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  Did I feel sorry for Mam? No.

  Did I feel sorry for myself? No. Deafness was normal in our family.

  We were different. That’s just the way things were.

  When I was a teenager, I owned a bright red plastic radio. I had bought it with babysitting money, and I kept it on a living-room shelf. Every day, I turned it on as soon as I came home from school. When Mam walked into the room, she put her hand on top of my radio. She wanted to see if it was warm, and sometimes she made me turn it off.

  “The radio uses too much electricity,” she told me.

  The real reason, I was sure, was that Mam didn’t know what I listened to.

  As soon as she left the room, I turned on the radio again. I memorized songs. I sat at the piano and tried to play tunes with one hand.

  Seeing me at the piano did make Mam happy. She stood beside me and put her hands on top of the piano. The sound from the keys vibrated through the wood while I tried to play. Mam could feel the music through her hands. That is how she listened to music.

  Before long, I was able to play songs using both hands. I learned to play by teaching myself.

  Mam must have thought I played well. She didn’t know how many wrong notes I was hitting. When we had visitors, Mam asked me to play for them. I was too shy to do so because I thought I played badly. Years later, I studied music at university. But when we first owned the piano, I had never taken lessons.

  One day, three of Mam’s close friends came to visit. Her three friends were deaf. While growing up, they had all attended the Belleville school together. Mam loved having her deaf friends visit. They came once a year when Mam took holidays from work. Her friends stayed at our home for two or three nights.

  With four deaf people in the house, all language was signed. Hands moved so quickly, I had to pay attention to keep up. Mam laughed more when her friends visited. By then I was old enough to understand that she was probably really lonely.

  Mam asked me to play the piano for her deaf friends. I could not say no, so I sat on the piano bench and started banging away. I tried to play songs I had heard on my radio.

  Mam’s friends stood close to me and put their hands on top of the piano. They could feel the music. And while I was playing, they suddenly began to dance. The women took off their shoes and danced in bare feet. Vibrations from the music could be felt through the floorboards. We had hardwood floors in our house, and the smooth wood made dancing easy. Mam and her friends twirled around the room. I kept playing. I played every song I knew.

  I glanced over at Mam and her friends moving in time to the music, their feet gliding over the floor. They were silent dancers.

  One of Mam’s friends wore a yellow scarf. She took it off and waved it in the air. Someone else took the other end. The two women danced with the scarf fluttering between them. I tried to watch and play the piano at the same time.

  The women moved with grace and joy. They danced by themselves and with one another. When I stopped playing, they stopped dancing. They could no longer feel vibrations through the floor.

  I had never known that Mam could dance. I suppose if Father had been alive, I’d have seen my parents dancing. But Father had been dead for many years.

  After Mam’s friends left, I asked her, “Why didn’t you tell me you knew how to dance?”

  “Because you never asked,” she said.

  “What else can you do that I don’t know about?” I asked.

  “I can do many things that might surprise you and Roma,” said Mam.

  *

  “I’ve never heard that story,” Roma said to her sister. “I love to think of Mam dancing with her friends. Why didn’t you tell me before?”

  “Because you never asked,” said Liz.

  Chapter Nine

  Wish

  After Jessie and Eve left to go home, Liz and Roma cleaned up. They put the dishes away and sat at the kitchen table. Liz poured two glasses of wine.

  “I don’t know about you, but I’m glad I heard everyone’s stories,” said Liz.

  “I liked meeting your friends,” Roma told her. “The way they grew up wasn’t so different from the way we did.”

  “We all became good listeners,” said Liz.

  “We had good practice. We had to be listeners for our parents,” Roma said. “Every one of us.”

  “A normal part of growing up. Normal in our families, anyway,” Liz said.

  “Good memory training,” Roma said. “Acting as Mam’s ears and voice for so many years helps me now. Especially the way I recall people’s faces and stories in the clinic where I work.”

  “And we all speak at least two languages,” said Liz. “You and I and Jessie and Eve.”

  “That’s true. We’re all bilingual—English and ASL,” said Roma. “And most of us speak French, too.”

  “Do you ever wonder if we had a childhood, Roma?”

  “Yes. I sometimes wonder if I was born old.”

  “You were the first-born,” said Liz. “Mam relied on you. You had to mature so quickly.”

  “I also thought we were the only ones who talked behind our mother’s back,” Roma said. “Somehow, I feel better knowing that Jessie and Eve did the same.”

  “I turned up the volume on my radio when I was upset,” said Liz. “Just like Eve. Having all that noise around me made me feel better. Even though Mam couldn’t hear what I was doing.”

  “We tried to get away with whatever we could, I guess.”

  “Do you wish we’d had a different childhood?” Liz asked.

  “Not at all. I was so proud of Mam. She raised us by herself after Father died. She worked at the shirt factory all those years.”

  “And look at the work we do now,” said Liz. “You interpret for deaf patients at your clinic. I teach music. Jessie is an ASL interpreter. Eve works with deaf children in theatre. The four of us are in the helping professions.”

  “That’s because we care about other people,” said Roma.

