Keir tried to do the chummy stepfather routine for years, but we never really got along. For one thing, it always felt like he was trying too hard, especially in the days when I couldn’t speak to him. Things changed around the time Clark died, when I was thirteen. I came and stayed with him and Mum for a while to give Dad and Lucy time to grieve on their own, and he was so patient and kind to me it was pretty hard to stay antagonistic towards him. He doesn’t try to act like my dad any more, but I let him be a friend.
I carry Bell back up the stairs to her bedroom and sit with her for a few minutes as she tells me about the fight her toy elephants are having (one ate all the peanuts) and her recent decision to become a world-class ballerina. Bell is a chatterbox, and it’s one of the things I most love about her.
By the time I get downstairs my tea has cooled to the perfect temperature and I sit with Mum and Keir, sipping it.
‘So you were actually talking?’ Mum asks. ‘To Rhys’s parents?’
I nod, beaming. ‘We had conversations.’
‘Oh, Steffi.’ I don’t think she’s ever looked at me with such happiness. There are actual tears in her eyes. ‘I’m so pleased. I knew it would happen one day.’
‘I think it really helped that I was signing at the same time,’ I say. ‘It was like a life jacket. Does that make sense?’
Mum’s smile falters. ‘Are Rhys’s parents deaf?’
‘No, just Rhys.’
‘So why were you signing to them?’
‘Because that’s how they all speak,’ I say. ‘It’s totally normal to them.’
‘It sounds like an important step,’ Keir says, and I notice the look he gives Mum. ‘That’s such good news, Steffi.’
‘It is,’ I say, a little defensive now.
‘But do you think . . .’ Mum pauses, then persists. ‘Do you think you’d have felt the same if it wasn’t a deaf household?’
‘It’s not a deaf household,’ I say, frowning. My happy glow has started to tarnish. ‘And, no, I wouldn’t. I told you that. The BSL really helped.’
‘But, Steffi . . .’ Another annoying pause. ‘It’s great that you talked to people you didn’t know, but I don’t want to think you’re . . . hiding behind BSL. You won’t always have that . . . life jacket.’
‘Why won’t I?’ Frustration is building in my throat and chest. ‘It’s not “hiding” behind it. Would you say Rhys is hiding behind it because he uses it?’
‘But Rhys is deaf,’ Mum says, almost triumphantly. ‘He’s who BSL is for.’
I push my mug away from me. ‘I thought you’d be happy.’
‘I am happy!’ She reaches for my hand. ‘I just worry, love.’
‘Well, stop worrying!’ I snap, snatching back my hand. ‘Just be supportive. For God’s sake.’
‘Stefanie,’ Mum says warningly. ‘Don’t use that tone, please.’
I bite down hard on my tongue to stop myself responding. Nothing’s changed. And, now I’m sitting at this table, I’m wondering why I had thought it would have. Mum still feels the same way about BSL as she did when I was six years old and Uncle Geoff first suggested it. She still thinks it’s like admitting defeat, like accepting a disability.
Except, to be honest, she’d probably be fine with me having a disability. So long as it was one she could point at, one she could explain.
‘I should go back to Dad’s,’ I say.
‘Oh, Steffi.’ Mum sighs, like I’m being difficult or something. ‘I’m just trying to be realistic. I don’t want you to get your hopes up.’
God forbid.
Mum has had an anxious daughter for sixteen years, and she still doesn’t seem to get the concept of little victories. That spending an evening where I wasn’t feeling sick every time someone asked me a question is actually a really big deal, and the fact that it might just be a one-off is the kind of thing I’m already worried about. There’s no such thing as getting your hopes up if you’re anxious. Little victories are everything in a world where worst-case scenarios are on an endless loop in your head.
But Mum has never been OK with my ‘issues’. When I was a child who couldn’t speak, my dad tried to be patient and understanding, but Mum got frustrated and angry. She was basically ready to try anything to get me to talk. She tried both the carrot and the stick, offering treats if I spoke and then threatening punishment when I didn’t. She tried reverse psychology, telling me that she was really enjoying the quiet. She guilt-tripped me to tears by telling me I was making her life so hard – didn’t I see how much I was upsetting her?
Once, when I was eight, she lost me on purpose at the supermarket. I went to get apples, confident that she would remain in the same place, and returned to find her gone. I wandered the aisles with increasing panic until I was rescued by a couple of shop assistants, at which point I burst into tears. I can still remember the looks of bafflement on their faces as they tried to talk to me only to be faced with my tear-stained, rigid face. I remember how they started talking to each other as if I couldn’t hear them – ‘She must be deaf. Or maybe she’s got . . . you know, special needs? What! She might have!’ – before making an announcement over the tannoy, asking for the parent of the ‘quiet girl’ to come to customer services.