Canon

Ami’s hips swayed as she strutted around the kitchen. Wine splashed up the edges of her glass, threatening to spill over and stain her white dress. During her pre-night out catwalk, I had told Ami she was stupid for wearing white and drinking red, since she’ll inevitably spill her drink and cry. Ami merely shrugged and replied, ‘It’s fashion, my darling Georgie,’ before flashing me a grin and trotting downstairs to our kitchen. I entered the kitchen sporting an old pair of sweatpants, and perched upon the kitchen surface, sipping from a bottle of Hooch, was Gabe. He wore the red plaid shirt Ami had bought him for Christmas, with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and his hair was tied back into a tiny knot. I could feel the music thumping within my chest.

Ami had her wine raised above her head as Gabe jumped down and twirled her, singing along to the lyrics blaring from his speakers. I watched their lips intently, and my heart hurt as they laughed. She pushed back from Gabe and sang:

I’m sorry but I’m just thinking of the right words to say

I know they don’t sound the way I planned them to be.

            Gabe’s eyes trailed past Ami, who had her own eyes closed and her fists clenched dramatically, and spotted me at the doorway. He looked me up and down, and his eyebrows knitted together. ‘Get dressed then.’

            I signed, ‘You know I’m not going.’

            He let out a huff and took another swig of his drink before throwing the empty bottle into the bin. Ami stumbled out of the kitchen, and Gabe’s eyes followed her.

            ‘She’s drunk,’ Gabe told me.

            ‘She’s okay,’ I signed.

            ‘Not for long.’

            I gave a small smile. ‘She’s wild but you can handle her.’

            Gabe sighed. ‘Please come tonight. I’d like it if you came to see me play. I’ll make sure you have fun.’

            ‘I have seen you play. The problem is I can’t hear you play.’

            Gabe nodded, then signed, ‘Sorry.’

            When Ami charged into the kitchen, surrounded by a group of girls, I beelined for the exit, signing, ‘It’s fine.’ I ran upstairs, taking two at a time.

I wasn’t always deaf. I lost my hearing when I was seven. I had gone to bed with everything sounding like it was underwater and muffled, and the next morning my hearing had disappeared completely. I cried and my mother blamed my friend Adam’s father because he was a musician, and I had spent the day at his house beforehand. I wasn’t allowed to visit any more after that. Adam didn’t learn BSL, and I struggled to speak clearly. Our friendship faded fast.

            It was late, and I should have been asleep, but I was painting. Dark smudges of paint littered my arms like bruises, and the chemical smell of paint clung to my nostrils. I leant towards the easel, staring at the photo I was referencing. In the photo, my mother held a four-year-old me. Pasta sauce was smeared over my cheeks, and it dripped from my mother’s hair. She smiled wide and gave me her unwavering attention. With a mischievous grin, I held a fistful of spaghetti behind her head.

The longer I stared, the deeper I frowned.

When I was eight, my mother introduced ‘Meatball Monday’, as it was my favourite dish. After coming home from school, I dropped my bookbag beside the stairs and wandered into the kitchen. The juicy smell of Bolognese sauce made my mouth water. Boiling fat spat from the pan, and my mother rushed to the oven to turn the heat down. She smiled when she saw me. Blonde hair was piled atop her head, with stray strands brushing against her face. Smudged mascara lined her eyes, and her cheeks were sallow.

When we sat at the dinner table to eat, my mother shovelled pasta into her mouth, still wearing a stained work apron. Her hands were shaking and I couldn’t stop looking at her once manicured nails, which had become bitten and bloody.

“Ma, can you pass the cheese, please?” I asked.

My mother slammed her fork down onto the table so hard I felt the vibrations ripple through the wood up into my elbows. Tears welled in her eyes.

I excused myself, and never spoke out loud again.

            Whilst spreading acrylic paint across the canvas, the door to my room crashed open. Gabe staggered in, and collapsed face first onto my bed.

            I twirled around on my stool and nudged him. Slowly, he turned his head to peer at me.

            ‘What’s wrong with you?’ I signed.

            With a sigh, Gabe sat up and motioned for a pen. I gave him the spare one with the chewed bottom that sat upon my easel, and he grabbed the notepad from my bedside table. He wrote: After the show I was exhausted and Ami wouldn’t let me go home.

            Gabe glared as I laughed.

            It’s not funny, Gabe wrote.

‘It is,’ I signed. Gabe stuck his tongue out at me and heaved himself from the bed to a sitting position. He stared over my head to observe my painting. ‘It’s not my best.’

Gabe shrugged. ‘I like it. It’s cute.’

