Turning as quickly as I could, I rushed to an exit, pushing through the doors until the cool air washed over my face. I drew in a long breath, letting the winter chill fill my lungs. I stood there, at the edge of the garden, trying to calm down.
I wasn’t sure how much time had passed, but when I turned around, I saw a pair of dark eyes watching me through the glass of the sunroom: Clara.
I ducked my head as she watched me, looking so small and fragile in a large brown chair. I clenched and unclenched my hands, loosening up the fingers, when I forced myself to look Clara in the eyes and sign, “Hello.”
I saw the shock on her face. I saw her sit taller and shuffle to the edge of her seat. Then I saw her lift her hands, and shyly respond with her own signed, “Hello.”
I smiled. I smiled at how timid she appeared. Like a reflection, I thought, like looking in a mirror.
Clara sat back in her chair, but her attention never strayed away from me. Centering my calm, I trudged a foot forward, then another, and before I knew it, I was walking back inside the house, moving toward the sunroom.
Noises from the therapy sessions faded into the background as I entered the large domed glass room. Empty chairs were positioned round this large space, but only one was occupied—by Clara, overlooking the flowing river beyond the garden.
My panic faded the closer I got to the young girl, and it evaporated as I sat before her. She’s pretty, I thought, as I surveyed her fair skin and long brown hair. She flicked her eyes in my direction, brown eyes that could have been pretty if they weren’t filled with such pain. It’s strange how the eyes can show you so much. I agreed with the saying, ‘eyes are the window to the soul’. And Clara’s soul was broken, I could see it was shredded into pieces.
Clara’s eyes dipped, then focused back on the window. Shaking my hands, I held them in the air and signed, “Hello, Clara.”
Clara’s head turned back to me as my hands moved. Her eyes darted up to my eyes. For a moment I wondered if I had signed it wrong, or if she didn’t want me here. I worried that I was invading her space.
But a few seconds later, Clara lifted her hands and signed, “Hi.” She paused then added, “Who are you?”
“Elsie,” I signed. “I’m a friend of Lexi’s. I came here today to see the center.” I pointed around the sunroom. “It’s beautiful.”
“It’s pretty here,” Clara signed back, and pointed out of the window.
I nodded my head and asked, “You like water?”
“It’s calming. Peaceful,” she signed. I pulled my chair opposite hers, carefully placing myself in her line of sight.
I stared at the water too, now able to hear it’s gentle flowing current through the open window above me. I must have tilted my head up for my good ear to hear it. Clara’s eyebrows pulled down in confusion.
“You can hear?” she signed as I watched her forehead line.
I tapped my right ear. “I have some hearing in this ear.” I turned my head to show her the aid that gave me partial hearing.
Clara leaned forward, looked, then backed away. Her haunted eyes turned back to the river. She enquired, “What does it sound like?” I followed her pointing finger and stared at the running river.
“The river?” I signed.
Clara nodded her head. I closed my eyes, wondering how to explain the sound to a girl trapped in silence. Opening my eyes, I leaned forward and traced my finger down her arm. I curved the invisible line I was making until it fell away at her wrist. “Like that,” I signed. “Only imagine several fingers increasing the volume.”
Clara stared down at her arm and retraced the path I’d just traced with my finger. Her eyes closed and my heart melted when I saw a tiny smile tug on her lips.
Her eyelashes fluttered against her cheeks and, when her lids opened, her brown eyes weren’t quite as sad as before. Clara’s head dropped, when her hands asked, “Have you always been able to hear?”
I shook my head. “I had a tiny amount of hearing, only about seven percent. Mainly it was just little sounds, but nothing was clear. I had an operation when I was eight and suddenly I could hear. It was strange at first, but I had to learn how to deal with it quickly.”
“I can’t hear anything,” she divulged. “Neither could my mom.”
I remembered Lexi said her mom had died, and I replied, “My mom was fully deaf too.”
Clara’s expression relaxed, then it morphed into sadness. “My mom died,” she signed. “Last year. From cancer.”
A deep ache set in my chest because I understood what she was going through. I reached out and gripped her hand, squeezing her small fingers in support. Then I drew back, and confided, “My mom died too. Five years ago.”
Clara’s eyes shimmered. “Do you have a dad?”