman near the stage who resembles my sister.

“You have got to be kidding me,” I mutter.

“If you’re in a hurry, you can go right on ahead and pass me, mister,” quips the white-haired woman blocking the middle of my row with her walker. “I know where I’m going, I just don’t know how many more times the good Lord is gonna make me waddle these aisles before I get there.”

“Oh, sorry.” I hold up my hands. “My comment wasn’t meant for you.”

She looks around before quirking a barely-there eyebrow at me. “You lonely, son?”

I nearly choke. “What?”

“People talk to themselves more when they’re lonely. It’s a fact.” She scans the large auditorium. “Just ask any widow and widower in here, they’ll tell ya.”

Okay, so maybe it’s not only small talk I’d like to avoid. “I, uh, I’m sure you’re correct.”

Still hunched over her walker, she gives me a once over. When a flicker of awareness crosses her face, I grow even more uncomfortable. “You a member at this church?”

I want to lie. I want to lie so badly that my tongue is already forming the wordyes. “No, ma’am.”

With a nod, she braces one age-spotted hand on the handle of her walker and then pulls out a wad of colorful flyers from her front basket. She thrusts them at my chest. “There’s a blue newcomer’s card in that mess somewhere. Make sure you fill it out.” She winks. “They’ll give you a free pen.”

Level three: failed.

“Thanks.” I pull the blue card out of her stack and then glance up to see the instant Gabby and Sophie find me. They wave for me to join them up front, where they have apparently secured some seats. Wonderful.

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