24
Rebecca
On August 27, John started first grade. Amy and I dropped him off at 8:15 a.m. with the promise we’d return at 3:30 p.m. Jack and I decided to have him attend Trinity Lutheran, which is across town, rather than the public school two blocks from our home because of the quality education he will receive at Trinity. Soon I’ll be spending my days alone, but today I still have Amy with me.
As we drive home, chores nag at me. I need to call Mother to see if she’s finished sewing labels on Amy’s underwear. I’m glad she volunteered to do this tedious work. I’d go nuts if I had to sew labels on ten pairs of socks. Good grief, I still have to sew four pairs of pajamas for Amy.
The crossing arm drops as we approach railroad tracks. I turn to the back seat and say, “Look, Amy, a train.” The whistle blares as the train passes. Amy signs “train.”
Three massive engines chug by pulling hopper cars filled with coal. Amy signs “big, loud.” I wonder if she heard the whistle or drew her conclusion from the ground vibrating. Minutes later, we bounce across the uneven tracks. Amy’s flips her head from side to side to accentuate the bumpy ride; an earpiece is jarred loose, filling the car with its squeal. I wave my hand, but Amy ignores my frantic gesture. At a red light, I reach over the seat, tap her shoe to get her attention, and point to her ear. She searches for the earpiece by pulling on the slender cord. I shudder, knowing the cord will not tolerate such abuse. She inserts the earpiece. The squealing continues.
I better call Laverne and have new ear molds made before Amy goes to school. School. In less than two weeks, Amy will be in Omaha, and then I’ll be home alone. All alone.
Sunday, September 9. After church and an early lunch, Jack lugs a blue foot locker I have filled with Amy’s clothes to the car. John and Amy climb into their car seats clutching their stuffed animal pillows, while Jack and I latch our seatbelts for the three-hour drive to Omaha. The fields fly by my window at warp speed. Jack must be speeding. I check the speedometer. He’s a mile under the limit.
Amy is sucking her fingers and hugging her cat pillow. For weeks I’ve shown her pictures of NSD, saying “This is where you’ll go to school.” I’ve explained that Mommy, Daddy, and John will take her there, but we’ll go home and she’ll stay. Can she fathom this separation? I don’t know. I know I can’t. One minute here, the next gone. There’s no way to slide into good-bye.
At two-thirty we drive through the gates of NSD. Since this is Jack and John’s first time here, I point out the buildings as we drive pass them. The door to the primary dorm is propped open. A colorful sign says, “Welcome parents and students.” I do not feel welcome; I’m anxious. I want this wrenching separation over, but I want Amy with me as long as possible.
As Jack parks the car, I watch a couple hug a girl about eight years old; they turn and walk toward their car without looking back. Their faces remind me of the stern couple in the painting by Grant Wood I studied in art history. Their daughter bites her lips and stares at her shoes. Like a mother hen gathering her chicks, other girls surround the girl, hiding her from view. Their fingers flash words too fast for me to understand. Before the couple enters their car, they turn toward their daughter, but her back is to them. One of the girls signs something, and the eight-year-old girl turns and waves. Her parents wave and enter their car. The girls close their huddle, shielding her from the disappearing car.
Does parting ever become easier for the child? Or the parents? Our car parked, I open the door. I grasp Amy’s hand, never wanting to let go. Her skin is smooth, her palms fleshy compared to my bony hand. My fingers caress hers, which are wet with her saliva. When I let go of her hand, I will not be able to touch it for thirteen days. NSD requires all the children to stay on campus the first weekend to become accustomed to their new routine. After that they are allowed to go home every weekend. Thirteen days. I can’t let go. Amy struggles against my grasp. I loosen my hold but do not let go. Her hand relaxes in mine.
“Let me go inside first,” I call to Jack who has already opened the car trunk. “I don’t know where we’re supposed to take Amy’s stuff. I’ll ask her house parent.”