With a smile, I signed, ‘Thanks. I can’t get my hand right though. It doesn’t look like a fist.’

‘By all means, I could have a go. I wouldn’t want to upstage you though.’ Gabe winked and perched on the bed again. ‘Pass me a pencil.’

I obliged and Gabe scratched the pencil against the notepad paper. It took him a while, but when he finished, he presented his art with a flourish. It was a self-portrait, but his lips were too big, his arms ended at his waist, and his hair was just a ball of scribbles on top of a wonky circle. His hands were two blobs on the page. A guffaw exploded from my mouth.

‘Looks just like you,’ I signed, still snickering. With a pout, Gabe glanced at his art. Then he began to laugh too.

It’s a masterpiece. Gabe scribbled beside his portrait.

‘Sure.’ I quirked an eyebrow. ‘It’s all about proportion and perspective. Let me show you.’

At ten, I was sent to boarding school, which aided those with hearing loss as well integrating us with ordinary children. It was a two-hour drive from my home, so, every February my mother visited to take me out for a birthday dinner.

At fifteen, I sat on the steps in front of my flat, waiting for my mother’s arrival. Scribbling small comics into a notebook, I noticed white Mary Jane shoes in the corner of my eye. I directed my gaze upward, and there my mother stood, sporting a baby blue summer dress, with her hair in a newly acquired blonde bob. My mother pulled me into a tight hug, tousling my hair. I was taller than her now. When my arms wrapped around her, my fingers ghosted over the bumps of her spine.

When my mother pulled back, she gripped my arms. Her eyes shone as she checked over me. She signed, ‘How are you? How is school?’

I shrugged, ‘All right, I guess.’

‘Just all right? What have you been up to?’

I signed, ‘I do a lot of art,’ and she nodded towards the abandoned comic.

When I allowed her to flick through the notebook, she signed, ‘They’re fantastic! Do you have more?’ I nodded, so she asked, ‘Can I see them?’

I led my mother to the third floor and opened my room. She saw discarded drawings scattered across the floor and upon my bed, and fussed about my talent throughout dinner. I was presented with sketchbooks, water colour pencils, acrylic paint, charcoal. My dorm room was filled with wooden manikins. I had wooden hands reaching out from my chest of drawers, like zombies breaking free from their graves; wooden horses galloping across my windowsill; full figure manikins guarding the shelves above my bed.

Not long before, I had acquired a new roommate. He wasn’t particularly tall, but he was very broad and was unsuccessfully trying to grow a beard. He was new to the school, and had been dumped into my room with me, since my last roommate had also moved schools. I hadn’t been informed of his arrival, so when he turned up at my door, popping gum, I was surprised.

            Whilst clutching a strap of his backpack with one hand, and pulling his suitcase with his other hand, my roommate spoke. He didn’t stop as he slammed his possessions onto the unmade bed a few feet away from mine. He babbled on as he unloaded his toothbrush, hair wax and deodorant, and discarded them on the bathroom sink of our en-suite. It wasn’t until he spun around with raised eyebrows at me that I gestured to my ears with a sad half-smile and mouthed, ‘I am deaf.’

He physically deflated.

I pretended not to notice his disappointment when we shook hands and he flashed a smile at me, which failed to reach his eyes.

At 18, I departed for Newcastle University. Naturally, my mother cried. After driving me and helping me manoeuvre boxes to my new room, she reassured me she was proud of me and excited for my future. We arrived early, and my flatmates were yet to arrive. Once my mother left, my stomach churned, and suddenly any appetite I had within the car had disappeared. My palms were sweaty, and I decided to draw.

            Ami arrived twenty minutes later, by bouncing into my room. Her red lips moved rapidly as she zoomed around my room, checking out my book collection, the photo’s pinned to my board, and inspecting my zombie manikins. I watched her intently. My mouth felt dry. With an art book open in her arms, she twirled around and asked, “You do art?”

            She spoke slowly enough so I was able read her lips. I nodded, and quickly mouthed ‘I am deaf.’

            “Oh,” she said. Then she disappeared.

            Nearly ten minutes later, Ami reappeared with two steaming cat shaped mugs of tea, and she sat on my bed. She fidgeted, so I ripped a sheet of paper from my sketchbook and wrote: Hi. I’m George. What’s your name?

Ami was an international student from Versailles, not too far from Paris, and she knew four languages. By second year, she had also learnt BSL, so we could have full blown conversations without resorting to notes.

