The Memory Thief (4 page)

Hannah looked at Mother, standing with her hands covering her face. She hurried over to Bethie. “Tell me where you left off.”

Bethie raised her hands, waved them, and curled them in front of her. Hannah took a step backward. “What are you doing?”

Bethie’s hands moved furiously, her face like stone.

“Something’s wrong with Bethie.”

Mother and Father watched Bethie for a moment, before Mother offered a quick solution. “Poor child, you’re overworked,” she said, shooting a glance at Hannah. “With all this heat, and then the extra burden you’ve had to carry because of Hannah’s absence. Go to bed and rest. Since Hannah likes to work so much, she can finish up here. You’ll feel better in
the morning.”

But Bethie was the same in the morning. Father stared at her, confused, before leaving for work. Mother whispered threats
while she cleared the dishes. Then offered bribes. And when none of it worked, when nothing would make Bethie speak or still
her hands, she left the room quietly. She returned with one of Father’s old T-shirts and a pair of scissors. With one look,
Hannah knew exactly what she planned to do.

“Mother,” Hannah whispered, as she shook her head. “Don’t.”

Bethie knew, too, and her hands started moving furiously in front of her. But Mother was strong. She caught Bethie’s hands
and pulled them behind her. Wrapped strips of Father’s T-shirts around Bethie’s wrists until her hands were as still as her
mouth.

“I’ll tell Father,” Hannah whispered. “He won’t stand for it.”

Mother ignored her, pulled a chair near Bethie, and sat down before her. “Just tell me what you’re doing. That’s all I want.
Use your voice, use your words, and I’ll set your hands free.”

“Bethie?” Hannah pleaded.

One single hot tear escaped the corner of Bethie’s eye. It slid down her smooth-as-stone face, shimmered against her golden
skin. Hannah couldn’t bear it. She ran from the room and threw herself down on the bed she shared with her sister.

The bed was already made. The quilt Mother had designed and carefully sewn was pulled tight and free of any wrinkles. Hannah
traced a line of smooth stitches with her finger. She found a snag in one and pulled it until the stitch unraveled. She pulled
another, and another. Until an entire patch of fabric fell loose in her hands. She held it over her and pulled each side until
it ripped in two.

“Hannah?” Mother called. “Sweep the back steps.”

Hannah studied the new bare place in the quilt. She knew Mother would see
it. Mother knew every detail of her housekeeping, especially when it involved sewing. She would call Hannah careless. Rough
and negligent with their nice things.

“Hannah?” Mother called again.

“Coming.”

Hannah decided to hide the fabric until she could sneak some needle and thread to mend it. She pushed it back beneath her
pillow. That’s when she felt it. Something cooler than the Carolina morning. Something smoother than the texture of worn cotton.
She pulled out a book, and her mouth opened in surprise as she read the words printed in block letters:
Advanced American Sign Language.

Bethie had clearly meant for her to find it tonight when she went to sleep. On the back cover she saw that it was a library
book, checked out with her card. Those mysterious late fees, the ones that she had been too shy to protest, suddenly made
sense. Suddenly seemed fair.

She ran from the room with the book in her hands. “Mother!”

“Don’t raise your voice, daughter. It’s not becoming.”

“It’s sign language. She’s been using my card, checking out books on sign language. This one’s been checked out for nearly
six months. Plenty of time to learn it well.”

They walked back to the kitchen where Bethie sat, her hands still tied.

“Bethie,” Mother said. “If this is sign language, this thing you’ve been doing, then nod your head. That’s an acceptable sign,
I believe, among people like you.”

Bethie nodded slowly.

Mother walked behind Bethie, and the T-shirt binding slipped to the floor.

“Why?” Mother whispered.

It was the right question, the perfect question. The one Bethie’s hands had waited for all along. Her hands rose slowly and
began to move. Her eyes were excited now, her mystery unveiled. For months she had prepared that speech, that answer to Mother’s
great question,
Why?
She moved her hands carefully before them, in a slow, lonely dance.

