If a Tree Falls (20 page)

We had the perfect house for a chase: an 1800s New England house built around a central staircase. One day in snowy February, we ran round and round, through the dining room, the kitchen, the family room, the living room, then back into the entry—the “foyer” as the realtor had called it. Every time I raced into the kitchen, my toes knocked into the slightly raised threshold, bruising even
through my chunky blue socks, while Juliet galloped over the rise each time with the precision of a cat.

At one point the tea kettle whistled and I broke the chase for a quick hearing lesson. I stood still in the kitchen until Juliet knocked into me, catapulted from her whole lap lead, and as she caught her breath I pointed out the high-pitched whistle, blowing on and on, thick steam shooting up at the kitchen cabinets. “I hear it,” I said, pointing to my ears. Then I switched off the stove, moved the kettle to a cool burner and resumed the chase, offering Juliet the lead, trailing in the sea of squeal and laughter that floated in from the room ahead.

The run became a blur of changing colors—blue in the living room, gold in the kitchen—and a dance of white as we passed the wavy window glass. Time-out had to be called several more times because Juliet’s processor magnet slipped off a lot, dragged down by the weight of her processor, flapping in a pocket I’d hastily sewn onto her t-shirt.

Juliet took the Time-outs like a puppy halted mid-nip to scratch an itch. Her eyes sparkled each time the chase resumed, her reddish hair wispy and loose, slipping out of her top-knot. At one point, as I gained on her, sock skating down the burgundy stretch of dining room, I called out “I’m going to get you, Juliet!” and she turned her head to look at me.

I stopped in my tracks like Roadrunner.

“Juliet?” I ventured again. By now Juliet was smiling a huge smile—she had heard and recognized her name.

“Juliet!” I choked and I scooped her into my arms. “I got you, Juliet. I got you. I’ve gotten you.”

Juliet nuzzled me with her flushed cheek. Then she squirmed out of my embrace, and resumed running.

TO SUPPORT US IN OUR WORK with Juliet, we had a team of clinicians, many of whom had worked with Sophia, all by now our dear friends, our de facto therapists, our lifelines, our heroes.

Marilyn, Juliet’s audiologist, checked and updated Juliet’s implant mapping programs to ensure that she was hearing. Jan worked with Juliet on listening—attending to sound, discriminating, imitating, turn-taking. Jean worked with Juliet on all manner of communicating—vocalizing, signaling, and gesturing. Kathie worked with all of us on Signing.

Just as we’d done with Sophia, we focused our speech work with Juliet on single power words:
UP, DOWN, OPEN, CLOSE
. We talked incessantly.
“Do you want to come UP? I’ll pick you UP. Now you’re UP! UP, UP, UP . . .”
When Juliet had enough, we settled her into the center of a big blue blanket, took up the corners and swung
her back and forth, back and forth. She squealed with added delight when Sophia climbed in too, and we swayed them together in a heavy heap, steady and low. Their laughter drowned out our expertly articulated counting, our overlyannunciated “
wheeees.
”

No matter how eagerly we awaited Juliet’s first spoken word, it would (evidently) come in its own time, regardless of our prompting and prodding.

At nighttime, when I wrote in my journal, I could see my uncertainty steering the way. We’d crossed worlds for Juliet, yet with no sense of what lay ahead. No sense of what she was hearing, or when she might speak, or how she experienced this new world of sound that we turned on and off with the flick of a magnet. In the universe of my ancestors, of Nellie and Bayla, I had no more certainty about what they experienced. Only my hopes and my fears. My need to forge on.

 

 

 

Nellie takes a breath and sets Herschel down. The girl jumps down from the bench and faces him. Together, but almost as if they are carrying bundles between their legs, the children inch closer until they are just a few feet away. The mother turns to them now, and as the two children stare widely at each other, Nellie signs to the woman. The woman signs back
—
her name is Sylvia, and she is pleased, very pleased, to meet Nellie!

Late at night, Nellie practices writing Yiddish words in a loopy hand. She longs to tell Bayla all about her new job and about Sylvia
—
how they meet at the park most evenings; how Herschel chases little Sarah around the fountain. They throw crumbs at the silvery blue pigeons that approach haltingly, never blinking their sharp, pea green eyes. In those dusky hours, with fountain water misting Herschel’s black curls and flushed cheeks, the glaze lifts from his eyes, and his heart isn’t so heavy with longing for Mama and Papa. And Nellie is hopeful then that things will be all right, that she can manage until they arrive.

Nellie inspects her crooked, ugly penmanship. She knows that the language of her hands doesn’t match up with written language. If only she’d had more time with Rayzl, to learn. She carefully folds the letter into an envelope
—
for Bayla it is all
right
—
and in the morning, she presses it into Samuel’s hands as he leaves for work.