  “There’s something else I’m glad to know,” said Liz. “The others longed for store-bought clothes the way we did. Such a small thing, but we wanted them so badly.”

  “We wanted what we couldn’t have,” said Roma.

  “Mam did sew beautifully. You and I had amazing clothes,” said Liz. “But we still wanted something store-bought.”

  “Eve sure made us laugh, didn’t she?” said Roma.

  “She’s an actor, all right,” said Liz.

  “She knows how to tell a story,” said Roma. “The box on the doorstep, those terrible shoes floating down the river.”

  “Speaking of boxes,” said Liz. “There’s still one more box of Mam’s things to go through. After her funeral, you and I were pretty tired. We had so many things to do. We went through Mam’s house, her closets and clothes. We cleaned floors and washed windows, got rid of furniture, gave things to charity. But one last box had been pushed under the basement stairs. I had to bring it home with me when Mam’s house was sold. That last cardboard box is in a closet in my front hall.”

  “I suppose we could look at it now,” said Roma. “One box can’t hold that much. Surely it won’t take long.”

  “Bring our wine into the living room,” said Liz. “We’ll open the box in there.”

  Liz dragged the box from the hall closet to the living room. The two sisters kneeled on the rug. They opened the flaps of the box and looked inside.

  They found old sewing material, folded in layers, along with dress patterns Roma and Liz both remembered. And spools of thread, zippers, and old curtains. Slowly and carefully, the sisters set everything on the rug.

  At the bottom of the cardboard box, they saw Mam’s old sewing basket. Liz lifted it out and raised the cover. She pulled up a tangle of thread, needles, thimbles, and buttons.

  “I’ll bet some of these things were bought from the thimble man,” said Roma. “Mam kept everything. But look. There’s an envelope. What’s inside? Something lumpy?”

  Liz
picked up a worn envelope that lay at the bottom of the basket. She took a quick look inside and passed it to Roma. “There’s a note in here,” she said. “And something else. I think this is meant for you.”

  Roma recognized their mother’s handwriting. She read out loud, to her sister:

  This belongs to Roma. I should have given it to her long ago. The day the wishbone pin dropped in the river, I thought it was lost forever. I went back the next day to see if I could find the things I dropped. Everything had floated away except the wishbone pin, which was partly trapped under a rock near shore. I must have stepped on it when I grabbed baby Liz up out of the water. The pin on the back was bent so badly, I hid the wishbone away. I didn’t have the heart to give Roma a broken present for her fifth birthday. But I couldn’t throw it out, either. I’m leaving it at the bottom of my sewing basket, where I first hid it. Maybe Roma will find her wishbone pin here some day.

  Roma reached into the envelope, and there it was. A slightly crooked wishbone with faded sparkles and coloured stones. The pin on the back was badly bent.

  Roma looked at Liz and they both grinned. They clicked their wine glasses.

  “Mam really was full of surprises,” said Liz. “Looks like she gets the last word tonight.”

  “She’s adding her story to the evening,” said Roma. “The end of a story. I can hardly believe the pin was hidden away all those years.”

  “I suppose you get to make your wish now,” said Liz.

  “So much time has passed. What I once wished for has changed over the years. Why don’t you make a wish, too, Liz? We could both wish for something.”

  Each sister held a side of the tiny wishbone pin.

  “What shall we wish for?” said Liz.

  “Listen!” said Roma. “Wishes should never be told. Just close your eyes and think of what you want most. Then don’t ever tell a soul. And hope for the best.”

  Acknowledgements

  Many people have shared with me their experiences of deafness in families. I thank the following mothers and daughters: Frances Hill, Carrie Oliver, Jean Stratton, Christine Wilson, Emma Roszak, and Monica Gallivan. Thanks also, Christine, for lending me the original Cook’s Book, which belonged to your late mother. What a treasure—and a source for several details in my work of fiction.

  For the past fifteen years, I have been reading about Deaf Culture, past and present. Of many books, I acknowledge Deaf Parents—Hearing Children, by Lawrence T. Bunde, and Seeing Voices: A Journey into the World of the Deaf, by Oliver Sacks. I am also thankful to the many people who devote themselves to listening and watching and ensuring that others will be heard.

  Finally, I remember my much-loved grandmother, the late Gertrude Freeman Stoliker. Deaf for 87 of her 88 years, she was the mother of eleven hearing children. And like my fictional characters, my grandmother didn’t miss much.

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  About the Author

  Frances Itani is the author of fifteen books. Among her best-selling novels are Deafening, Remembering the Bones and Requiem.

  Frances taught and practised nursing for eight years. She began to write while studying at university when her children were young. She has worked as a volunteer all her life. Frances lives in Ottawa.

  Also by Frances Itani:

  FICTION:

  Truth or Lies

  Pack Ice

  Man Without Face

  Leaning, Leaning Over Water

  Deafening

  Poached Egg on Toast

  Remembering the Bones

  Requiem

  Missing

  POETRY:

  No Other Lodgings

  Rentee Bay

  A Season of Mourning

  CHILDREN’S BOOKS:

  Linger By the Sea

  Best Friend Trouble (forthcoming)

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