Page 10 of Signed With Love

I work in a deaf school. I spend my days in front of a whiteboard and teach a group of kids mathematics and history.

I’m sorry it has taken so long to write and actually send a letter back. I haven’t been sure of what to say.

Claire

PS. I tried to get Dad to tell me when we video chatted how you’re entertaining him, but he wouldn’t share. Secrets don’t make friends.

???

I’m smiling by the time I read the last line. I lean back and run a tired hand down my face. Yeah, the smile is still there. I’m covered in the dirt and grime of the day, in desperate need of a shower, but I get up and wander into the kitchen. I write Claire a letter so she’ll hopefully get it before she heads up to visit her parents in a couple weeks.

I find that the words flow from me when I’m sitting alone in my kitchen at ten at night when it’s Claire I’m writing for. The windows are open, allowing the breeze to come inside. She’s opening up to me, and I jump on the opportunity to dig deeper into building this friendship with her.

The first time I saw Claire, I knew there was something about her I couldn’t shake. She had been standing on what was once my mother’s front porch with her head tilted back, the sunlight streaming down on her. The smile I’ll never forget was stretched across her face. I wanted to make her smile like that again. But I froze up before I could say hello. Eventually her father told me more about her, and I found out I needed to learn to communicate with her with something other than my voice. Since I’ve decided I need her as a friend, I pour more of who I am into the written word, and I’ll continue to learn the language she needs me to communicate in.

Once I finish the letter, I slip it into an envelope and walk it to the mailbox. The trek back to my home is slower, more measured. It was a long day, and it’s catching up to me as I step back into my quiet home.

I grab a beer from the refrigerator and glance around the kitchen. My cabin is a small space, empty of anything that’s not a necessity to survive. I grew up very minimalistic. Sometimes I thought it was because she didn’t have much money. I learned after she passed that wasn’t the case. She just hid her wealth well. Even from her husband and son.

The cap flies off when I slam the beer bottle on the countertop. Thoughts of my mother always sour my mood. Maybe I should have gone stronger than beer if I was going to dredge up memories of my past.

I walk outside, letting the door slam shut behind me. The strong desire to dig into my mother’s history hits me, but it’s always been shrouded with too much mystery to understand. I’ve passed a lot of her research over to Claire’s father to dig into so I won’t be tempted. I often wonder how she ended up with the hefty hidden nest egg she left me with.

I chug my beer and move my thoughts toward something lighter, something better. I think of Claire as my hands crudely practice her language.

Chapter Five

Claire

I have only one more chance this year to take the train ride north before it gets busy with the summer tourists. As the summer progresses, I’ll start making the drive by car to avoid the crowd. The train jerks, then pulls from the train station as I pull Jamison’s latest letter from my handbag. I settle into the ride so I can read his words again.

???

Dear Claire,

You’re right, secrets don’t make friends.

So now you and I have to reveal every hidden secret we have. From here on out, I’ll reveal a secret of mine in exchange for one of yours.

Spiders creep me out. Now I’ll be waiting for a secret in return.

And you’ve never flown? You should fly at least once in your life. And look, now you’re friends with a pilot. You’ll be 10,000 feet in the air in no time. Nothing more beautiful than Alaska at that altitude. Gliding along as the real world fades. The weight of the world lifting away from your shoulders.

Can I take you up one day? We could fly over the Chugach Mountains or deep into the Denali National Park. Wherever you want to go.

And yes, it was my mother who taught me how to fly.

Please tell me more about being a teacher. I think your job makes you braver than I am. The strength and dedication it takes to teach little ones is something else entirely. What grade do you teach? How big is your class? Can you take a photo and show me your classroom setup when I see you next?

I’m up a secret, so there will be no revealing what I gave your father. You’ll just have to come up and see, then stop by and see me too.

Jamison

???

The letter settles in my lap as I stare out to the Chugach Mountains in the distance. I’ve read the letter for the third time and have thought hard about each thing he said. I play with the corner of the stationary as my gaze travels along the peaks of the mountains in the distance. Jamison is right; it’s beautiful out here. I try to picture it from his angle, but I can’t. Never have I been able to look down at the world from such an angle.

The train stops, and I follow the passengers off. I lift my worn messenger bag higher on my shoulder keeping my head down until a subtle breeze pushes the smell of cedar and mineral oil toward me. I jerk to a stop once I’m on the sidewalk and lift my head. Jamison is standing before me, tall and showing a broad smile behind his scruffy beard. He’s wearing a plaid flannel shirt that molds to his large body and worn jeans with his scuffed-up hiking boots. His wild hair is tied back again, flyaway hairs lifting from the breeze. His green eyes are bright, the corners crinkled.

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