Page 30 of Broken Desires
Arriving home to an empty house, I found my bedroom in disarray, filled with boxes, my bed shoved against the wall, and the mattress stripped bare. As I made my bed, it dawned on me that the progress I’d made at Silverbrook was at risk of being erased.
Barely three days in, and I’m already dreaming of escape, back to where I’m seen for who I am, not the financial burden I represent. My contemplation is abruptly interrupted by a sharp nudge. I turn to face my sister, her presence as rigid as ever.
At twenty-nine, she’s much older, and it shows not just in years but in the severe set of her mousy brown bob that frames her stern face. Her clothing, always conservative, wraps her in an air of rigid propriety, but it’s the shiny golden cross hanging around her neck that catches my eye. She wears it like a talisman, as if it could cleanse the venom she so readily spews.
“I asked you to set the table,” she says, her annoyance barely concealed.
I’m deaf, bitch, I sign, my frustration boiling over, though the gesture falls on deliberately ignorant eyes.
She narrows her eyes at me. “I don’t understand sign language,” she retorts dismissively as if my inability to hear was a mere inconvenience to her ordered world.
“And I’m deaf. Why talk to me from behind?” I shoot back, my patience wearing thin.
She sighs, her disapproval manifesting in a slight shake of her head, causing her bob to swing almost comically. “Why must you complicate everything?”
I nearly snap at her, wanting to point out that my disability isn’t a chosen inconvenience, but instead, I just roll my eyes and head to the kitchen.
Four more days. I just have to survive four more days in this house before I can return to Silverbrook, to a place where I’m valued beyond my family’s skewed perceptions.
As I methodically set the table, an unsettling feeling of being watched creeps over me. Without even needing to look, I half expect it to be my sister’s husband—my brother-in-law, Ian. Just as pretentious as my sister, yet his way of lurking around me always adds an extra layer of discomfort. I’ve caught him more than once throwing curious glances my way, fueled, no doubt, by whatever fantastical stories my sister has spun about my lifestyle. The irony isn’t lost on me; whatever bizarre tales he’s been fed seem to pique his interest far more than they should.
With a resigned sigh, I decide to confront the sensation of eyes drilling into my back. Turning around, I find Ian exactly where I sensed him, confirmed without surprise. There he stands, the short, balding man with ginger hair, awkwardly leaning against the open bay window. In his hands is a tray of burger buns destined for my father, who’s currently manning the barbecue outside.
“Can I help you, Ian?” I address him, my tone even, devoid of the curiosity he seems to harbor about me.
Caught in the act, he startles visibly, almost comically so. For a moment, he fumbles with the tray, then, without a word, he turns briskly, making a beeline for the garden and away from my questioning gaze.
I shake my head. “Creep,” I mutter as I go back to my task.
Minutes later, my mother breezes past me toward the door with such haste it’s as if she’s on a mission. A sinking feeling hits me. Has she invited her church group cronies over? I mentally prepare for the onslaught of backhanded compliments and pitying glances they’re bound to throw my way, all of which my mother will absorb with her perfected look of weary martyrdom, no doubt securing her some compassion at their next gathering.
My grip tightens around the knife I’m holding, freezing midmotion when she reenters the room, but not with the anticipated vipers in tow. Instead, it’s Liam who follows her inside.
Hello, beautiful, he signs, and for a moment, I’m too stunned to process that he’s learned ASL.
I blink several times, pressing my nails into my palm, half convinced I’m dreaming. This can’t be real. Yet, as I stand there immobilized, Liam’s gaze drops to the knife still clutched in my hand, a smile playing on his lips.
I see I made it just in time to prevent you from committing murder. Put the knife down, he signs, his fluency surprising me further.
My mother’s frown forms as I set the knife down with a clatter, louder than intended.
You speak ASL? I sign back, still in disbelief.
His smile broadens, even as my mother’s frown deepens into a scowl.
Surprise, he signs again.
“Stop signing,” my mother snaps abruptly. “It’s rude when people around you don’t understand.”
I’m on the verge of retorting when Liam smoothly steps in. “Oh, I’m terribly sorry. I just assumed you’d know sign language, considering your daughter is deaf.”
The color drains from my mother’s face, the implicit criticism hitting its mark. “Well… Vanessa said it wasn’t necessary,” she deflects poorly.
Did I? The question echoes silently within me, astonishment and gratitude flooding in as I turn my attention back to Liam, his presence suddenly transforming the room’s stifling atmosphere.
“This young man informed me he’s your friend. Isn’t that… nice?” my mother remarks, casting a glance over her shoulder full of disbelief.
I understand her shock. Liam and I are worlds apart, especially today. He’s dressed with particular care, his black designer pants and a royal-blue dress shirt accentuating his broad shoulders and muscular arms, a stark contrast to the casual atmosphere of our family home. His light-brown hair is styled flawlessly, making him stand out even more.