Cohen frowned, because there were another four sealed envelopes inside. He examined them with interest, his heart fluttering at the sight of River’s appalling cursive.Open now,one read.Open at 8 p.m.,another said. And then there were two more, of much more interest to him.Open in case of scenario A,andOpen in case of scenario B.
He opened the one he was instructed to, sat back and began to read.
Hi Cohen.
I’m sorry, this isn’t a questionnaire. Thank you, though, for indulging me by filling in mine. But very quickly, to keep things fair, my answers are as follows: on your shoulders, no, I’ve never been married, the day I nearly died,It’s a Wonderful Life(every time), and no, of course, I don’t want this to be only one thing. Although I will admit that sleeping with you is becoming a big priority for me.
I have to say, I don’t normally let myself feel attracted to, well, anyone.
But there is something about you, Cohen. Something almost, I don’t know ... familiar? Do you feel it too? When I first saw you, something in me came alive. I don’t even know how to describe it. It was like in that moment, my life made sense.
I think I’ve been waiting for you, Cohen. I think I always knew that, one day, you’d come for me.
I’ve never let my deafness bring me down. It’s part of me, part of my history and I’m not ashamed of it.
But it stings, just a little, that I can’t talk to you. That you can’t talk to me. That I can feel so much without ever letting you know.
I do have some memory of sounds, but they are brief, more like snippets than actual notes. I think I remember my mother’s voice (my birth mother, not Mama) and I’m fairly certain I remember the buzz of a hospital monitor.
I was two when I lost my hearing. I had bacterial meningitis, and according to my hospital notes, I was lucky to make it through without losing a limb, or my life.
But I lost my hearing, and then my parents.
They couldn’t handle a deaf child, they told the social workers. They didn’t want a damaged baby. It was better for me, they decided, if they left me at the hospital, if they didn’t take me home. They gave me away, like soiled goods returned to a shop.
They put me into care. When I recovered, I was put into the foster system, where eventually I made my way to Mama and Papa. Mama said she took one look at me, a quiet little ball of butterscotch, and decided then and there that she was keeping me forever. She’s so proud of that story. Of how, when the social worker suggested that they should find me a more appropriate ‘forever family’ because of my deafness, she put her to rights, and told her that there was no family more appropriate for me than hers.
She was right too, you know. Mama is a Chinese woman who learned English for opportunities and Italian for love. BSL was never going to be a problem. I might have given her sleepless nights, but my language never has.
Mama has pushed me to be more than my deafness. Embrace it, she told me. Embrace it, and take it with you, wherever you go. It’s Mama who taught me to sign, who came with me to deaf school, who sat with me in English class. It’s Mama who made sure I went to university, trudging with me every day on the tube to Kensington, sitting in the gardens until my lectures were finished and my hearing assistant went home, before trudging back with me. It’s Mama who taught me to make ice cream, who taught me about the right mix of saltiness and sweetness on the tongue. I love my Mama more than anything. And I owe her everything that I am.
But Mama worries, Cohen. And she’s right to worry, because there have been ... issues in the past.
And it’s only right that you know about them.
When I was seventeen a man befriended me online, in a forum for people with hearing impairments or difficulties. He called himself ‘Jake’ and told me he was an American deaf person and that he knew ASL. We chatted. I thought we connected.
After a few weeks, we shared photos. Then, after another few weeks, he told me he was in London and that he could meet me for a night.
I was seventeen. I was lonely. I thought he was my friend. I hoped he might be more.
So, I met with him. We couldn’t talk, because ASL and BSL are different, but he took me to the movies. Bought me popcorn. I should’ve known then that something was amiss. Because who takes a deaf person to the movies?
I slept with him that night. It wasn’t ... pleasant. He wasn’t kind. And when it was done, he got up, laughed, picked up his phone. He called someone. He started chatting.
He wasn’t deaf, Cohen. He was hearing, and he’d abused the forum as a place to meet impressionable, vulnerable young girls like me.
I told Mama about it, and that conversation is one I never want to have again.
Have you ever seen the moment your mother’s heart broke, Cohen? Because I have, twice. Once when Papa died, and I watched her cry into the batch of Jaded Green Tea she was stirring, and then again, when she found out what happened to me that night.
She blamed herself, you see. Thought it was her fault. Imagined that somehow, somewhere, she’d taken her eye off the ball and let harm come to me. I tried to tell her that it wasn’t her fault, that it was mine, but she wouldn’t change her mind.
So now she watches me. And she’s watched me watch you and is rightly suspicious.
I’ve been walking on air since I met you, Cohen, and Mama knows something is up. She’s been talking more and more about giving up her work at the Hanyu Institute, about helping out in the ice creamery on a Tuesday again.
She’s been telling me stories about you, too. I think she’s trying to put me off, because they’re all stories about a quiet boy, a spiteful teen, and then a cruel man. I try not to pay attention, because she doesn’t know you, not really. She only knows your mother, and I know these are her stories, not yours, and that they are all from her perspective. And if anyone knows how a mother can sometimes lose perspective of their child, it’s me.
