Читать книгу Sarah Lean - 3 Book Collection - Sarah Lean, Sarah Lean - Страница 36

MRS COOPER GAVE SAM HIS PUFFER, ROCKED him on her lap.

“I’m supposed to look for the pink colour returning to your cheeks,” she said, trying to laugh. “Oh, Sam,” she whispered. “What’s going on? This seems to be happening more often.”

She saw he was getting better, puffed up some pillows and patted the window seat, saying, “Just do something together quietly.”

Sam was by his calendar, whispering to himself. He found today’s date and ran his fingers across the squares one by one. I thought he might be reading or maybe counting days. He stopped at the square with the red sticker.

I picked up Sam’s skinny white hand. He had blue stringy veins on his wrist and chocolate under his fingernails. I pointed to each finger, trying to remember what I’d seen Mrs Cooper do. Sam smiled.

We were there for hours. Mrs Cooper gave me a laminated sheet that had pictures of hands showing what you had to do. She said she thought it was a great idea for us two to have a chat.

It took ages to learn the deaf-blind alphabet and I had to keep looking at the pictures to check what to do, but it was really easy. My name was: scoop from thumb to first finger, touch the thumb, touch the middle of the palm twice for two Ls, and touch the pad below the thumb. Sam’s name was easy to remember because it only had three letters: hook the little finger (a bit like make friends, make friends, never ever break friends, except with your pointing finger), touch your thumb, and then put three fingers on your palm. Sam showed me on my hand. At first I had to write down the letters he was making one at a time so I could keep up. Sam was very patient. It’s hard to say what’s happening when someone’s touching your hand and making letters. It’s sort of feeling-listening.

Then Sam spelled out a question. Just like that, he came out and asked me. “Why don’t you speak?”

I’d only ever heard his voice awkward and trapped in his throat. And he had never heard mine. It was like meeting him all over again, but also, somehow, like he was my oldest friend, who I had known forever.

I didn’t know what to tell him. So slowly I tapped on his hand, “I don’t want to.” But Sam doesn’t give up.

“I don’t want to be deaf and blind,” he spelled.

“But you can hear some things.”

He smiled. “Once I heard a mouse.”

I didn’t know if he really meant that he heard it with his ears. I could see him remembering. He opened his palm as if it sat there, quivering. It wasn’t there in his hand, but it was there, in his mind and heart. He lowered his hand to the floor, let it go, let it run and hide.

“What did it sound like?” I spelled.

“Like a tiny bit of fear.”

I imagined it trembling, its heart beating faster and faster. I tried to imagine how Sam heard it. But his hearing was mysterious, buried somewhere deep inside him.

“Its heart beats 500 times a minute,” he spelled.

I sensed the quivering terror of its fragile life.

“Listen,” he said.

He leaned his ear against the wall. I pressed my ear. I heard the crackle of my hair, and then the silence of the still wall. I felt the tiny thumping of the mouse’s anxious heart.

Sam tapped, “Can you feel how brave it is too?”

But he didn’t seem to be talking about the mouse any more.