Charlie was far from the worst she’d seen. She had language. She’d just had to work way too hard for it. Still, as February filled out the paperwork to complete Charlie’s transfer, she felt herself seething on the girl’s behalf—all those years of energy poured into achieving the aesthetic of being educated rather than actually having learned anything.
At the end of the day, February waded through the afternoon heat toward home, to what was affectionately referred to by staff as “New Quarters.” Nowadays, only a handful of overnight dormkeepers and security detail were necessary, but when RVSD was established at the turn of the twentieth century, nearly all of the school’s faculty lived on campus alongside their students. The headmaster lived in the studio apartment atop his office—that is, until Headmaster Arbegast and his wife had two sets of twins in rapid succession. As a result, the school had purchased seven acres of land adjacent to campus and built New Quarters, a craftsman cottage, at the far end of the plot.
In the seventies, when RVSD was feeling the recession squeeze, they parceled out most of the land to developers, who built a tract of houses two streets wide backed up against the campus gates. But New Quarters had remained the school’s, its severe, sloped roof easy to spot from the center of campus even with the block of ranch-style homes that stood between them. February loved the old house and was grateful for the few minutes’ distance the neighborhood afforded her from her work, the walk home a chance to clear her head. Sometimes, though, it was just more time she spent stewing. Today was that kind of day.
By the time she got home she was full-on peevish, even though Mel’s car was already in the driveway, a sight that would normally delight her.
It is so damn depressing, February said as she pushed through the side door. That the biggest dream some people can muster up for their child is “look normal.”
Here comes my sparkling personality! said Mel.
Sorry, it’s just—
—a bad one? Aren’t they always?
February plopped her bag on the kitchen chair.
You’re home early, she said.
Mel had swapped her suit for a tank top, basketball shorts, and an oven mitt, and was stirring instant mashed potatoes in a saucepan. A rotisserie chicken sat providentially in its Kroger bag beside a pile of Mel’s depositions.
You’re late, said Mel. Especially considering there are no children in your school.
There was one today! February protested. She looked around. How’s Mom?
Seems like a good day, said Mel. She’s out on the porch.
Reading? Oh, that is good.
Her mother’s condition had been wobbly of late—it was to be expected, the doctors had all said so—but February was still finding it difficult to adapt, if adapting to constant change was even possible. The best she could do was find respite in the good days, and try not to think too much about how many of them were left. February pressed herself up against Mel’s back, wrapped her arms around her waist.
You, said Mel, turning to meet February’s lips, are making me sweaty. Go get changed—dinner’s ready.
Thanks for picking it up. I know it’s my turn.
Only you could outwork a lawyer.
Hey, I have that class to teach, too. It’s been a long time since I’ve made a syllabus. How did you get in before me?
I came home after court let out. Figured I could read the deps here.
Aha! You’re still working! said February.
So are you, Mel said, tapping a finger to February’s temple. Go change.
February pulled on shorts and a T-shirt and found her mother curled up on the porch swing reading a paperback thriller, something Mel had bought in an airport. She stomped her foot to get her mom’s attention. Her mother dog-eared her page and looked up, wherever the book had taken her clearing from her irises as she offered February a wide grin.
You hungry?
Hi, sweetie. How’s school? All set up?
Getting there.
How was the meeting?
Man, when she was with it, she was really with it. February didn’t remember having mentioned the Serranos to her mother, and she regretted it now. Her mom’s grasp of cochlear implants was tenuous, she being of the generation for which hearing aid technology was still a transistor strapped onto one’s chest. February didn’t want to upset her mother—the doctors had stressed the importance of maintaining a calm, stable home environment—and the plight of yet another deaf kid deprived of language by her own parents was a surefire way to blow that up. February took a deep breath.
Fine, she said.
The girl struggled in mainstream school. No surprise there.
I’m sure you’ll fix her right up.
We will. Come eat.
February helped her mother to the kitchen and spent the rest of dinner asking rapid-fire questions about the novel, the weather, Mel’s caseload, anything to avoid having to say more about her own day. Finally, when they’d washed up and February’s mom had gone to her room to watch TV, February and Mel sat on the couch, paperwork in each of their laps and bag of barbecue-flavored Grippo’s between them. February reopened her Serrano file, raked her hands over her face.
So, what is it? Mel said.
It’s just so frustrating! She’s implanted, but it obviously didn’t take, she’s spent her whole life chasing conversational English, she’s failing almost everything up at Jefferson, and her mother still seems more concerned about the way it all looks!
The magic of narcissism, said Mel.
If we can’t do enough for her in the next three years, she’s fucked. I have to get her mother to see the stakes here.
Not gonna happen, babe.
You don’t think—
I know there’s no lecture in the world that’ll convince a mother she doesn’t want her kid to be just like her. And nobody ever got anywhere leading with “I know better than you.”
But—
Look, they’re your people, I get it. But that’s not how the mother sees it.
February knew Mel was right. And though it was beside the point, this sort of situation always picked at the scab of her own lifelong fear that her existence had robbed her parents of some quintessential human experience. What if they, too, had wanted a child just like them? She sighed, glancing at their photo on the mantel.
Oh, don’t even go there, said Mel.
It was a neurosis she found tedious at best.
I didn’t say anything.
You’ve got more Deaf pride and better ASL grammar than half your Deaf staff, and the new girl is through your doors now, so she’s going to be fine.
Mel kissed February lightly and went into the kitchen, returning with a pair of napkins to wipe the chip grease from their fingers.
Her parents are divorced, said February, gesturing to Mel’s paperwork.
Of course they are, Mel said.