Page 73 of The Sign for Home

You attempted to pull S’s body even closer, though there was no “closer” without being inside each other. Making space again to sign, S whispered with her fingers:

“Kiss me very long time. Kiss me until our mouths hurt.”

Soon you were inside S again and everything in front of you was warm, while the back of you shivered from the cold wind that blew through the gap between the warped plywood and the earth. A home was supposed to be warm. S was your home.

How could Jehovah God make you love someone that much only to take them from you on Judgment Day? It was the first time you considered the possibility that Brother Birch and the JW elders did not know everything that Jehovah God believed. Red star. You let the confusing, sinful thought slip out of your brain, and you squeezed S closer, inhaling the smell of her hair, breath, and skin until you both fell asleep.

But.

Then.

S’s hands shook you awake.

“I see people’s shadows!” she signed, her desperate fingers entreating you to run. “Get up! Maybe Deaf Devils searching for me! Hurry!”

“What for? Deaf Devils won’t bother us. You friends with Crazy Charles now, right?”

“Hurry!” S demanded. “Later will explain. Now I will make them chase me! You—run to dorm. We meet there later, okay?”

“I will stay and protect you,” you signed. “I bigger! I stronger! I beat them—can!”

S grabbed your hands, silencing you.

“No!” S demanded. “Pay attention! Too dark here! If can’t see, can’t fight! Stop talk stupid! Follow what I say!”

There was no time to argue. You tried to kiss S one more time, but she pushed you away.

“They coming! No time! Ready?”

SignREADY: Both hands shape the letter R and point up toward one shoulder, then like a person signaling a race car they quickly swoop across until they are pointing to the opposite shoulder.

Readywas the last thing S would ever sign to you.

Telling what happened next is like trying to see something in the distance on a foggy day. You remember helping S shove the plywood and leaping from the hole. S’s body left yours. Just darkness and the sting of forsythia branches, the wind of bodies, your heart pounding. Instead of running back to the dorm as you promised, you swung at the air in front of you, hoping they might attack you instead of S. But no one came. Were they already chasing S? You pulled out your cane and felt for the wall of the building to guide you back to the dorm. Two steps. Three steps. Thick hands pushed you as hard as they could until your body flew forward. The entirety of Forsythia House slammed directly into your head. A sharp, hot, heavy hurt consumed you.

And that was the last thing you remembered until the next day. How much time had passed? Hours? Days? Weeks? You woke up in a bed that wasn’t yours. Your head still ached. A crust of snot, salt tears, and what you later learned was dried blood covered your face. You sniffed the air and itsmelled like paper, concrete, coffee, cigarettes. A moan vibrated in your chest and throat. You needed to find out what happened to S. You scanned the room for illumination, discovering the shapes of two bodies moving in and out of your field of vision.

“Hey! Hey!” You waved your arms.

The two men moved closer. Their smells were unfamiliar. One held something in front of you. You reached for it: a wallet with a cold metal badge inside.Police detectives?Something bad had happened.They found out about us, and now we’re in trouble. Did someone tell the principal? Was S sent to Dogwood? Am I in Dogwood already? Did the Deaf Devils hurt her?

“S where?” you pleaded, signing and using your out-of-tune saxophone voice. “S hurt? Tell me! Don’t take S to Dogwood! My fault. I force her do sin!”

Mistaking your signing for aggression, the two detectives grabbed your arms. You struggled to free yourself so you could speak. One of the detectives hit you on the side of the face. The other detective punched you in the stomach, causing the air to leave your lungs. Before you could do anything, they strapped your legs and arms to the bed. Totally silenced.

Another day passed. Another night passed.

It was morning and the straps had been taken from your body. The scent of eggs and toast sat on a tray in front of you. But you had no desire to eat, since you still could only think of S.Maybe S didn’t go to Dogwood. Maybe S ran away and was waiting for you somewhere.

A short while later you were taken to another room, this one much brighter, with several people you did not recognize. They sat you in a hard wooden chair. A moment later a woman tapped your forearm and began to sign into your hands.

“My name is T-I-N-A,” she signed. “I (pause) am (pause) interpreter.”

Someone who signs! Finally!For a moment you felt relief. But then, in terrible, halting sign language, the interpreter explained that you were in aplace called (she fingerspelled) J-U-V-E-N-I-L-E (pause) F-E-T-E-N-T-I-O-N.Fetention?While you had grown used to bad interpreters in your life, Tina wasn’t really an interpreter at all, and she definitely had never worked with someone who was blind or low-vision. She punched her amateurish signs into your palms as if the sheer physical force would fix her consistent errors. When she fingerspelled (which was the bulk of her signing), she consistently mistook the letter F for the letter D.

“A-R-L-O, you… W-I-L-L… talk… to…the… F-E-T-E-C-T-I-V-E… now.”

What? What?!

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