Me
by Eleanor Cullen
[this is the second in the three part series–
read Razz from the beginning.]
Me
‘How do you know Razz?’ she signed to me. It was my eighth time going to the support group. My eighth social outing where I was relying on my own communication skills instead of letting my translator help. My eighth time sitting far close to the girl with the braids. The meeting hadn’t started yet, but the two of us had taken our usual seats beside each other.
‘Razz?’ I repeated. She’d fingerspelt the name, then followed it with what I could only assume was the sign name for the mysterious person. ‘Who?’
She looked at me as if I’d grown an extra head. ‘Razz,’ she signed again. Then, she pointed to the front door, specifically to the person walking through it.
It was the old lady I’d met several weeks ago, the one who’d invited me here in the first place and who hosted the sessions. She tottered in, wearing more layers than Stevie Nicks, and placed her tray on a table. Shrugging off her furry tasselled coat, she gave me a wink.
‘We met in the doctor’s,’ I explained, though I was sure she hadn’t introduced herself as Razz to me. But I wasn’t about to say that, to spend more of our precious time discussing the woman over there when I could be asking about the one in front of me.
The one in front of me smiled, content with that explanation. She always was. She was content when I first met her, though I know I made her nervous. She was content enough to let me sidle closer towards her each session until, on our fourth, I finally invited her out to a coffee shop afterwards. She was content to let me choose where we visited each session after that, content to let me ramble on about my life, content.
She wasn’t born deaf. I’m sure she’d be horribly self-conscious if she realised I could tell. Realised her signs lacked the fluency that she had yet to develop. It didn’t matter, though. She understood me when I went on my rants about Dan and John and the men who commandeered every conversation in every meeting and she always replied with apparent ease. She was content to let me chat, even when she didn’t agree.
‘Betty’s?’ I continued, signing that I was craving a hot drink.
‘Of course,’ she replied, her eyes lighting up the way they always did. Forcing me to light up too, for a smile to form without me giving it permission to do any such thing.
It settled me. Brought a calmness I didn’t know I needed. But maybe if it hadn’t, maybe if she hadn’t lightened up and she’d looked reluctant for once instead of content, it wouldn’t have happened.
‘Sorry,’ I signed as the two of us were leaving the community centre. I’d bumped into the old lady – sorry, Razz – as she was starting to tidy up. She turned around and I half expected a smile, or a wave of the hands to signal that it was okay, but I was met with a glare instead. A proper head to toe study and a glare.
‘The hell is her problem?’ I asked once we’d left. It didn’t do to sign anything secret in front of her; she could follow two sign conversations at the same time even if they were happening on opposite sides of the room.
‘What do you mean?’ We were just a few seconds away from the cafe over the road, from her hot chocolate and my mocha, but we stopped. Her to look at me wounded, as if I’d insulted her instead of Razz.
‘She can be so rude,’ I explained, not once stopping to think that maybe I shouldn’t insult this woman to someone who views her as a grandmother and even has a special name for her.
She visibly bristled, stepping away from me. ‘You’re calling somebody rude?’
For someone who had to learn sign language later in life, she sure knew how to place emphasis in a way that made her words sting.
My defence flew up then, outweighing all my rationale, and I defended myself starkly. Repeatedly. Probably, as much as I hate to admit it, rudely. The light in her eyes swapped places with fire, pure anger, and then, eventually it extinguished completely. She shook her head at me and turned away.
I couldn’t call after her, of course. In hindsight I could have run after her. Could’ve flung my arms around her shoulders and begged her to listen to an apology, a real one. But I watched her leave. My frustration replacing itself with sadness without me even realising.
I still go to the community centre every week. Never inside or as part of the actual group; I watch from our coffee shop. I see Razz hobbling in, holding food and wearing boots that are far too young for her. I see Dan and John, and the other stragglers as they arrive.
The girl with the braids will start coming back soon. She’ll wander in, use the notes app on her phone to tell the server that she’s deaf and she’d like a hot chocolate. I know she will. And I’ll swallow my pride and tell her that I love her.
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