Mother walked away before she had finished, but Hannah stayed and watched. She even nodded at times, as she remembered all
the days on the bus. The brown eyes that flashed hell when teased. No matter that she couldn’t name even one of Bethie’s new
words; Hannah understood.
No more
. No more
t-t-t-t-t-eacher
when Bethie needed something during class. No more
p-p-p-present
when role was called.

Later that night through thin walls, the girls heard Mother. “It worries me, this new job that Hannah has. It’s not so much
the job, I suppose, as it is her boldness. Back home she never would have biked away to some strange place and stayed gone
all day long without a word to us. Hannah needs to get back home. With our good friends and our own church. There’s nobody
like us down here.”

“Hannah’s fine,” Father said quickly. “She’s a smart girl. She gets bored sitting in the house all day. If you want to worry
over something, look to Bethie. She’s pretending she can’t talk. Every time she signs it feels like a lie.”

“She’s not lying,” Mother said. “Haven’t you been listening to her these past sixteen years? Bethie’s not a liar. She really
can’t talk.”

Bethie turned over in bed, so that Hannah couldn’t see her face. Hannah flipped quickly through the sign-language book. Then
she reached around Bethie, placed her hands before her and made her very first sign.
Good night.

The next day Hannah put on her T-shirt, rinsed buckets out, filled cracker baskets, and tried to do any task that needed to
be done before anyone asked her.

She felt hot pride when she overheard Cora and Sissy calling her a fine worker. She was a straight-A student, a Bible Sword
Drill champion, and if she was being honest, she’d admit she had the best hair of any of the girls at church. Long, soft,
and so blond it was nearly white, it was the reason she refused to compete in the modesty competitions and wear a head covering.
But nothing had ever pleased her more than hearing that she was a fine steampot worker.

That evening after dinner service, Sissy took her back to Number Six and told her to vacuum and dust, then showed her how
to make a bed with perfectly straight lines and a smooth turndown of the covers. Sissy took a can of insect spray and sprayed
under the bed, behind the dresser, and around the baseboards of the room.

“Smell will be gone by mornin’,” she said, nodding toward the can of spray. “Any bugs will be, too. We’re only half full now.
One, Four, Five, and Eight are filled. We try and space ’em out so they won’t hear each other. Kids are in Number One, though; ain’t much space that can hush that noise.”

“Do you and Cora live here, too?”

“Not anymore. One of us, or one of my brothers, always stays overnight to keep watch on the place, in case anybody needs somethin’.
There’s a pullout cot under the front desk. But we got our own home further from the beach. Out towards Johns Island.”

That night when Cora handed Hannah a bucket, she took one, too, and walked out front with her. “Your family gonna stay down
here?”

Hannah hadn’t told her she had recently moved to James Island. It was her tongue that gave it away.

“Just the summer.”

“Your parents know you work here?”

“Yes.”

“They fine with it?”

“Father is. Mother worries.”

She laughed. “That’s what we do. I’ve got four babies. Grown now, all in their twenties, but still my babies. My boys work
shrimp for me. Sissy is my only girl. She grew up by the steampot.”

She took Hannah’s empty bucket. “Head home. No sense in worryin’ your momma anymore today. I’ll wash your shirt up for you.”

Hannah stood to go but the path was blocked by a pickup that pulled in. Its back was loaded down with nets, coolers, and boys.
They hopped out and Sissy met them at the door yelling about how long she’d had to wait for that shrimp. Cora laughed and
went inside to grab buckets for them. Hannah eased her bike alongside the truck, and glanced over her shoulder.

She was sticky with sweat and steam, little curls fuzzing up around her face. The cuff of her skirt had come unstitched and
was dragging the ground. And she hadn’t bothered to tuck her blouse back in. She was almost out of sight, praying to be invisible,
when he looked up from his bucket. It was the boy from the oyster roast, the one that had disappeared into the waves.

She guessed that he laughed. Nudged his buddies to look at the Holy Roller on her bike. But weeks later as they sat together
on a rusty shrimp boat, he told her the truth. That he saw her hair first, spilling gold light down her back. He never noticed
her clothes.

“You seen the mornin’ ocean, how it lights up when the sun first touches it? That was you, first time I seen you.”

