Page 72 of The Sign for Home

I snorted a laugh, surprised he actually asked her, but refrained from telling her he’d long suspected her witchery.

“Can you imagine?” she said. “He doesn’t explain why, and then just continues saying all these other nice things about how easy I am to talk to, and how he hasn’t had a real friend in a very long time, and the next thing you know, I’m telling him about Wout’s ADHD, and Curtis’s addiction,and how I got sober, and about becoming a nurse because of my lack of faith in myself as an artist, and blah blah blah. Then I’m crying again and he feels the tears on my face, and he strokes my hand. He types: ‘No, no, you good artist, you good person.’ And then says all these other things about my character, and my ability to perceive things, and how I’m probably a really great artist. And I think,What the fuck is this? The DeafBlind boy rejects me and now is trying to make the middle-aged woman feel better about her life?And you know what’s really, really crazy? That’s exactly what he ended up doing.”

Hanne stopped as a knot of emotion filled her throat. After a few seconds she looked at me with her bloodshot eyes.

“Then he showed me his story on the laptop.”

“Wait, what? He actually showed you the assignment for his class?”

Hanne nodded and lowered her voice even more.

“He said he was afraid to show it to anyone because it was supposed to be a secret, and he could get in trouble. He made me promise never to tell anyone.”

“Was the story about S?”

“Yes. It was so devastating… heartbreaking. He asked me to help him fix the grammar and spelling, make sure he wasn’t using ‘is,’ ‘was,’ or ‘have’ wrong. I said I would try. So we made our plan for the next day. He would tell his uncle he was working on a special research paper at the college library, and I would pick him up in the parking lot there each morning and then drop him back there in the evening to catch the van home. We worked all weekend at the café. On breaks I told him how to dress better and comb his hair and we chatted about our lives. Unfortunately, we didn’t get through the whole essay, but he said he’d try and finish on his own—even though he still wasn’t sure if he’d hand it in. His English is a mess, but there was still something so beautiful and poetic about it. He had this one sentence:heart hurting so bad, must pushing down hurt or can’t think.”

Hanne grabbed my hand. That time it was my eyes filling up. I was suddenly so glad Hanne had stepped over the line. Arlo was right. Hanne is a witch.

“He needs your help, Cyrilje,” Hanne said, squeezing my hand. “He wants to find his other friends from school. Not S… two boys. If you could help him with a Facebook profile—”

“So you’re the one who told him to ask me?”

Hanne bit her lip, looking sheepish.

“Yes. I might have suggested that. But, Cyrilje, there’s no one else he can turn to. You can speak sign language. He needs you. Wait, I have something you can use…”

Hanne pulled out her cell phone and texted me a great photo of Arlo she had taken just after she cut his hair. He could have been a slightly cross-eyed college catalogue model with a perplexed look on his face. Hanne and I held hands and looked at the photo as if it were of our long-lost son.

“You will help him, Cyrilje?” Hanne whispered.

I took a moment. I didn’t want it to sound like a threat.

“I know you promised not to say anything. But before we move ahead, I need to know. Who was S? What happened?”

31THE DAY THAT CHANGED EVERYTHING

The Day That Changed Everything was five and a half years ago.

It was November.

Two weeks until you were supposed to go home for fall recess. (The goats call it Thanksgiving.) It was the middle of the night, and it was very cold out. It smelled like snow was coming and somewhere wood fireplaces were burning. S guided you through the darkness. When you ducked your head to walk beneath the forsythia bushes, the branches felt like long, skinny, cold fingers scratching and tickling you on the back of your neck, sexy and scary.

Your favorite spot in the Secret Forest was toward the end of the tunnel of forsythia bushes, a deep cubbyhole that was big enough for you both to lie down on two blankets S would bring from her dorm. After tucking you under the blankets, S pulled the piece of old plywood over the top of the hole as extra protection from anyone seeing. Just as always, you kissed, signed stories, pulled down your clothes to make love. Afterward, you snuggled tight to stay warm and then played your favorite story game:What will we do in the future?

“Next year, you and me will graduate,” you signed. “Then what do? We will get jobs, get married, and then rent big house with Martin and Big Head Lawrence. All four will live together forever.”

“Yes! Yes!” S signed, her body shaking with laughter. “Martin and Big Head Lawrence like our children!”

“Ha ha! Yes! I father, you mother, and Molly will our full-time interpreter and SSP. She will do whatever we tell her.”

S kissed you on your smiling mouth, and your teeth clacked together. Then you kissed S on her eyes. Her eyelashes fluttered against your lips. Then S grew serious.

“Promise me again,” she begged, as she often would. “Please, promise we will together forever.”

“Okay. Okay. I promise, we will together forever!”

You finished your vow by making the sign forpromiseby combining one of S’s hands with one of your own. “Promise!”

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