Signs of Attraction Page 13

  I wasn’t about to embarrass him. Not when I had no idea what my own feelings were. It was better that he didn’t share the meaning of the sign. Saved me from being put on the spot.

  My own feelings didn’t matter. They were foreign to me and would prevent me from ever giving 100 percent of myself to someone else. Perfection issue aside, I plain didn’t know how.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Reed

  CHRISTMAS MORNING, I woke up in my childhood bed, under the green-and-blue-striped comforter I’d had since my teen years, once I convinced my parents I’d outgrown the trains theme they bought when they adopted me. The early light cast a half shadow across the room, changing the green walls into a pine shade. As a kid I thought it changed purposely for Christmas. I laughed at my younger self as I threw the blankets on the bed, called it good enough, and made my way downstairs. My nose carried me to the kitchen, where Mom stood flipping pancakes.

  For nineteen years it had been Dad flipping pancakes. The man must have skipped sleep on Christmas Eve, because he always beat me. Or maybe I made a lot of noise, because as my sleeping habits changed so did his flipping ones.

  The last two years we didn’t have pancakes; Dad’s passing was too fresh. I guessed time did heal most wounds.

  Mom turned. Her mouth opened as her body jumped, and her free hand flew to her chest. I glanced behind me. “I’m quiet today?”

  She laughed. “Don’t know. Music’s playing.” A smile crossed her lips.

  “Dad used to play music?”

  Mom’s grin grew wider. “Yes. Loud. Very bad music.” Then the smile morphed into that sad smile one had when a happy memory of a lost loved one both warmed and tugged at the heart.

  I crossed the room and pulled her into me for a hug. “Merry Christmas.”

  She touched my cheek. “Same to you. I thought it was time to get back to normal. If you can move on, so can I.”

  I shook my head and collected plates for the table.

  After breakfast was eaten and gifts were exchanged, Mom got a faraway look in her eyes.

  “Something wrong?” I asked.

  She shook her head, watery eyes catching mine. “I used to wonder what Christmas would look like when you were all grown up. Would you still come home? When you got married would you go to your wife’s parents’ house or here? And—” She cut herself off and laughed. “And this is inspired by your new girl. I’m sorry, but I see the look in your eyes, on your face. I know this isn’t something light. And I can’t help but wonder. Before I always kept my thoughts off you, talked with your father instead. But he’s not here to tell me no.”

  I squeezed my eyebrows together. “I’m confused.”

  Mom sighed. “What do adopted children do as they get older? Do they want biological children, the way most of us do? Or do they have the urge to adopt, to save another child like they were saved?”

  “Who says I want children?”

  She threw a pillow my way. “You teach third grade.”

  “And send them home to their parents after I feed them lots of sugar.”

  Mom laughed with me. “Humor me. Paint the future.”

  I leaned back and sighed. “I haven’t been dating Carli that long.”

  “I know. I’m not asking what will happen. I’m saying”—she gestured around the room—“what do you see in five years? If you could paint your own future, what would it look like?”

  I pinched my nose, refusing to let any images form. “I’m trying to imagine something too soon.”

  “Five minutes. It stays here. If you beg, I’ll slip something in your drink to make you forget.”

  I wanted to protest, but then I got a good look at her. The pancakes brought us both back to the past, reminded us of the missing member of our small tribe. She needed the hope of the future.

  I’d be lying if I didn’t agree.

  I leaned back and looked around the room. Imagined extra stockings hanging, extra presents under the tree. And the image formed. Three extra stockings. Two children running around, playing with toys and creating that Christmas ADHD rush of excitement. I’d sit on the couch, coffee mug in hand. Next to me would be my wife, just as enthralled with the scene.

  The image crystallized. My wife had light skin, brown hair, brown eyes. Carli. The kids . . . I couldn’t see them, couldn’t begin to imagine how genetics worked on a personal level. But in my head, in my heart, I knew they were blood.

