My Hands Hold My Story (Rough Draft)

Chapter Nine

I tried to maintain calm as I watched my family ride away from the house in the wagon, leaving me standing on the porch. Tears blurred my vision, though I managed to keep my chin up. No matter what, I couldn't let them see how they'd hurt me. As soon as I was certain they would not see, I bolted away from the house.

My hand pressed against my mouth, I stumbled my way through the long grass. When I felt as though I it would be too much to go another step forward, I fell onto my knees. Angry, frustrated, and full of grief, I screamed at the sky, even though I couldn't hear my pain, it felt good to release it.

Was this what my life would be like from now on? Kept on the ranch, far from anyone else, as though I were someone shameful? Why would Father allow this to happen? Was he, too, ashamed of me?

Tears ran down my cheeks unhindered. More than ever, I missed Hartford and the school. It had done wonders for my confidence to learn and be among those who understood me. Not that I meant to put the school on a pedestal, but it was hard not to.

After enduring the stifling judgement of Uncle Richard and now to be confronted with the humiliation of being a pariah in my own family was crushing.

Sitting back, I drew my knees to my chest and wrapped my arms around them. I tested my cheek against my knees, and closed my eyes. There was a place I dreamed of, a town I had visited one summer. My good friend, Nina, came from there and had wanted to share her world with me. She came from Chilmark, a town where a majority of people were born deaf and those who weren't still understood sign.

It had been like paradise. There had been noticeable difference between the signing there and what I had learned in school. Still, to walk down the street and see others freely signing, carrying on a conversation without being stared at by passersby, had been eye opening.

To expect such in Montana would have naive, but why not something similar in my own family? It wouldn't be that difficult to learn a few signs, but no one had even attempted to understand me. They just expected me to conform to the ways they knew how to communicate: through writingand miming.

I'm not sure why that bothered me as much as it did. After all, I'd communicated with Aunt Ruth with writing and most anyone else I came across, but it was...tiring. Was this how immigrants, just stepping onto America's shores, felt? Having their own culture, language, traditions, and being expected to conform?

In any event, I'd never felt so alone, not even when I first became deaf.

The sun warmed my back as I sat in the grass. I don't know how long I sat there, feeling sorry for myself. Sniffing, I finally lifted my head and opened my eyes. Immediately, I gave a start. Mr. Prater was sitting a few yards away from me, staring off at the horizon. His hat was tipped back so that the sun would hit his face.

Ashamed he'd caught me sulking, I mopped at my face with the sleeve of my dress, wishing I'd put a handkerchief in my pocket or had an apron to use instead. When I looked up again, he'd turned his head and raised his eyebrow. A blush heated up my cheeks but I didn't drop my gaze.

"Are you ...ell?" he asked.

Was I Elle? He knew my name was Ivy, so that not must have been what he said. Had he asked if I was ill? That was close to what I thought he'd said. Or had he asked if I was well? He seemed to see my hesitation and he asked, "Are you alright?"

My curiosity piqued as to why he was here and not at church like everyone else, I gave a brief nod. With an answering nod, he pushed himself off the ground. I expected him to leave and get back to whatever it was he had been in the middle of before he thought to check on me. Instead, he came over and offered his hand to me. Cautiously, I put my hand in his and he pulled me to my feet. As times before, I breathed in the scent of pine and horse.