Laura Anderson - Song of Summer

It can’t be possible. This song sounds nothing like the cochlear implant translations of it. Tears prick my eyes.

“Robin… ?” Jenni asks. “Are you okay?”

I nod and I replay the whole thing. Yes, the speech makes more sense as more channels are added. But the music? The music through the cochlear implant is nothing like the music that I hear. Nothing. There is almost no comparison.

All I’d ever seen about CIs were the miraculous activations—the people who started crying at hearing their own voice or their mom’s voice or their spouse’s voice. The little kids who smiled and clapped their hands. I play the video again. I try desperately to hear any inkling of the guitar. I close my eyes. I play it again. I try again.

By the end of the third time through, Jenni is crouching by my side.

“You sure you’re okay?” she asks.

“Yeah,” I say, wiping a couple tears from my cheeks. “Yeah, I’m okay. I just… I didn’t think it would be like this.” I turn to her. “Did you know it would be like this?”

She shrugs and shakes her head and looks away. “Not really. Not that bad. But I didn’t think it would be perfect either.”

I start clicking around. I search everything. I watch countless videos and read all the comments: hateful, supportive, experienced, ignorant… I learn about a deaf family who is deciding whether or not to get an implant for their daughter. I see tears of frustration and read stories of heartbreak. I see interviews and read about debates and notice that sometimes the word “deaf” is capitalized and I don’t really know why.

Somewhere in the middle of all this, Jenni left. I don’t even remember saying good-bye.

After probably two hours of video after video, I see an interview with a doctor on a big-time news station. She’s a fancy doctor with a fancy name, and she studies hearing and music. She says that music changes your brain. Like, it physically changes the brain’s structure. And she touts the amazing advances of the cochlear implant. And I feel the hope begin to rise within me. Yes, music changes you. Yes, cochlear implants are amazing. Yes, this could happen. With enough practice and listening maybe Carter will come to love it the same way I do.

But then the doctor says it: “If a person is listening with a cochlear implant, they cannot glean any beauty out of music.”

No, that can’t be right. I play it again. “If a person is listening with a cochlear implant, they cannot glean any beauty out of music.” I pause the video. What?

In the next few sentences, the fancy doctor tries to take it back. She says that a person can enjoy music but they’re not even close to “hearing the whole story.” She says that since there is no clear meaning to derive, the brain doesn’t know what to do with it. Speech has a clear meaning and music doesn’t, so the brain can translate speech signals more and more clearly with time, but it can’t translate music signals. It just can’t.

I watch the video seventeen times.

Carter will never, can never, hear music the same way I do.

Never.

Carter

I swing my leg down over the bike and my boot strikes the pavement. Hard. I reach up to take off my helmet, curls stuck to my head with sweat. I cradle the helmet under my arm and begin to take off my gloves, glancing up at the Grape Country Dairy sign one last time. Between my nerves and the heat, sweat has practically melded my gloves to my fingers, causing me to wiggle them, one at a time. It’s excruciating because I need every second I can get to talk to Robin—we’re leaving for NYC. I’ve only got fifteen minutes here.

My right glove is finally off, allowing my hand to breathe. I run my fingers through my hair and a breeze ruffles it; cooling me, calming me. I feel the rough edge of my scar and set my jaw. Time to do what I came to do. Time to give it one more chance. After unsticking my left glove, I unlock the bike’s lockbox and remove the handmade teak peace offering from its nest of blankets. Safe. No scratches. Tucking it under my arm, I walk toward the door. The sun is glaring off the huge windows—I can’t tell if Robin can even see me, but her car is one of the four in the parking lot, so I know she’s here. The flowers in the little flower garden are all sprawled out—like they’re reaching for the sun instead of letting it come to them.

I push the glass door open and stand by the please seat yourself sign, smelling pancakes and malted waffles and bacon. She emerges from the kitchen and a smile lights my eyes, if not the rest of my face. She looks the same as the day I met her—same white button-down, same black pedal pushers, same ponytail—but I see her so differently. There are dark circles under her eyes—she hasn’t been sleeping. There are more freckles sprinkled across her pale cheeks—she’s been outside. There’s a wiser tilt to her head, a more sympathetic look in her eye. Not pity; understanding.

