And nearly every Sunday, Patricia and her daughters used sign language to insult me.
They called me “the art teacher,” with sarcastic little gestures.
They called me a charity case.
Once, I brought a homemade pie.
Patricia thanked me warmly, then signed to Whitney, “Store-bought.
Throw it out after she leaves.”
I’d spent that morning baking it.
The worst moment came when Ben mentioned that both my parents had passed away.
Patricia put a hand against her chest.
“Oh, you poor thing.”
Then she signed to her daughters, “Good.
No in-laws to deal with.”
I excused myself and went into the bathroom.
I stood holding the edge of the sink until I could face everyone again.
I wanted to tell Ben.
But I worried about what it would do to him to learn that his mother and sisters had been treating me this way.
And there was another person in that house who troubled me even more.
Grandma Evelyn.
She was eighty-nine, small and white-haired, and usually sat in her wheelchair near the end of the table.
People brought her food.
They adjusted her chair.
But almost nobody held a real conversation with her.
When she signed something to Patricia, her daughter would often respond, “Later, Mother.”
Then she’d turn away.
I recognized the look on Evelyn’s face afterward.
I’d seen it on my own mother’s face when hearing people talked around her instead of including her.
One Sunday, while the family argued over a casserole dish in the kitchen, I found Evelyn alone in the sunroom.
I knelt beside her wheelchair so she could see me clearly.
Then I signed, “Hello, Evelyn.
My name is Nora.
It’s very nice to meet you.”
Her eyes widened.
She grabbed my hands, studied them, and began signing rapidly.
“Who taught you?
You sign beautifully.
Who are your people?”
“My mother and father,” I answered.
“They were both deaf.”