Читать книгу Finding Zoe - Gail Harris - Страница 11

PROLOGUE

ZOE SAT CROSS-LEGGED on the living room floor, her palms cupping her chin, her mouth agape. “Do it again, Daddy!” she said. “Do it again.” Tim’s hands flew as he painted a landscape of Santa with his sleigh and reindeer, zooming across the starlit sky, then landing on the roof and squeezing down the chimney. Snow was falling, and the moon was dark. With his hands and facial expressions, in American Sign Language (ASL), Tim was creating a magnificent vista, telling the story of the fat man getting stuck in the chimney . . . and Zoe was laughing.

It was 2006 and the Christmas I had always dreamed about having but thought might never happen. My eyes drank in my two-and-a-half-year-old daughter, my daughter, in a Christmas storybook scene, her sparkling eyes revealing her deep sense of peace and belonging. That afternoon was my own private miracle. Watching Zoe filled me with such joy, I could hardly contain it. For a second, I worried again that, just maybe, I loved her too much—and that my three sons felt that I loved them less. This is my cross. No matter how many times they tell me how much they feel my love, I can’t help feeling that way.

It has to do with the fact that Zoe, like me, is deaf.

Within my community, the Deaf community, my situation is somewhat rare because most deaf people have never also been hearing. It’s been a gift of sorts as it allows me to be with hearing people one minute and deaf people the next, and generally, to be at ease around hearing people. Because I could already speak before I became deaf, I do have some speech—what I call a “deaf voice.” At first, most people think that I sound funny, but after a short while, they are usually able to understand me. Because I lip-read, I never give a second thought to going into Starbucks and asking for a cup of coffee. I know what to expect: I’m going to ask for the coffee; they’re going to ask me if I want room for cream. I’ll say yes; they’ll tell me how much it costs. I’ll pay and then leave. I feel in control of the situation.

This ease with life was not easily won; however, it was inextricably linked to my desire for a daughter, something I’d been aware of ever since I was a little girl. When each of my three sons was born, each was my pride and joy. Yet their births just widened the hole that could only be filled by my having a daughter, for a reason I had yet to discover. As I look back on my life, with the gift of time and hindsight revealing everything, it was as if God had swooped down from above and said, “Here’s your deaf daughter. You, Brandi, of all people, deserve her.”

The first step of that journey began one fateful day in March of 1974.