I DIDN’T WANT TO like Amélie because I had zero interest in learning to read lips, but her unshakeable smile made it hard to follow through on my plans.
The small woman had twisted her long, black braids into a scarf that matched her dress and smelled incredible, like jasmine and honey. To my chagrin, I had to ask after her perfume. She laughed and wrote down the name of it under my question, “Shalimar.”
Heather explained to me over tea and my pad of paper that in consultation with the doctors Watson, they had contacted the French school for the deaf and were put into contact with one of their most accomplished graduates — Mademoiselle Amélie Blaise, who was living in London. She and Dr. Olsen had met and Amélie had offered to work with me.
I tried to be polite through these drawn-out explanations — they took forever because of the amount of reading and writing they required — but explicitly refused the offered aid.
* * *
“EVERYONE GOES THROUGH WHAT you are going though when they lose one of their abilities; soldiers who have lost a limb, an elderly person who loses their sight,” said the note written by Olsen.
I gritted my teeth and wrote back, “That information does nothing to help me, Doc. I resent being condescended to or pitied.”
What I didn’t write was that my abilities were what made me distinct. What was I without my inductive skills? Just another immigrant Londoner from the colonies? An orphan with famous relatives? I fought the urge to glare at Amélie as she and Olsen talked back and forth with their hands.
Amélie pointed at a word on my notepad and demonstrated the sign. When I didn’t respond, she did it again, adding a kind smile. I shook my head, but, almost against my will, mimicked her sign, following along as she went through some simple words. Then she asked Heather to say them out loud, one at a time, so that I could focus on how words were formed through the lips. Portia. Baker Street. Scotland Yard. But when she got to Brian, I shook my head again.
I wrote on my notepad, “I appreciate the help, but I would like you both to leave. I have much to do today and casebooks to review.” I tried to pass it over, but to my surprise, found a note being passed to me first.
“You believe that because your abilities are superior, so too should the magnification of their loss,” I read off her note, my eyes leaping to meet hers. I opened my mouth to deny it, remembered why I was writing notes instead, and angrily blinked away my tears.
Olsen reached out to cover my hand with hers and, looking straight at me, blew out all her breath. When I looked confused, she did it again and then raised her eyebrows at me.
I finally understood and after taking a moment to dramatically roll my eyes, I blew all the breath out of my body, calming my racing heart.
“You have emotional and mental issues to overcome too. I can help,” she wrote.
She wrote on the notebook and then spoke to me as the other woman signed the words one at a time.
“Remember when you first got here? It was so hard to be taken seriously as a detective. You overcame.”
I glanced over at Amélie, who was nodding and signing something at the doctor.
“Amélie says you will surprise them again,” she wrote, smiling at her young friend as she passed the notebook back to me. Could I do it again? Fight through the derisive drumbeat against my gender, my outsider-status as a Canadian, and worst of all, the old-boys club of detective work? I must have transmitted these feelings on my face because Heather picked up the pencil again.
“Don’t tell me you’re scared of the fight,” she wrote.
I blew my breath out again in response, rising to get my afternoon medication as the two women laughed at my reaction. I did not share their ease.