Page 101 of The Sign for Home

“When Crazy Charles and the Deaf Devils find us in Secret Forest, I run very fast and force Crazy Charles chase me all over. Then I hide on roof of Magnolia House, but he find me. Crazy Charles shows me cell phone video. He asks,You and Arlo sweethearts?I say,Yes, yes, long time. He heartbroken, starts to cry. I say,Okay, okay. Sorry sorry. He tell me he loves me very strong. Again I tell him:Sorry sorry, but I love Arlo. Crazy Charles—crying crying but also very angry. He screams at me,You bitch! You whore!And many other mean things about you and me. Then he says he will kill you, and I say,No! If you hurt Arlo I will tell!”

Shri stops signing. She is shaking. Telling the truth after holding it inside your body for so long is very, very painful. So you wait until Shri can continue, and when she does she signs much more slowly. She tells you how Crazy Charles told her he wanted to have sex with her on the roof, and unzipped her coat and pulled at her blouse, causing it to rip, which made Shri very angry because it was a shirt she liked very much.

“Then I kick him and punch him, and Crazy Charles begs me,Please please, I love you, I love you, again and again. What happens? He push me off the roof? No. I try run away again. Crazy Charles grabs back of my coat and swings me around in circle, like he’s playing. We too close to edge of roof. But he keeps swinging very very hard like swing ride at amusement park. Crazy Charles laughing and crying. My feet lift off the ground. Finally I wiggle, trying to escape, but then my coat comes off and I can’t control myself and…”

Shri’s index finger and middle finger become the legs of her body asshe stumbles over the side of the roof, falls down down down like in your nightmare, hits her back on the edge of an overhang, and then lands on the pavement. All the air is gone from her body, she signs. She shows her foggy eyes looking up at the trees but unable to move. Then she says she doesn’t remember what happened after that until she woke up in the hospital, unable to move.

“Shh, shh,” you blow into her hair, and rub her back, trying to quiet all the tremors of truth telling. You have to stop yourself from screaming that if Crazy Charles were in the room at this very moment you would kill him. It doesn’t matter if Crazy Charles didn’t push Shri. It washisfault.Wasn’t it? But if you had been there for Shri? If she hadn’t been afraid of him knowing about you? If you were able to protect her?Your head starts to spin. But then you have to force yourself to remember: a miracle just happened.Shri is alive. Revenge can wait. Blame can wait.

“When you woke up you didn’t ask for me, why?”

“I try!” Shri explains.

Then she tells you how a week after she came out of her coma, a nice hearing woman came to the hospital with an interpreter and asked Shri if she had been raped. She assumed they were asking if Crazy Charles had raped her. She told the woman no, and then even denied that he had done anything wrong for fear that he or the Deaf Devils might again go after you.

“Then I ask:Where Arlo? I want Arlo. But you never come. Mama tell me,Shh, shh, stop asking Arlo. Then many days pass, weeks pass, months pass, and I think,Maybe Crazy Charles lie to Arlo about what happen on the roof. Maybe Arlo love you never again. So I think,I will get better and go find Arlo. I try to get better. Rehab nurses nice, friendly. Interpreter come. Mama visit every day, bringing delicious food, sweets. They take casts off arms and legs. Rehab counselor teaches me exercises, says I must practice every day. I do. I stronger. Can lift myself from wheelchair to bed, bed to wheelchair. My arms grow muscle. But walk… still can’t. I think,But if I can’t walk… find Arlo, how?”

Shri’s signs grow slower, sadder. She tells you how she eventually gave up hoping that you would find her and forgive her. She tells you how eighteen months after the accident, Shri’s mama suddenly stopped coming to the rehab hospital. Shri didn’t know why for weeks, since no one would tell her. Then one day, Shri’s auntie came with an interpreter and explained that Shri’s mama had to move back to India and would not be coming anymore. Then, because there wasn’t enough money to stay at the nice hospital, and because Shri needed more care than Auntie could provide, Shri was sent to live here, at the terrible long-term nursing home and rehab.

“Rehab?” she signs bitterly. “Ha! Here P-T almost nothing. Exercise almost nothing. Only few minutes pull rubber bands, then finish. P-T person here fake. I become weaker. Food disgusting. Staff not friendly. Many times I try run away with wheelchair. Three months ago my wheelchair break, they say will get fixed, but never fix. Wheelchair locked in closet. If I scream loud, they give medicine make me sleepy.”

Shri’s auntie, who is too busy with her own children, only pays short visits on some holidays, and leaves containers of food, but always looks sad and angry to Shri. It used to be that Shri would try to make contact with her auntie on the videophone, but her auntie didn’t want to hear her complaints about the food, about the lack of exercise, about no one visiting her. And when the videophone broke two years ago no one would replace it. Then Shri tells you more stories—worse stories—and the rage in your stomach becomes unbearable.

“Not fair!” you yell. “Must tell boss! Must report! Next time interpreter comes demand you want wheelchair back! Demand fix videophone! Demand boss fire mean staff!”

“Can’t,” Shri explains. “Whole time, interpreter come… never. Boss’s face always angry.”

“Never interpreter?” you clarify. “But communicate, how?”

“Communication—none,” Shri signs, using double zeros, and blowsair through each one for emphasis. “Staff moves their lips or writes big words on paper. I understand, can’t. Staff angry. Must get out of here! Please don’t leave me alone again forever!”

Shri presses her head into your chest, and both of your bodies vibrate from two sets of tears.

“Promise,” you sign, “I will never leave you alone again forever.”

50CULTURAL MEDIATION

In the best of all possible worlds I would have let the Deaf person speak for themselves. But Shri was obviously not living in the best of all possible worlds, and from what Arlo had said, without an interpreter she couldn’t advocate for herself. Before finding a manager, I texted and googled, trying to compile a list of good local ASL interpreting agencies. My basic rule of thumb was, if possible, to try to make it easier for a business to hire good interpreters. Without any guidance at all, a business might drop the ball or end up hiring some shitty spoken language agency that had no clue about ASL interpreting and made things worse. I also reminded myself to approach whoever was in charge in a win-win way. Make the head honcho feel like they’re the consumer’s ally. Tell them everyone would be happier with regular visits from a qualified (preferably certified) interpreter. Try not to let the conversation bleed into how the nursing home was failing miserably, or the shabby, deaf-unfriendly condition of Shri’s room. That wasn’t your business. Most importantly, I told myself:Do not lose your temper.

When I arrived back at the front desk, Bella was deep into another phone conversation about someone named Radley who was stepping out on someone named Donna the Tramp.

“Can I help you?” Bella asked, acknowledging me faster than before.

“Sorry to interrupt again. Before we head out, I was wondering if I could speak to a manager?”

“You mean the assistant supervisor? I’ll see if she’s available.”

Bella dialed into the office phone and mumbled that some family member wanted to speak to her, and no, she didn’t know the reason.

“She’ll be right with you,” Bella said, and then returned to her conversation.

Five minutes later the assistant supervisor finally appeared. She was a thick squat woman in her thirties with bleached blond hair, a pastel pink suit, and makeup applied so generously it bordered on 1960s burlesque queen. In her hands she held a plastic Big Gulp cup. She told me her name was Durdona. I introduced myself (or, rather, my fake self) and told her that I was Shri’s brother-in-law.

“Is the supervisor also in today?” I asked.

“There is no supervisor, only me, the assistant supervisor,” she said, in a sarcastic singsong voice, widening her eyes to indicate her annoyance at this fact.

“How can you be an assistant supervisor if you don’t have someone to assist?” I joked, trying to pour on the charm. “I guess that makesyouthe supervisor.”

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