  Was this really five years in the future? Couldn’t be. The kids were much too old. And Carli had a big family. With three older sisters, I couldn’t fathom a quiet Christmas with my mom.

  With a shake of my head, I brought myself back to the present, and registered on Mom instead. “I always thought adoption or natural didn’t really matter. Though if I did adopt I’d want to adopt a deaf kid. But . . . ” Did I dare share what I’d just imagined? “I think I’d like to try for children I’d have a genetic connection with.”

  Mom nodded, a smile on her face. “And the wife?”

  I sighed. “Too soon for your crap.”

  She laughed. “I knew I wanted to marry your father after two months. Took him a little longer. It’s hard, being the one with your heart on the table. You either get the high of having the feelings returned. Or chopped into tiny pieces. But one of you has to be the first to put it out there.” She shook her head. “Sorry, I’m thinking of my life, not yours. You’re twenty-three. She’s twenty-one. Don’t listen to me.”

  I scooted over to her side of the couch and wrapped an arm around her. “I love you.”

  She patted my cheek. “And the girl?” I moved away as she laughed. “Sorry, couldn’t help myself. I’ll be good. I promise.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Of course you do. If I don’t start behaving, I’ll never meet her.” Mom rubbed her hands together, the teasing fading. “But if you want a genetic connection, all you have to do is read that letter.”

  I rolled my shoulders back. “You don’t know who he is or what he wants.”

  “Neither do you.” She sighed at my unmoving hands. “You’ve already lost a father, maybe—”

  “No. No maybe. I have one father. The man who raised me. Not the one who gave me up.”

  “Did you throw out the letter?”

  No. I hadn’t. “Why are you pushing this?”

  “Because I know you. You keep all this pain stuffed up inside. You shut yourself off, keep others at bay. Does Carli know about you father? Either one? You can’t get that future until you let others in.”

  “I let her in.”

  Mom gave me that look, the one clearly telegraphing stop the bullshit.

  I let my eyes drift to the beige carpet. “I’m enjoying my time with her. No agenda. No restrictions.”

  Mom nodded. She got my meaning. Dad had a million rules for everything. Even dating. A small smile formed against my will. “What would Dad say about Carli?”

  Mom laughed and pulled a knee to her chest. “Oh my. Well, for starters, he’d be convinced you were going to end up with those children by next year, probably twins. Which means Carli wouldn’t finish school, or find a job, or something. And both of you would be stuck living here, with the kids, who would be rambunctious little devils. And your work would suffer. Forget about the masters.” Mom shook her head. “Such a drama queen.”

  She was right. Dad would have gone off on a tangent like that, running with a little hint of a concept and leading into a personal apocalypse. Each time he did, I would label him foolish, then alter my behavior.

  Mom signed the same words Dad would’ve. Yet nothing changed. For the first time, the apocalypse didn’t sound so bad.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Carli

  CHRISTMAS WAS LOUD and overwhelming. We exchanged gifts and ate. Dad yelled. A lot. We were too loud. The boys were too rambunctious. Dad’s gift from Mom sucked.

  We all got quiet at that outburst. Mom just got up, grabbed the gift—a very nice
sweater, the kind he wore all the time—and threw it in the trash.

  Merry Christmas?

  Needless to say, no one wanted me to stay at home. So when I mentioned I had a friend who lived closer to the middle school I would be student teaching at, they were fine with cutting my winter break short. And no, I didn’t mention I was staying with Reed. Heck, they still didn’t know I had a boyfriend. Mom could go back to pretending the characters on TV were her real family, and Dad wouldn’t be bothered by the reminder of his imperfect daughter.

  Therefore, at 2:00 p.m. on January 2, I pulled up to Reed’s home and let out a breath of relief. My car was now in my possession for the semester since I would be commuting to a classroom full time.

  God. Could I handle this? Could I really handle this?

  I had always dreamed of being a teacher. But dream + reality didn’t always yield a successful outcome. The closer reality came, the more I freaked. Bottom line, I had no clue if I could actually do this. My heart screamed “yes, teaching will be great!” Meanwhile my brain made a word problem out of coconuts and bananas and had me on hold to loud elevator music while she worked out a problem that made absolutely no sense.

