She asked about them.
When I told her they’d passed away, she held my hands a little tighter.
We both cried.
Then she looked toward the kitchen and signed one question.
“They don’t know?”
I shook my head.
She understood immediately.
“You’ve been understanding them all this time?”
I nodded.
Evelyn started laughing so hard she had to wipe her eyes.
“Don’t tell them yet,” she signed.
From then on, we had our own conversations every Sunday.
She told me about growing up on a dairy farm and about her late husband, Frank, who’d learned to sign in one summer just so he could ask her to a dance.
She said she hadn’t had a real conversation with anyone in that house for eleven years.
It hurt to hear that.
But she also knew exactly what Patricia and the girls had been signing.
She’d been watching them much longer than I had.
A few days before Evelyn’s 90th birthday party, I was helping Patricia and Whitney arrange flowers and place cards.
Whitney signed, “What about the ring?”
Patricia answered, “I’ve spoken to the lawyer about a prenup.
Ben will sign what I put in front of him.
She’ll be gone by Christmas.”
Then she smiled at me.
“Those centerpieces are lovely, dear.
You’re so clever with your little crafts.”
I finished arranging the flowers.
Then I went straight to the sunroom.
I told Evelyn what I’d seen.
She sat quietly, looking through the window.
Finally, she turned toward me.
“Nora,” she signed, “I would like a birthday present.”
I waited.
And when she explained what she wanted, I realized her 90th birthday wasn’t going to be an ordinary family party.
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Evelyn wanted to speak for herself at her birthday party.
Not through Patricia.