The next morning was Sunday, and to keep her job Hannah had to go to church. Her family had visited several of the large downtown
churches simply because they were beautiful. Her mother had stopped outside First Baptist of Charleston and said she must
hear holy scriptures read in such a majestic building.

But it was more tourism than worship. Back home they belonged to an independent movement. Their church was not a part of any
denomination or central oversight. They had no sister churches. And what that meant was when they were home they had a large,
extended family. But anywhere else, and they would always feel like strangers. Even among other Christians.

Hannah wasn’t surprised when she woke up that morning to find Mother studying scriptures in a lawn chair by the marsh. Father
sat beside her, his head bowed in prayer. Bethie sat on the other side of Mother, a Bible in her lap, but her eyes on the
marsh.

Hannah grabbed a chair and pulled it toward them.

“What are you doing?” Father asked.

“Joining you for church.”

“No,” he said, smiling. “You’re supposed to
go
to church. You’re brave enough to bike down an unknown gravel drive for a job you don’t need. There are lots of churches
you can bike to as well.”

Mother frowned, but kept to her reading.

“Come with me, Bethie,” Hannah said. “We could walk if we hurry.”

A car honked as it passed them. Neither girl jumped or seemed to notice. They always drew more attention together than they
did apart.

“Are you going to keep this up when we go home?” Hannah asked.

Bethie nodded.

“Would you speak to me at least?”

She shook her head.

“Then you have to teach me.”

They walked down the palm-tree-lined road as Bethie pointed to things around them and showed Hannah the signs. She taught
her
car
and
sun
and
tree.
Bethie laughed when Hannah confused them. The sound surprised them both. Hannah noticed, and vowed to always make mistakes.

But for most of the walk, Bethie listened. It was what she was used to doing before, with her broken tongue. Hannah talked
about her job. Even told her about the T-shirt, her eyes cast sideways to catch Bethie’s reaction.

On her bike Hannah had passed several churches, but none called to her like the Lowtide Church of God. Perhaps it was the
name
Lowtide.
Her favorite time of day, when nobody was around and treasure was revealed. Or maybe it was the way it looked. Set back off
the road with giant live oaks hovering about it, their limbs curling around the roof, Spanish moss sweeping low down the front
of the building. It was not beautiful, or historic, like the churches downtown. But James Island engulfed it, marked it as
its own.

The sisters stood in the parking lot and caught their breath. The morning was already hot, and under the live oaks swarms
of mosquitoes sang around the girls in search of naked skin.

Music started with a boom that made them jump. It was the kick of a drum. The piano started next. And then the clapping. They
looked at each other with wide, curious eyes. Their home church didn’t have instruments at all. Instead they sang a capella.
And in the downtown churches, they listened to quiet choirs and dreary organ solos.

Hannah leaned against a live oak and braced herself for that old twisting pain.

Was it sin?

Back home, sin was clear. Sin was cheating on a test. Sin was when Megan’s father left the church altogether and then eventually
left his family. Sin was the guy, three streets over from her house, arrested for selling cocaine.

Her mind searched the list of rules fed to her for sixteen years. And she wondered if it was impossible to ever really know
right
without Mother to tell her. With nothing memorized to apply, and with no parent to ask, Hannah walked up to that church door.
Not because she thought it was the right thing to do. But simply because she was following her sister. And Bethie was already
inside.

She was a white Holy Roller inside a church full of praising black people. She thought of Bethie at school, where she was
one of three minority students. She remembered the day she first heard someone call Bethie
slanteye.
The sisters were in first grade when it happened, and the whole way home she stared at Bethie in the backseat of their car.
She realized, with some surprise, how different she and Bethie were despite their matching polyester. Bethie’s hair was black
and sleek, to her white hair that liked to fuzz and twist in any kind of heat. Bethie’s eyes were sharply cornered, the angles
of them drawn with care and precision, while her eyes seemed to melt into the whiteness of her skin.

“Wish I was a slanteye,” Hannah had said in the car that day. Mother turned and slapped her face. Father taught them a new
song that night at bedtime.
Red, brown, yellow, black, and white, they’re all precious in God’s sight.