Laura Anderson - Song of Summer

“It’s called a cochlear implant,” I say. I remember Trina’s chirpy little voice. I wonder if she ever sings. “I thought they could only be used in children. Babies, you know? Because… I dunno. Because their brains are still developing or something.”

“Well this woman on The Ellen Show had never heard a day in her life till they turned that thing on. She started just sobbing!”

“The day I see Carter sobbing about anything…” I try to laugh it off, but I can’t stop the wheels in my head from turning.

The idea of Carter actually hearing my music distracts me so much that I forget about my last table. Disgruntled, they finally come up to the register without their check. I apologize profusely, but it’s too late: my five-dollar-tip streak is broken.

I pick up Jenni on my way home from work. Some news just has to be given in person. One more night of missed practice won’t hurt. It’s just one night.

“Thank God you’re here!” she says as she climbs into my car. “I think I’m going nuts. I thought, ‘One last summer of freedom. That’s what I need. One last summer with no job, no commitments…’ Bad, bad idea, girlie. That was a bad idea. I’m sick of daytime TV followed by afternoon TV followed by primetime and then late night. I’m getting a job.”

I roll my eyes. “Jenni. The summer is half over. Where in the world can you work now?”

Her eyes travel innocently up to the roof of the car. “Um… I dunno… maybe Chautauqua… ?”

“Seriously!”

“The ice-cream shop is hiring…”

“So you want to serve ice cream to creepy rich people who probably want soy-based, nonfat ice-cream-free ice cream?”

“Hey, watch what you’re saying. Your boyfriend is one of those creepy rich people.”

Wow. Yeah, I guess he is. Only without the creepy.

“Robin… ? You didn’t correct me.”

It was a trap—I should’ve known it. I shrug.

“Robin! You didn’t say, ‘Jenni, he’s not my boyfriend!’”

I shrug and smile.

“Oh my God, Robin Peters, are you dating that guy?!”

I nod, grinning like a freakin’ hyena.

“What?! No! Tell me everything!”

So as we drive back to my house, I tell her about dinner and his room and his sister and his parents. I tell her about the little thoughtful silent time before the meal. As we walk into the house I tell her about how strange it was to have his words translated by his mom. And how much the whole family talks about everything—like nothing’s off-limits. In my room I tell her about the walk and the bikes and the kiss and the cuddling and the sunset and the notes and the kissing and the walk back and dessert and the kiss good night.

It’s like I’m feeding her.

“Oh. My God.” She sighs. “I think you wrote the gospel of romance.” She gets up, hands waving. “That’s it! I’ll never be able to compare with that! Nothing will! My life is no good anymore. I want what she has.”

I smile. It may be the first time she’s been the one who wants what I have, instead of the other way around.

“God, Robin!” She throws herself on my bed. “It is perfect! It is all just perfect!”

“Except… ,” I venture. I take a deep breath and dive in. “Except he can’t hear.”

She turns abruptly to face me. “What… ?!” she says in mock surprise and starts laughing. She stops when I don’t join in. “Big deal,” she says. “You’ve always known that.”

“Yeah, I know…” I trail off. “Never mind. I feel like a jerk. That was a jerky thing to say. You’re right. It was perfect. It is perfect. He is just right for me.” But the words sound sad as they come out of my mouth.

She shrugs and looks back at the ceiling. “It’s okay to wish he could hear. Your favorite thing in the world, besides me of course, is music. It’s totally natural that you wish he could share it with you.”

“Yeah… ,” I say, trying to convince myself. It doesn’t feel like an okay thing to wish.

“So tell me again about the sunset,” Jenni bursts into my thoughts.

I relax once more and smile as I tell her about how we cuddled and watched the sunset and wrote little notes to each other. About his arms around mine and the way he would lay his head on mine. About the colors stretching out across the lake and the lap of the lake on the shore and the melody of the concert floating from the amphitheater and everything.

“Girls! Dinner!” Mom calls up the stairs. Jenni and I come down to the table with my mom and dad.

Dad says the prayer and my mom starts to pass food around.

“So what do you think about all this?” Jenni asks my parents out of the blue, who, in turn, look a little surprised.

I kick Jenni under the table.

“All what?” Dad asks.

“Um… you… know… the, uh… dinner?” she fumbles. I guess all of my friends are terrible liars. I give in.

“I was planning on telling you during dinner anyway,” I say as I blast Jenni the evil eye and she pretends not to see it, “but, you know that deaf kid I’ve been hanging out with… ?”

Mom nods as Dad shakes his head. She gives him a look. “You know, Gary. The deaf boy? They went to the craft fair?”

Dad still looks confused but he nods and says, “Oh yes! The, uh, the deaf boy.” I’m not surprised—I’ve really only hung out with Carter a few times, and my dad’s brain has a tendency to stay stuck in the classical literature he loves so much.

“Um, well, we’re kind of dating.”

My dad nods and continues with dinner, completely unfazed. My mom, however, puts down her fork and questions me with her eyes.

“I… just… well, I really like him. And he likes me. And… so we’re dating.” I go back to eating, like everything’s totally normal.

When I started dating Trent, my parents had already seen him around the town, the school, even the house. So when I told them we were dating, it was an off-the-cuff, “Oh yeah, and Trent and I are dating now,” kind of thing. They were indifferent either way. I mean, Mom was appropriately happy when we got together and sympathetic when we broke up. Dad distantly approved of everything. They were always nice to him and stuff, but I guess they knew it wasn’t forever. Wish they’d told me.