  All those coconuts and bananas went flying when a knock on my window had me jumping in my seat, still restrained by the seat belt in a this-could-have-been-a-crash movement. It was no crash, just Reed standing outside my door. “You OK?”

  I nodded, shook the scattered fruit away, and got out of the car. I expected Reed to go for my lips; instead he went for my head, lips to the spot that always hurt the most.

  “How know?” I signed.

  “Your eyes.”

  I stared at him. Logically, it made no sense. Emotionally, it made perfect sense. How could he see what others couldn’t?

  He wrapped me in his arms, and I relaxed into him. Then a silly grin broke out on my face. For the next three weeks I got to live with him. I pulled back and kissed him while doing a little happy dance.

  This might be the best break ever.

  MY SEVENTH-GRADE CLASSROOM was on the small side, with twenty-five desks set up into five rows. Whiteboard, wall of windows, and a large imposing teacher’s desk completed the room.

  I wasn’t convinced I wouldn’t throw up.

  “Good morning, Carli.”

  I turned around and found Heidi, my middle school cooperating teacher. It was her algebra class I was taking over.

  “Good morning,” I managed without my voice breaking. Good start.

  “Are you nervous?”

  I let out a shaky laugh and held up an unsteady hand. “A bit.”

  She gave me a reassuring smile. “It’s going to be okay. The students are really excited to work with you.”

  Why didn’t that make me feel any better?

  My first week was observation. I worked on matching faces to names as I took in Heidi’s teaching style. The students’ energy carried me through the day. Until the last class, when halfway through my introduction my right hearing aid battery decided to die.

  Shit. At least I kept the swear in my head. No time to panic, and no time to hide. Day one and the cloak was coming off.

  “How about a fun fact about your new teacher?” I asked as I moved over to the drawer where my purse sat. “I’m hard of hearing and wear not one but two hearing aids.” I popped out my right hearing aid and held it up for show as I found the battery packet. “And one of them needs a new battery.”

  I made a big production of changing my hearing aid battery, the first time I had ever done so. A thought for another time: this didn’t feel awkward at all.

  With the hearing aid back in my ear, and my purse back in the drawer, I addressed the class. “Any questions about my hearing?”

  “Are you deaf without them?” came a boy in the back. Shaved head, dark skin. Xander.

  “My left ear, pretty much. My right ear isn’t that bad. I listen to music with my hearing aids off all the time.”

  Once upon a time I worried about how to handle my hearing loss in a classroom, the dreaded hearing aid battery dying being the top of my list. Now it didn’t bother me. Sure, I knew my students would test my hearing, and I planned on talking with Heidi for survival skills. But I felt comfortable.

  Comfortable. To have a hearing loss. Amazing.

  What would my father say about that?

  I found Reed at the kitchen table when I got back to his place, already doing work. He looked up and a huge grin crossed his face. “How you?”

  I dropped my bag by the door, let my coat fall behind me, and curled up in his lap. Rather than sign anything, I brushed my lips to his, giving all my excitement another outlet.

  “That good?” he asked.

  I nodded. “Not bad.” I then tore off a blank page from his notebook and began writing about my day, not leaving the comfort of his lap.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Reed

  THREE WEEKS MAY seem like a long time, but it was over in a blink of an eye. Just as I grew accustomed to my bed partner—one who always shivered, complete with ice-cold toes and nose—she was gone. Campus sprang back to life, and Carli returned to her dorm. Her student teaching demanded more of her time than her classes had, but I was used to that kind of schedule. She surprised me when she continued with ASL. Point in my column, I supposed. Though she could’ve been taking it for herself as well.

  Before I knew it, February had arrived. I thumbed through my phone, bringing up my father’s video message. I didn’t play it, even though I wanted to see his face. Happy birthday, Dad. Why’d you kill yourself? Only I doubted his message would match the question.