“Can I come with you?” John runs toward me. “I want to see Amy’s school.”
“I don’t know. It’s a girls’ dorm.” Jack closes the trunk lid and stands by the car, unsure what to do. He furrows his brow; his face wears a nervous smile.
“Men can go inside,” one of the parents shouts. “On moving day, everyone is in and out of all the dorms.”
We walk toward the welcome sign. The door looms before us like a giant maw. What’s on the other side of the threshold will be Amy’s world for most of the next nine months.
“This is where Amy and I stayed during summer camp. The classrooms are upstairs and the playroom is in the basement. They have lots of tricycles and bicycles for the kids.”
“Can I ride one of the bikes?” John asks.
“No, they’re for the children who live here.” Live here. This is it. Amy is really going to live here, not with us. The door is four feet away. Kathy Becker walks toward us, waving. “Here comes Kathy. Her husband, Bruce, is the house parent for the high school boys. They both are deaf. They live at the school year round and spend their summers traveling.”
Kathy signs “Hello. Welcome. Amy, how are you?”
Amy nods. I nudge her, “Say hello.”
“Hello.” Amy’s voice has a hollow sound, but her pitch and volume are appropriate.
“She’s so cute,” Kathy signs. “I love her dress. Did you make it?” Kathy points to the large blue cat appliquéd on Amy red gingham dress, and signs “cat” to Amy.
Amy pulls her hand free from my grasp and smooths her skirt so the entire cat can be seen. “Kitty,” she says.
“I remembered you liked cats. Come see what I put on your closet door,” Kathy signs.
I recognize the signs for “cat.”
“What did she say?” Jack asks.
“I’m not sure. She signs fast, and I’m not used to her signs.” I hope I have not missed vital information. “What … did … you … say?” My halting speech gives me time to recall each sign and form it as I speak.
Kathy nods before I finish. Her fingers repeat their dance. This time they do a waltz, not a jitterbug; nonetheless, I’m not sure what she said. I nod yes, but my frown betrays me.
“Come,” Kathy signs. Even a sign language dunce like I can understand this universal gesture. Kathy stops by a wardrobe. A-M-Y in blue letters and pictures of cats cover the doors.
Amy points to a gray tabby, “Kitty.”
Through sign language I convey to Kathy that Amy has a cat like this named Kitty.
Kathy pulls open the wardrobe door. She indicates which shelves, drawers, and hangers are for Amy’s clothes, and then she leaves to greet more students.
I sit on Amy’s bed staring at the empty wardrobe. A lump forms in my throat, large enough to choke me, but I swallow it, forcing my tears into submission. I must not cry. The staff at the NSD summer camp said crying will upset your child.
Jack looks out the window in Amy’s cubicle. “It’s nice. And she’s close to the bathroom.”
“Amy has six toilets,” John exclaims. “We only have one.” He and Amy check out the dorm. I hear wardrobe doors opening nearby. “This one has clothes in it,” John shouts.
“Do you know the girl who will sleep in this bed?” Jack points to the name on the wardrobe opposite Amy’s.
His words are an annoying buzz to my thoughts. How will Amy react when we leave? Will she think we abandoned her? That’s she been banished, never to see us or her cat again.
“Rebecca?” Jack’s urgent voice interrupts my thoughts. “Do you know Kelli?’”
“Yes. I met her and her mom this summer. They live in Norfolk.”
He pulls open the wardrobe door, creating a small draft. Dresses and slacks sway on their hanger. “She must be here already. We better get Amy’s things,” Jack says.
Kathy reappears and taps John and Amy on the shoulder. “No running! Do you want to go to the playroom? Is it all right if they go with me?” She signs.
“Yes.” I nod my fist up and down. This is an easy sign. I’m sure I got it right.
Jack points at John, Amy, and Kathy, and then to himself, and then gestures toward the door, his questioning eyes wait for a response. Kathy understands he wants to join them. She signs, “yes, come.”
