Bent over my microscope, trying to lose myself in the world through the lens, I'm aware of the sound far away, away from me. But the sound is muffled, echoing, like a bad tape played in a swimming pool hall, through speakers stuffed with cotton wool. I ignore it. It's not important. If it was REALLY important, surely I'd hear it.
Sara touches me lightly on the shoulder, and I turn around to face her. She looks worried, and I realise the sound I heard wasn't far away, but directly behind me, and it was Sara talking. What had I missed? What hadn't I heard?
"Grissom, are you ok?" she asked, but she didn't say it.
She SIGNED it.
I just stared at her. Somehow, I always expect Sara to surprise me, and somehow, she always goes one step beyond what I expect.
She smiles at my wonder, sadly, gently.
"I don't know where to start." I tell her, out loud, not signed. "What...where did you learn to sign?"
"That deaf school where the kid that was run over went? I took lessons. The principal herself taught me." Sara signs back.
"But you hate her. She .."
"Hates me, I know. We got over that."
"When?"
"A couple of months ago. I learn fast."
"How did you know?"
"You taught me to see it. You always said, don't look at the evidence as individual pieces, see them as a part of the whole." Her hands move fast, expressively slicing and shaping the air. Her eyes are soft and gentle and full of pain - pain for me - and eagerness, that I should understand her, and pride in her accomplishment, and a sweet, fragile gentleness. All this time, I've been listening to her voice, when instead, I should have been looking in her eyes. Everything I ever needed to know about Sara, about myself, is in those dark poetic eyes, everything she has never said, and never will say, out loud.
"I saw the little pieces." Sara continues to sign, and I realise she must have practiced this difficult, complicated speech, and I am touched that she worked so hard, the pride she swallowed to take lessons, her instinctive need to help me, even without my knowledge. "I saw the way you stared intently at people when they were talking. I saw the way you didn't respond to sounds from behind you. I know you didn't hear that car that almost hit us. I saw the way you'd tilt your head towards sounds. I remembered your mother was deaf, and I asked Catherine what was wrong with her, and I put the pieces together, and decided to learn sign language."
"Well done. I'm impressed, not just by your deductive skills. It sounds like you actually might have known before I did."
"Maybe." she signs. Signing has accents, like spoken languages. Some people sign clumsily, thinking about a sign before they make it. Some people stutter, tangling their hands. Some people make small shy movements, while some people wave their hands about with huge ostentatious gestures. My mother's hands were swift, and soft, coaxing and teasing words out of the air. Sara's is - beautiful. Flowing, expressive. Birds dancing in the air. She is a joy to watch. It is moving, in the midst of my destruction, to see such beauty born.
"Sara," I explain gently, "I don't see how I can continue."
"How can you not? This is your life. Both our lives. You can't quit just because..."
I grab her hands, hold them still while I speak out loud.
"Just because I've lost one of my senses? Sara, you of all people know what this means. I've lost one of the major tools of my trade. If I can't hear..."
"Then I will" she tells me, turning my grasp so that she holds my hands, firmly, reassuringly. "I'll listen for you."
"I can't ask you to put your career on hold for me."
"You're not. I'm volunteering."
"Sara..."
"Grissom!" she snaps. "I'm choosing to work with you. I want to work with you. Working by your side is the most astounding, fascinating, inspirational experience I can, or ever will, have. Being your ears would be an amazing privilege for me."
I can't help it. I'm smiling, inspired and warmed by her.
"No, Sara." I signed. "It would be a privilege for me."
THE END
Sara touches me lightly on the shoulder, and I turn around to face her. She looks worried, and I realise the sound I heard wasn't far away, but directly behind me, and it was Sara talking. What had I missed? What hadn't I heard?
"Grissom, are you ok?" she asked, but she didn't say it.
She SIGNED it.
I just stared at her. Somehow, I always expect Sara to surprise me, and somehow, she always goes one step beyond what I expect.
She smiles at my wonder, sadly, gently.
"I don't know where to start." I tell her, out loud, not signed. "What...where did you learn to sign?"
"That deaf school where the kid that was run over went? I took lessons. The principal herself taught me." Sara signs back.
"But you hate her. She .."
"Hates me, I know. We got over that."
"When?"
"A couple of months ago. I learn fast."
"How did you know?"
"You taught me to see it. You always said, don't look at the evidence as individual pieces, see them as a part of the whole." Her hands move fast, expressively slicing and shaping the air. Her eyes are soft and gentle and full of pain - pain for me - and eagerness, that I should understand her, and pride in her accomplishment, and a sweet, fragile gentleness. All this time, I've been listening to her voice, when instead, I should have been looking in her eyes. Everything I ever needed to know about Sara, about myself, is in those dark poetic eyes, everything she has never said, and never will say, out loud.
"I saw the little pieces." Sara continues to sign, and I realise she must have practiced this difficult, complicated speech, and I am touched that she worked so hard, the pride she swallowed to take lessons, her instinctive need to help me, even without my knowledge. "I saw the way you stared intently at people when they were talking. I saw the way you didn't respond to sounds from behind you. I know you didn't hear that car that almost hit us. I saw the way you'd tilt your head towards sounds. I remembered your mother was deaf, and I asked Catherine what was wrong with her, and I put the pieces together, and decided to learn sign language."
"Well done. I'm impressed, not just by your deductive skills. It sounds like you actually might have known before I did."
"Maybe." she signs. Signing has accents, like spoken languages. Some people sign clumsily, thinking about a sign before they make it. Some people stutter, tangling their hands. Some people make small shy movements, while some people wave their hands about with huge ostentatious gestures. My mother's hands were swift, and soft, coaxing and teasing words out of the air. Sara's is - beautiful. Flowing, expressive. Birds dancing in the air. She is a joy to watch. It is moving, in the midst of my destruction, to see such beauty born.
"Sara," I explain gently, "I don't see how I can continue."
"How can you not? This is your life. Both our lives. You can't quit just because..."
I grab her hands, hold them still while I speak out loud.
"Just because I've lost one of my senses? Sara, you of all people know what this means. I've lost one of the major tools of my trade. If I can't hear..."
"Then I will" she tells me, turning my grasp so that she holds my hands, firmly, reassuringly. "I'll listen for you."
"I can't ask you to put your career on hold for me."
"You're not. I'm volunteering."
"Sara..."
"Grissom!" she snaps. "I'm choosing to work with you. I want to work with you. Working by your side is the most astounding, fascinating, inspirational experience I can, or ever will, have. Being your ears would be an amazing privilege for me."
I can't help it. I'm smiling, inspired and warmed by her.
"No, Sara." I signed. "It would be a privilege for me."
THE END