“Hi,” she signs, looking like she wants to smile but can’t yet.

“Hi,” I sign.

She gestures to the tables. The corners of her mouth turn up slightly and she pushes a curl back behind her ear and into her ponytail.

That used to be my job.

I swallow and shake my head, pointing instead to the counter. She walks to the server side and I sit on a stool, settling my helmet on the seat next to me and the teak box on the countertop.

“Coffee?” Robin signs.

I shake my head. “Water?” I sign.

She nods. She turns around to get it and I glance back in the kitchen. Violet and Fannie are throwing us glances and whispering by the milkshake machine. I feel a half smile on my face and wave at them. They bustle back into the grill area and look over their shoulders at me. I’m shaking my head, a smile on my face, when Robin brings me a glass of ice water. I take a sip.

“How are you?” I sign.

“Good.”

“Good.” There’s a pause. I take another sip. She looks out into the parking lot and a minivan pulls up. She nods at Violet who nods back.

“How’s Trina? Your parents?” she signs.

“Good! Trina’s sad to leave.”

She nods. “You?” she asks.

I shrug. “Yeah…” I look into her blue eyes. “I’ll miss you,” I sign.

She smiles at me, her eyes sad. “It was a good summer,” she signs.

“Yeah.” The family of four from the minivan comes into the restaurant. Violet struts over with menus and two more cars pull up. No. No. God, no. Not now. Of all times. Robin throws her a look and Violet nods twice. She’ll take those groups, too. She was born for days like this, right?

I need to do this now before any more people show up.

She glances at me and before she can look away I sign, “I’m sorry. For the way our relationship ended.”

She signs, “Sorry… write?” and I sigh and pull out my trusty little notebook—the one that’s been in my pocket since that very first day.

“I’m sorry for how we ended,” I write.

She looks up. “Me, too,” she signs.

I push the teak box over to her. “For you,” I sign.

She shakes her head. “Carter, no…” seeing my name on her hands again makes my eyes smart.

“Please,” I sign. I nod at her, encouraging her to open it. I take up the pen again. “I want you to have it. I’m not trying to buy my way back into your good graces.” I hesitate, then look at her face. It’s all corners and edges. Her arms are crossed. I glance up, the two cars from before are seated—a couple and another table of four. That’s three tables, ten people, at once. Tough for even a veteran like Violet. Then the unthinkable—two more cars pull in.

Robin’s halfway to the stack of menus before she notices me waving to get her attention. “I want you to be in love again,” I write. “Even if it’s not with me.” I drop the pen. “Please,” I sign again.

Her edges soften, arms uncrossing, shoulders relaxing. She gives me a half smile and turns to open the box. Her calloused hands caress the top, and right before cracking open the lid, she turns to me. “What is it?” she signs, a mischievous look in her eye.

I laugh, letting the vibrations tickle my throat. Her eyes widen and her mouth quavers like it doesn’t know whether to smile or cry. “Just open it!” I sign. I think I’m more anxious than she is.

I glance at Violet. She’s filling drinks for the new tables, but her first table is tapping their menus and the table that was here when I arrived is drumming their fingers, probably waiting on their check or dessert. Two families are walking in through the door. Robin is so preoccupied with the box, she doesn’t notice.

Reverently, she swings the lid back on its hinges and pulls the velvet away from the flute. Her face glows. “Carter,” her perfect lips say and she picks it up like it’s something hallowed. “It’s beautiful,” she signs, switching the flute to her left hand for just an instant. She caresses it and turns it over, seeing the engraving in flowing script: Songbird. Her lips part and her face relaxes into the look I’ve been waiting for, the look she used to give me. Longing is written all over her face.

I wave my hand so she looks up at me. Her eyes are sparkling. “Beautiful,” she signs again, like she signed at the overlook on our first date.

“Play it,” I sign.

She looks around the restaurant, eyes widening as she realizes just how many people have arrived. She shoots a look at Violet, who is too busy to notice. “Play it!” I sign again.