“After I see the playroom, I’ll bring in Amy’s stuff,” Jack says.
I gaze out the window at the academic buildings sprinkled across the school’s manicured lawn. I watch as a teenage girl bounds out of a car and runs to join a group of girls by their dorm. Her hands flutter words. The girls respond with nodding heads and finger pointing. I follow their outstretched arms and see several teenage boys approaching. The girls clump together, their signs hidden from my view, but their furtive glances tell me they’re talking about boys, a topic common to all teenage girls. When the boys arrive, the girls open their huddle, forming a wide circle.
Something moves in my field of vision: a hand waving. I focus on the woman. It’s Vodis Dahlke. Calvin is pulling boxes and suitcases from their car. The teenage girl I was watching is their daughter, Julie; I’ve never met her. I wave and turn away from the window. Julie is fifteen. She’s been attending school here ten years. Ye gods, in ten years how many zillion miles will I have driven? How many good-byes will I have said? Numbers, constant, reliable, infinite, and stable permit me escape from my pain. I rub my stomach, but kneading the knot does no good. I rush to the calf-high toilets and sit to do my calculations.
Let’s see; Amy has nine months of school. Figure an average of four weekends a month, that’s thirty-six trips to and from Omaha. Each trip is about three hundred miles, so three times six is … Wait, I have to make two round trips each week, so that’s seventy-two trips a year. Seventy-two times three hundred is … That’s not right either. After Amy turns five in January, Frontier Airlines will let her fly unaccompanied, so she’ll fly home on Friday, which will reduce the number of trips I make second semester, so thirty-six plus …
The comfort of numbers is gone. They’ve betrayed me, becoming unreliable, unstable, and confusing. I wash my hands and return to Amy’s cubicle. Her blue trunk is on her bed. Jack is walking toward me with her small suitcase. He tosses Amy’s shoes in the wardrobe and sits on the small chair, silent, as I unpack her trunk and suitcase. In less than twenty minutes, I’ve hung all her clothes and filled her dresser with pajamas, play clothes, and underwear. I arrange her comb and brush, put her toothbrush in a glass, and place her pink cat pillow on her bed. I align her shoes on the closet floor. There is nothing more for me to do, but tell Amy good-bye.
“You done?” Jack stands. “It’s after three-thirty. I have to work on the grocery ad tonight. We need to leave.”
We go to the playroom. Kathy and an assistant house parent sit on chairs near the middle of the room, keeping a watchful eye on the activity of fifteen girls under age ten. Several of the older girls are signing to Kathy. I can tell they are asking questions. Kathy points to a child and spells “K-E-L-L-I.” She points to a dark-haired child in a rocking chair and spells, “C-L-A-R-A.” I realize she’s telling the older girls the names of the new students.
“John, come on,” Jack shouts. Only one head turns at the sound of his voice, but when Jack signals with his arm “come here,” several heads turn to see who’s being summoned.
I tug Amy away from her play stove. “John, tell your sister goodbye.”
“Good-bye, Amy.” John waves.
Jack stoops to hug Amy. “Be good. See you soon.”
I kneel and face Amy. Separation is nothing new to us, but for therapy it was brief, a hangnail compared to this separation, which is an amputation. My lungs clamp shut as I hug Amy, refusing to inhale the pain of good-bye. I see Kathy sign, “She’ll be fine.”
Yes, I suppose she will, but what about me?
I kiss Amy’s cheek, “Good-bye, Amy.” I sign, “I love you. See you in two weeks.”
Let me out of here. I hurry to the door, and turn to see if Amy’s watching. She isn’t. Her back is to me; Kathy’s signing to her.
As we drive away I think, in thirteen days I’ll see Amy. I wipe away my tears, but they return. I ignore the knot in my stomach and concentrate on my friend, numbers. How long will it be before I see Amy? Hmmm. There are twenty-four hours in a day. Thirteen times twenty-four is …