"I'm sorry for your loss."
I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I've been told 'I'm sorry' too many times today. I've heard it, read it on lips, seen it signed. I wish, I hope to god, that just once today I'll see someone without a fist encircling their chest or 'I'm sorry' on their lips. Because I know easily half these people aren't actually sorry.
They are here from a sense of duty. They were once close to my family but they are not any longer. They got families, moved away, distanced themselves after things started to fall apart, and all that would be fine. If they were just honest about it.
But instead I get, "I'm sorry."
Puh. How ingenuine.
"Thank you," I respond as if on autopilot. It's what's expected of me.
I lean back on my heels and gaze out across the Sanctuary, little cliques of people all gathered together here and there, black clothing and kerchiefs in hand. They are all talking. their voices coming to me as a dull murmur. But, if I focus long enough on any one person I can gather tidbits of conversatio s.
'Such a good woman.'
'So untimely.'
'What will happen to her daughter, do you think?'
She wasn't truly my mother. She was close enough.
With dad gone before her, Martha was all I had. Now she's gone, too. I should be worried about what's going to happen to me, my job was to be her full-time caretaker. Her Disability check was enough for both of us, even if just barely, but now, there wouldn't be anymore of that. Unless you count death as a disability. I grit my teeth together, trying not to choke on the tears threatening to come up.
I'm tired, my eyes hurt, my throat hurts. I'm not usually one to complain
My prayers are soon answered, as I find before me a pleasant, but unexpected face. He's tall as I remember him, freakishly jacked, and decked out in a sharp black suit. He's also alone, which suprises me, but I'm sure his wife is busy. I've never met her, but he assures me she's quite the career woman. He doesn't say 'I'm sorry', he doesn't sign it either, thankfully. Instead his hands flip up and all the hands say are,
'Its good to see you.'
I smile wide, pulling him into a tight hug and replying, "It's good to see you, too!"
Hunter pulls away, one arm still around me as he rounds the corner of the casket and gazes down at Martha, his aunt, my stepmom, may she rest in peace.
"She looks good." he remarks, turning to face me, waiting for a response.
"Yeah, yeah, they did a really good job on her, huh?" I laugh nervously It's the first time I've looked at the body in at least an hour. I can't do it or I'll start bawling just like everybody else. So, I try to avoid it, but that's pretty difficult at a funeral when all any one wants to talk about is... well, the body. Or, rather, the person that used to be inside it.
"Well, it's a shame." He sighed squeezing tight to me, bringing me close.
I drape an arm across his shoulders. "Yep. Damn shame. She was good to me."
Hunter never says he's sorry, and I'm reminded why he's my favorite cousin. Hell, I don't even like my blood-cousins this much.
"What are your plans after this, Somarya?" He queries, releasing me to turn and face me full on again.
"I have a date with a $3 bottle of wine and the couch she died on," I say, and its only partially a joke. I actually have two bottles of wine.
"No, no way." Hunter chuckles. "Let me take you out."
O~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~
"So, what are your plans?" My cousin asks before shoveling in a mouthful of alfredo. He looks at me expectantly, eyebrows raised.
"That would be... the second time you've asked me that." I sniff.
We had gone a few towns over, Cairo not quite being up to his standards, and for good reason. Cairo, Illinois was my home, but it wasn't the best of towns. Old, damn near abandoned, dilapidated. I was almost thankful we hadn't gone anywhere in Cairo, I didn't want to run into anyone I knew. I wanted to just focus on the family I had left: Hunter Helmsley. The only Helmsley that even bothered to come. Martha was his aunt, after all, but not even Hunter's dad came. To his own sisters funeral!
"Don't have any." I shrug, answering his question honestly instead. My fingers play at the stem of my wine glass. "She had a very good life insurance policy, and I have enough to live until I figure it out, but..." I take a swig of Chardonnay. "I have no idea now."
"You could teach. You used to dance right? Before all this..." He gestures to the air around him, but I know he doesn't mean the restaurant.
I roll my eyes, wine glass rim still on my lips, muttering into it, "I don't think anybidy cares for me to teach their kids how to dance."