“I’d like to meet him,” Dad says between bites of meat loaf.

“I’m sorry,” Mom says, picking her way through her words. “I thought it was kind of… kind of a community service thing or something like that… you know, volunteer hours for graduation or something.”

Jenni snorts and covers her mouth.

“Nope!” I say. “I just really liked him so I hung out with him. And now we’re dating.”

Mom stays quiet, but I can see her working it out in her head. “Well, how do you… communicate? And things?”

“I’ve learned a little bit of sign,” I say. “From the Internet mostly. And we write notes.”

Awkward silence.

“And he’s really good at lip-reading.”

Dad looks up at me, meat loaf halfway to his mouth.

Mom breaks in. “Isn’t he a Chautauqua boy? Like, leaving at the end of—”

“Yeah,” I break in.

She digs deeper. “And that doesn’t—”

“Nope!” Before I can think about it too much, I pass the conversational baton.

“Jenni’s met him.”

Jenni nods. “He’s super nice. Totally hot.”

I kick her under the table. I should’ve kept the baton.

Mom turns to look at me, eyebrows raised, setting her fork back down on her plate.

I shrug and give a little smile. “It’s not like I’ve been hiding him from you!” I say (although I surely haven’t made any attempts to introduce them). “I’m sure he’d be glad to meet you!”

“Good!” Dad says, going back to his meat loaf. “We’d like to meet him, too. Let’s have him to dinner tomorrow.”

~

Yesterday’s tomorrow is now today and the time is 5:00 p.m. My mom keeps checking the windows by the front door and pacing back and forth.

“You’ll know when he’s here,” I say, playing a middle school recital piece on the piano in the living room. “And he’ll be here soon. He’s always on time.”

“‘You’ll know when he’s here,’” Mom says in what is supposed to be an imitation of my voice. “I don’t even know what that means!”

“It probably means that his arrival will be unmistakable,” Dad offers from his place behind a book.

“Thank you, Gary,” Mom says, and the lineage of my sense of humor proves itself once more. She checks the window again. I’ve chosen to keep the motorcycle a secret. And Jenni’s description of “totally hot” is the only one I’ve given them. What can I say? I like drama.

Less than thirty seconds later, I hear his motorcycle. Mom raises an eyebrow at me and I nod.

“That’s him.”

Mom and I peek out the window in time to see his bike glide into the driveway. The sun glares off the yellow and black and glints off his helmet as he dismounts. He’s wearing his tight Italian leather jacket over his white button-down. The toes of black boots stick out from the cuffs of expensive jeans. With his back to us, he takes his helmet off and shakes his head, fixing his hair before laying his helmet carefully on the seat and turning toward the house. It’s not until Mom sees his face, with the perfect cheekbones, dimpled chin, and pouty lips, that she turns to me.

“Robin Peters,” she says, “you have a lot of explaining to do.”

I grin.

Carter

I think I’ve overused the expression “the middle of nowhere,” because until seeing Robin’s house, I had not yet experienced its true meaning. Her house is situated between a cornfield and a vineyard with no other houses in sight. The driveway is long and tree lined. I park in the middle of it, next to Robin’s Subaru.

I wish I hadn’t worn my jacket. It’s hot and sunny and the last thing I need is to sweat all through dinner. But I didn’t want to get my shirt dirty as I rode over here. If there’s one thing my dad taught me, it’s that first impressions are important. I start to take off the jacket and realize that I’m still wearing my motorcycle gloves. Crap. I take them off and am faced with a decision: Do I take the walk to the front door or the side door? Most people in this area use the side door exclusively, and the front door is just for show, so I decide to begin the trek to the side door. This cobblestone walkway seems ten miles long.

The jam! I brought jam and it’s back in my saddlebags with the Nikon. I turn and jog lightly back to the bike, hoping nobody’s watching and the jam isn’t broken. It’s my mom’s favorite, from some Amish lady in a nearby town. I got a sampler of apricot, raspberry, and strawberry. It’s all supposed to be grown locally, but I can tell you I’ve never seen an apricot tree here before.

I pull the little sampler out and, other than being a little warm, the jam seems fine. I toss my jacket over the pommel of my bike and smooth out my shirt, starting the long walk back to the side of the house.

Just as I’m halfway to the side door, a woman flings open the front door. This must be Robin’s mom. She has the same blue eyes, same perfect eyebrows, and same heart-shaped face.

“Hi!” she signs crisply, stepping out onto the porch. She holds the front door open and gestures for me to join her. I backtrack and take the steps up onto the porch as she holds the door open, waving me into the foyer. “I’m Robin’s mom,” she signs. I instantly like this Robin-at-age-fortysomething.

“Nice to meet you,” I sign. “I’m Carter.”

She reaches out to shake my hand and I give her the jam.

“Ooh!” her mouth says. “Thank you!” she signs.

“You’re welcome,” I sign back. I reach into my back pocket and pull out my trusty pad of paper. “My mom loves it.”

She holds out her hands for the pad and pen, and after I give them to her she writes, “I’m sure I’ll love it, too.”

She calls something over her shoulder and Robin comes in from a different room.

“Hi,” she signs, smiling. She’s wearing jeans and a T-shirt, her hair in a loose ponytail. Her feet are bare. She looks like heaven.

“Hi,” I sign.

My feelings are written all over my face, as they always are. This fact is confirmed when I sneak a look back at Robin’s mom. She’s gone bright red and is studying her own wallpaper.