would understand.
Once again, that unexpected feeling of acceptance washed over him.
Owen watched her walk over to the refrigerator. “What’s your son’s name?” she signed as she opened the fridge.
“C-O-L-E.” He signed out the letters.
“What do you call him?” She spoke with one hand as she filled her other with a carton of eggs and butter, then hip-checked the door closed. Her movements flowed in such a natural and comfortable way that Owen wondered how long it had taken her to reach a place in her life where she was okay with her disability.
“C-O-L-E.” He re-signed the letters to answer her question.
She planted her supplies on the island across from him and sized him up with quizzical eyes. “No, I mean, what is his name sign? When someone signs to me who knows me, they don’t spell out M-I-R-I-A-M. They call me...” Miriam made the sign of the word swim using the letter M with it. Both her hands, positioned in the letter M, paddled out in front of her in two small breaststroke motions. “See? That’s what people call me. I began swimming in junior high school. My swim coach was also a sign-language interpreter and gave me the name sign. I’ve used it ever since. So what is your son’s name sign?”
Owen sat speechless; his arms dropped slowly to the cool, yellow top of the island. He hooked the back treads of his hiker boots on the bottom rung of the wooden stool and straightened uncomfortably under her question. It hung between them like the pots and pans above the island, then banged in his head as loudly as the one she took down and dropped on the counter.
Miriam withdrew her attention from him and directed it to her cooking task. Her movements around the kitchen went from comfortable flowing to rigid efficiency. But knowing how she’d handled multiple tasks before, and conversed as she did so, told him her withdrawal from this conversation was deliberate.
Eggs cracked a little harder than necessary. Flour puffed into the air. Walnuts took a beating on the chopping block. Spoons whipped around batter-filled bowls with angry exuberance.
She was angry again, and this time it was his fault.
“Miriam,” he spoke aloud without thinking. The sound of his voice filled the room and bounced back at him. The echo accentuated the fact that it was the first word from his lips since he’d arrived. His contentedness to sit in silence and speak her language nearly knocked him off the stool.
It seemed signing to her came so much more easily than signing to his son. But then again, Cole was a constant reminder of Owen’s transgressions. That was a barrier Owen didn’t think he could ever get past. Nor should he. His son would never have a normal life because of him.
Except this woman kept disproving that.
Miriam bent to open her oven and placed the tray of cookies on the rack. She whisked back to the refrigerator and plucked out selections of produce, only to resume with the fierce chopping again.
Approaching her with a knife in her hand might not end well for him, but Owen needed to get her attention. Her silent treatment went beyond withholding words. The way she could literally tune him out meant he might as well not be in the room. Without her attention on him, he could say nothing to fix what he’d done wrong—whatever that was. He still wasn’t positive, but he had an idea it had to do with her disappointment in the upbringing of his son. And honestly he would have to agree that he was a horrible father, which was why Cole now lived with Rebecca’s parents, where Owen couldn’t hurt him anymore.
Owen stood and met Miriam around the island. He placed a hand on her shoulder and felt her stiffen beneath his loose grasp. When he heard the knife drop from her hand with a clatter, he took it as a good sign. Her shoulders stooped inward on a sigh before she turned to face him.
The anger that had pinched up her face had turned to melancholy. Her sad eyes stopped his “sins of the
Once again, that unexpected feeling of acceptance washed over him.
Owen watched her walk over to the refrigerator. “What’s your son’s name?” she signed as she opened the fridge.
“C-O-L-E.” He signed out the letters.
“What do you call him?” She spoke with one hand as she filled her other with a carton of eggs and butter, then hip-checked the door closed. Her movements flowed in such a natural and comfortable way that Owen wondered how long it had taken her to reach a place in her life where she was okay with her disability.
“C-O-L-E.” He re-signed the letters to answer her question.
She planted her supplies on the island across from him and sized him up with quizzical eyes. “No, I mean, what is his name sign? When someone signs to me who knows me, they don’t spell out M-I-R-I-A-M. They call me...” Miriam made the sign of the word swim using the letter M with it. Both her hands, positioned in the letter M, paddled out in front of her in two small breaststroke motions. “See? That’s what people call me. I began swimming in junior high school. My swim coach was also a sign-language interpreter and gave me the name sign. I’ve used it ever since. So what is your son’s name sign?”
Owen sat speechless; his arms dropped slowly to the cool, yellow top of the island. He hooked the back treads of his hiker boots on the bottom rung of the wooden stool and straightened uncomfortably under her question. It hung between them like the pots and pans above the island, then banged in his head as loudly as the one she took down and dropped on the counter.
Miriam withdrew her attention from him and directed it to her cooking task. Her movements around the kitchen went from comfortable flowing to rigid efficiency. But knowing how she’d handled multiple tasks before, and conversed as she did so, told him her withdrawal from this conversation was deliberate.
Eggs cracked a little harder than necessary. Flour puffed into the air. Walnuts took a beating on the chopping block. Spoons whipped around batter-filled bowls with angry exuberance.
She was angry again, and this time it was his fault.
“Miriam,” he spoke aloud without thinking. The sound of his voice filled the room and bounced back at him. The echo accentuated the fact that it was the first word from his lips since he’d arrived. His contentedness to sit in silence and speak her language nearly knocked him off the stool.
It seemed signing to her came so much more easily than signing to his son. But then again, Cole was a constant reminder of Owen’s transgressions. That was a barrier Owen didn’t think he could ever get past. Nor should he. His son would never have a normal life because of him.
Except this woman kept disproving that.
Miriam bent to open her oven and placed the tray of cookies on the rack. She whisked back to the refrigerator and plucked out selections of produce, only to resume with the fierce chopping again.
Approaching her with a knife in her hand might not end well for him, but Owen needed to get her attention. Her silent treatment went beyond withholding words. The way she could literally tune him out meant he might as well not be in the room. Without her attention on him, he could say nothing to fix what he’d done wrong—whatever that was. He still wasn’t positive, but he had an idea it had to do with her disappointment in the upbringing of his son. And honestly he would have to agree that he was a horrible father, which was why Cole now lived with Rebecca’s parents, where Owen couldn’t hurt him anymore.
Owen stood and met Miriam around the island. He placed a hand on her shoulder and felt her stiffen beneath his loose grasp. When he heard the knife drop from her hand with a clatter, he took it as a good sign. Her shoulders stooped inward on a sigh before she turned to face him.
The anger that had pinched up her face had turned to melancholy. Her sad eyes stopped his “sins of the
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