"You danced when we were kids. Martha always said you were good, too. What changed?" Hunter picked up the bottle he bought for the table, pouring me a second glass. I know he doesn't drink, so having the entire bottle to myself is a nice touch.
"I was a child" I argued. "Everyone had to be nice to me. I'm grown now. They are gonna take one look at me and laugh me out of the studio."
"You were going to dance for the Chicago Ballet. Give yourself more credit." Hunter eyes me, lids narrowed, before he takes in a sharp breath. The look of doubt is gone only for a moment before it returns. "Something tells me you're taking this harder than you let on."
I shake my head, jaw tightening as I push my ravioli feebly around the plate and take another large swig of wine to wash away my problems. "I'm fine."
Hunter nods and is quiet for just a moment, our table is completely silent, at least for me. This restaurant is too crowded to know if the silverware is making that god-awful scraping noise. Hunter reaches across the table and flicks my hand, I look up at him, offended, and he says,
"Give me your hearing aids." his hand is outstretched expectantly.
I pause, its a weird request, especially fpr an adult Hunter. I smirk, "Is it because you want to try them on like you did when we were kids?" I tease.
He laughs, "No, I'll never make that mistake again. Now, let me see them." he urges.
Reluctantly, I remove them, and the world is lost to me. All noise I'd hoped to hear pops out of existence. I'm not sure if I want to take them out, they are the only way I can tell the difference between the waiter, the ambient noise, Hunters voice... How am I supposed to just... give them up?
But I trust Hunter.
He immediately takes them, dangling them over his water glass. I should not have trusted Hunter, apperently. I look at him in shock to see him say, 'Admit you aren't doing well.'
"Hunter." I say, exasperated, reaching for his hand. "Give those back, they're expensive!"
'Admit you aren't okay, and I will.' I read, hearing his muffled, indiscernable speech. 'I have enough money to buy you new ones, but you'll have to go to the audiologist... get fitted for a new pair... sounds like a pain in the ass to me.'
"Alright!" I snap. "Okay, fine, I'm..." I trail off, retrieving my aids from his evil, devious hands, putting them back in and popping the sound of the world back into my ears. "I'm... having a bit of a rough time."
That seemed to be all he wanted to hear. "Look," he said, "I might have a job for you, with me. Our Director of Operations seems to be getting a little overwhelmed, he could use an assistant, some one like you. Let me call Steph and make sure she's okay with it?"
I rub at my hands with uncertainty. A job? I know the kinds of people Hunter works with... "I don't know..."
"You don't have to be stuck in Cairo forever, living the same life. You can travel. Meet new peopls. You like to travel." My cousin assures. "Let me make the call."
I look about the restaurant, at my glass, my food, then him. His expression is serious, and I know he means what he's offering. I muster up my courage and finally say...
"Okay."
"Thank you. We're in St. Louis right now, so I'm not far. Text me if you need anything, and I'll be by with an answer after our show in Chicago next week." My cousins smiles, seemingly a bit too happy, but I let him be.
After we finish our meal, I scrape three quarters of my ravioli into a to-go box, hopping in the car until he pulls up in front of our... my house. I reach to open the door before turning back to him.
"Thanks." It's all I have to say. It's all I need to say.
He pulls me in by the shoulders, pecking me on the temple before releasing me. "Please take care of yourself, kiddo."
I know for a fact it isn't going to happen, but I nod anyway, assuring him, "Sure thing, cuz."
And into the bleak, unlit house I go. The couch where I found her still there, the stench of sickness and death-like silence still ever present. I am alone. Entirely alone.
~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~
*DISCLAIMER* Only 40-50 percent of spoken word can be read on the lips, and ASL is an entire language with unique grammar and syntax. All ASL signed, and lip-read phrases have been transcribed as the general impression of what is said or signed.
I am not trying to discount what it is to be D/deaf/hoh. I myself am hard of hearing, and in Somarya I am trying to create a relateable character for those with hearings issues like myself and any others that may be reading with similiar struggles.