  Mom and I felt it wrong to continue celebrating his birthday, so we let it go unacknowledged. Though I knew damn well she was having a bad day. In fact, Val mentioned our mothers were out together, blowing off steam on their credit cards.

  I did that last year. This year I didn’t feel up to it. If only Dad had left a note, anything to answer the questions.

  I thumbed my phone again. Maybe I had the answers after all. Instead of opening his text or video message, I put the phone down and stared out the window. Hey, Dad. Was it worth it?

  I SAT AT the Laundromat, a.k.a. Mom’s basement. In exchange for wasting time and quarters, Mom let me continue the typical college student behavior. To thank her, I did anything around the house she couldn’t. Fair trade.

  Today I fixed a squeaking door in the upstairs bathroom. I tried to explain it didn’t bother me, but Mom still had me tweak and adjust it until she considered it quiet.

  As I waited for a load to be done, I took out my phone.

  Me: Surviving?

  Carli was home with her family, celebrating her father’s birthday. She was less than thrilled to go. She stayed with me, in my bed, longer than she should’ve, and then she had to race around getting ready to go.

  Carli: If by “surviving” you mean bored out of my mind and contemplating long division just for the hell of it? Yes.

  I leaned against the rumbling machine, smiling like an idiot at my phone.

  Me: But you love long division. Need some numbers? ;-)

  Carli: Not yet, but soon.

  Me: I can tell you a story. My students came up with a great one I need to translate into English anyways.

  Of course, I didn’t have my notes with me. The story was memorable enough. Any English I managed to get on my phone would only help me put it all together.

  I waited as the dryer rolled behind me, the motions vibrating my back. Not a bad massage, all things considered.

  I brought the story to mind, forming the signs I remembered. A story about a stray dog, a protective tree, and a fairy godmother. The godmother was evil, the dog had superpowers, and the tree was the mother-like creature. My students had taken over the classroom as they imagined their story, complete with standing on their desks to show the tree’s height, and one dramatic fall to the floor from the godmother, saved by the superhero dog, that almost resulted in a visit to the n
urse.

  And my phone was silent.

  Me: Silence. Are you waiting for the story or telling me to keep it to myself?

  I tapped the dryer as it rumbled to a halt.

  Me: Busy with family?

  She must’ve been. I pulled my warm clothes out of the dryer, folding before I placed them back in the basket to transfer home. My phone sat on the ledge. The screen didn’t light up, the phone didn’t vibrate. Nothing.

  An uneasy twinge plucked at my gut. I never had a good feeling about her family. Guess, like Dad, I had heard too many horror stories.

  I brought the laundry upstairs. Mom put down her book when she saw me. We chatted as I tried to ignore the unease. I didn’t say a word to her. This was me, being paranoid. My girlfriend wasn’t responding to my messages. What an idiot. Yet the unease lingered as I headed out to my car. My phone burned in my pocket, but I resisted checking it during the drive home. The feeling refused to dissipate. I needed Carli to find a few seconds to tease me; then everything would right itself.

  Once I parked, I checked my phone. No messages.

  Me: OK, now I’m worried.

  I shoved the phone into the back pocket of my jeans and looked around. Everything was normal in my neighborhood. I laughed to myself. I watched too many scary movies. Carli would have me stuck on chick flicks if I wasn’t careful.

  If only that thought succeeded at evaporating my nerves.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Carli

  A QUICK COUNT of the cars told me I was the last to arrive. I pulled up along the grass in front of the house. Oh well. At least I could blame the Boston traffic.

  I grabbed the blue gift bag out of my backseat and walked up the steps to my childhood home. My feet dragged along the bumpy asphalt, but I pushed forward. I wanted to be anywhere but here. Namely back in bed with my boyfriend.

  Ungrateful daughter much?

  Inside was the same old scene: my nephews ran around, sisters talked in the living room, Mom camped in the kitchen cooking, and Dad sat in his chair in front of the television.