            Ami was a budding photographer. As I attempted to take a sip of my tea, long after Ami inhaled hers, she grasped my arm and dragged me outside. Outside our university halls was a small field, where we ended up capturing many photos throughout first year. She always reassured me I was her first choice of model because I was lanky and had ‘sharp cheekbones’, and photoshoots became a regular occurrence. Ami had big brown doe eyes, and freckles lightly dusted over her cheeks, so I found it difficult to say no to her requests. As soon as the photos were developed, she would pin them to the board above my desk, and she decorated her own with unfinished sketches I had scribbled of us.

We ended up living together throughout university, and for a long time, she was the only person I considered a friend. Until, I met Gabe.

Sketchbooks were scattered about the long art table, once white and now stained from various paint splatters and pen smudges. Black was smeared beneath my nails. Chunks of charcoal and a pencil case sat beside me. Within the isolated art room, I shaded in Ami’s portrait. I was considering using it for my final piece. Previously I had opted for watercolour, since it was pretty and easy to grasp. However, university had introduced me to charcoal, and it became my first tool of choice for everything. It seemed to create a whole new dimension, casting shadows and complexity.

As I studied her photo, I felt a presence appear, lingering uncertainly. Slowly, I lifted my head, and I spotted a very tall and very skinny guy, sporting the grey university hoodie ahead of me. His hair was dark and messy, and he was talking animatedly. His hands were wild, but his lips sloped with a small frown. With a half-smile, I ripped a sheet of paper from my sketchbook, and wrote: Sorry. I can’t hear you. I’m deaf.

His mouth formed an ‘O’, as I shrugged my shoulders. Sitting opposite me, he gestured to the paper. I pushed the paper and a spare pencil towards him, and he replied: My bad, I was just saying how awesome your drawing is. I’m guessing you do art?

 I nodded, so he wrote in a messy scrawl: I’m first year music. Who’s the girl you’re drawing?

He pushed the paper back towards me, craning his neck to look at the photo. I wrote: Her name is Ami. We live together.

With raised eyebrows, he nodded and wrote: She looks familiar. I like the way you’ve done her eyes. Full of expression. I’m Gabe. What’s your name?

Hesitantly, I replied: George.

Ami already knew of him, as she had photographed some of the music student’s performances. Eventually I introduced them, and they hit it off instantly, with Gabe moving in with us in his second year.

Gabe and I had stayed up until dawn drawing. At noon, I woke up and trudged downstairs. Ami and Gabe were already sat on the couch together in the lounge. Ami had her legs tucked beneath her, and was leaning into Gabe’s shoulder. A single set of white headphones connected them, as they each held a speaker out towards their ears. Ami nodded along and smiled at Gabe, who was mouthing the lyrics. My stomach churned, and my tongue felt too big in my dry mouth.

Later that day, whilst curled up on my couch, I was reading 1984. This was not by choice. The day before, Ami had scolded me about how uncultured I was, and demanded I read a classic. She had slammed the worn book down on my bed and ordered me to read it. Beside me, Gabe flopped down onto the couch. He snatched the books from my grasp and rested it beside him.

            Pursing my lips, I signed, ‘What do you want?’

            ‘Come with me.’

            I narrowed my eyes. ‘Why?’

            ‘Trust me.’

            Gabe marched towards the university music room with me trailing behind. The room was large, with a piano at the front and plastic chairs pointed towards it. A drum set was behind the chairs, whilst various other instruments lined the back wall.

            Gabe sat on the piano stool and removed his shoes, and signed for me to follow suit. I shook my head.

Gabe tugged on my sleeve and patted the seat. With a sigh, I sat down and Gabe gently placed my hands upon the piano. I quirked an eyebrow.

He signed, ‘Close eyes. Feel.’

Leaning across me slightly, his finger hovered above a key. Gabe turned his head to face me and pointed to his eyes. I rolled my eyes, then closed them.

Gabe played the note. The vibration of music buzzed through my fingertips, up my fingers and into my hands. It coursed from my toes towards my heels. I opened my eyes wide, to be met with Gabe’s gap-toothed grin. He gestured to my eyes. Inhaling, I closed them and Gabe played another key.

This vibration was different somehow: still intense, but heavier. It travelled up my legs, fizzling in my calves.

Gabe told me he was going to perform a glissando, which is a glide from one pitch to another. His fingers danced along the piano. As the notes became higher, so did the vibrations on my body. They grazed my chest, neck and face, whilst lower notes rippled through my legs and feet.

Gabe tapped me on the shoulder. When I opened my eyes, he said he was going to play a song called Canon in D by Pachelbel, which was his favourite piece of music. He ensured my palms remained firmly on the piano, and began to play. It was slow and soft, and for a moment I could hear Gabe playing.

Then Gabe placed my hands on the keys and the lesson began.