Page 86 of The Voice We Find

Gabby Tate

14 months, 2 weeks, 6 days after the accident

When I got home from school today, I was missing my dadsomuch. Some days it’s easy to recognize the thing that makes me sad. Other days it just feels like a pressure in my chest that doesn’t go away until after I let myself cry.

As soon as August dropped me off at the house on his way to run errands, I made a snack and went into the garage.

When I miss my mom and need to feel close to her, I wrap the wedding quilt at the end of their bed around me like I’m inside a cocoon. Her smell comforts me like nothing else. But when it’s my dad I’m missing, all I want to do is sit inside the Bronco. I have so many memories of being with him in that car. We drove to the ocean together so many times for a day of surfing and ice cream and tide pool combing.

Today, the tears came as soon as I saw the hole for the radio. My dad didn’t have a sound system in either of his vehicles. Not in his beat-up construction truck or in the Bronco he restored. A few weeks before we left for India, I teased him about not getting it fixed since he’d literally fixed everything else. But he told me it was because the silence reminded him to pray. I guess he used to think he didn’t have enough time for prayer when he first became a Christian, but then once he started adding up all the time he spent driving during the week, he realized he had plenty.

When I asked him what he prayed for most, he said us—me and August. My stomach hurt when he said my brother’s name that day because I knew my parents worried about him. I’d overheard their hushed conversations inthe kitchen more times than they knew about. I don’t know when August stopped working for the band he originally left home for, but I do know he went to work for some rich lady named Vanessa. I think she’s the real reason my brother stopped coming home for weekend visits, and I have a feeling she’s also the reason August told my mom he wasn’t coming to India with us.

On the last drive I took with my dad before we left for India, I asked if we could pray together on our way back from surfing. We prayed for my brother.

So today, I prayed for him again.

22

Sophie

After the first November ASL class ends, I follow Portia through the auditorium for some private talk time at her request. It isn’t unusual for her to inquire about Gabby’s well-being from time to time. Her maternal heart stretches further than a mother analyzing her son’s girlfriend. She often remarks on how grateful she is that Gabby has another consistent adult in her life outside of her older brother, who, unfortunately, has chosen to make himself scarce in communities like this one.

The same way he does with church on Sunday mornings, despite my numerous invitations for him to join us. In response, he always has a ready excuse: helping Chip move apartment complexes in San Francisco, raking Norma’s yard, winterizing the greenhouse, catching up with an old LA client for brunch on their way through town, and, of course, work at the studio.

Last weekend, I finally asked if there was a specific reason why he didn’t want to attend service with us. But once again, August evaded giving me a clear answer, claiming he was “happy you andmy sister enjoy going.” And though he didn’t say as much, I got the distinct impression he was hoping his response would put the matter to rest. As if my current Sunday morning routine of sitting next to Gabby and Tyler in the ASL section and taking notes on the sermon should be enough to satisfy me indefinitely. Only, I know it won’t be. While I have zero room to complain regarding how often we see each other during the week, I feel his absence acutely every time I walk into Seaside Fellowship without him.

I make my way to Portia, who’s carrying a music stand backstage. Though my situational awareness grows as I climb the steps to meet her, my anxiety neutralizes as soon as she flips the switch to illuminate props, sets, and lighting rigs. It’s strange to think how this backstage world was once more familiar to me than the tiny apartment I shared in New York with Dana. I run my fingers over the texture of a felt hat with a feather sticking out of the brim. I pick it up and barely stop myself from trying it on. Maybe Dana’s right. Maybe I miss this more than I’ve allowed myself to realize.

“It was a great class tonight,” I tell Portia. “I took so many notes in the margin of my book that I don’t know how I’m going to read my microscopic handwriting. But the grammar rules of ASL are so fascinating.”

Portia smiles and leans against the backdrop of a massive sunflower with a country road winding up a crown of mountains in the distance. “I wish all my students were as enthusiastic about learning a new language as you. You must have been a superstar student in school.”

I laugh. “I certainly wasnota superstar student.” That title only ever belonged to Jasper. I set the hat down and move to grip the king’s scepter, the one with the large amber gem attached to the end. “Whenever learning felt like school, I hated it. But when I finally had the chance to learn about the things I was truly fascinated by—something in my head worked differently. It’s the reason I was able to major in theater arts.”

“Because theater made your soul sing like nothing else,” she coos in such a gentle, knowing way that I turn to face her.

“Yes.” I swallow back unexpected emotion. “I suppose that’s exactly how I felt.”

“And how do you feel about it now?”

I study the scepter in my hand, recalling the email I received today courtesy of Dana’s meddling. Not only did she find an old audition video of mine on her phone from a time when I asked her for feedback, but she actually submitted it to the traveling theater company we’d dreamed of touring with one day ... without my knowledge or consent. But according to their reply email, they absolutely loved it. They sent me an invite to schedule a live, online callback. Dana received one, too.

“Promise me you’ll at least schedule the callback, Sophie. Do it for us. For all the years we dreamed of taking a show on the road together and seeing the country. This could be our chance,”she begged as soon as I called her asking why I was getting feedback on an audition I hadn’t even submitted.

After much back and forth, I promised her I would at least try. It was the least I could do after all she’s been willing to do for me.

“I can’t say for sure,” I respond to Portia, “but I can say there’s been a lot of wonderful changes in my life since the last time I performed on a live stage.” For what might be the first time since my move to California, I don’t cringe at the thought of that horrible opening night or the failure I was so ashamed to face. I was so certain this season of my life would be the worst in my existence, and yet it’s far from it. God provided me with a job I love, gave me a welcoming church home, expanded my community, and brought me friends who feel closer than family.

And then, there’s August. My heart kick-starts even now at the thought of him.

Portia’s curious gaze twinkles. “I’ve been praying God would bring you some much needed restoration in this area of your life.”

“You mean, intheater?”

She nods.

I open my mouth to thank her, but before I can, she holds up a finger. She might be a full head shorter than me, but Portia is nopushover. “Don’t thank me quite yet. I do have selfish motives at work.” I laugh at her honesty. “When we won the bid on this historical theater, Nick and I had to address the immediate needs first: plumbing issues in the ladies’ restroom, the leaky roof, safety code violations, etc. We were able to put on a couple dinner shows, which helped bring in enough revenue to take care of those pressing needs and gain some exposure in our local community.” She shifts her stance and brings her hands up to her chest. “But my dream, long before there was ever a theater available to bid on, was to someday direct a live, onstage production with both deaf and hearing actors. Nick and I feel called to bridge the gap wherever God leads and to do our part to further the representation of our beloved friends in the deaf community. Creating a deaf-friendly theater isn’t a small undertaking, but we feel it’s time we take the next steps forward. And we’d like you to pray about being involved with us. Perhaps as our musical director.”

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