The day before the funeral, Nathan’s dad came by to pick me up. He wanted me to spend some time with their family. On the ride over to their house, he commented on the changing colors of the leaves. “The trees are vibrant this year,” he said. I merely nodded my head, afraid if I opened my mouth the truth would come gushing out. The car would be flooded with my honesty, my tears, my shame. That I was at a party while Nathan was dying. I was having a great time dancing, bumping into strangers with a red solo cup in my hand, sloshing beer on the floor. If he knew I was drunk while his son was newly dead, he would hate me.

When I was in high school, I wanted to meet Deaf kids my age so I could improve my signing skills. I called the local high school where there is a special Deaf classroom. The teacher put my name and number on the chalkboard. I got a call the very next day from a Deaf girl who lived in my neighborhood. She invited me to a party and introduced me to Nathan. With his curly, jet-black hair, large muscles and smile that lit up the room, I was immediately interested. I smiled at him and signed, “Nice to meet you.” But instead of my pointer fingers coming together to make the sign for “meet”, I used two fingers on each hand which changed the sign to “nice to have sex with you.” I knew better of course but wanted to get his attention. He corrected my sign with a twinkle in his eye. I could tell he had a sense of humor like mine.

On the day of his funeral, the preacher pretended to know the family, that he was an old friend even, but he stumbled over details and called Nathan’s mom by the wrong name. I stood over his coffin and touched his hand. I was shocked by how cold it felt. I had never touched a dead body before. There was no sign language interpreter even though all of Nathan’s friends were Deaf. When the preacher read the bible verse about how in heaven the blind shall see and the deaf shall hear, I wondered if he suddenly had the ability to hear, would he still be Nathan?

 That first night we met, he told me he was a Jehovah’s Witness. Maybe to see if I would run?  I stayed. We dated my entire senior year of high school. Because Nathan was profoundly Deaf, he had difficulty communicating with hearing people. He accompanied me to many high school graduation parties that summer. I tried my best to keep him included in the conversations by signing what my friends were saying, but inevitably he would drift off on his own. I would find him outside on the driveway with a group of guys gathered around a car with its hood up. I guess guys don’t need words when bonding over cars.

Nathan drove four hours with my parents to see me the weekend before my 18th birthday. I always loved my birthday. It’s the one day I feel special, which is a big deal for a middle child who is used to being overlooked. They arrived early on Saturday morning; we toured campus and I introduced them to some of my new friends. Nathan and I snuck a few moments alone, kissing in the hallway. There was a tearful goodbye, yet on some level I was glad to see them go. I guess I had moved on already.

Later that night, I stood at the edge of a frat party watching as college kids danced around wildly, banging into each other. I was a college kid too, but it was hard to get used to the idea. I’d only been there a few weeks. I watched as beer sloshed down arms and onto the floor, but no one seemed to care. Everyone was smiling and laughing, not noticing me standing on the outskirts observing and wondering if I could hide my lack of experience and join in. Before I knew it, a cup was pressed into my hand, and I was swept up in the crowd. I danced a little and tried to convince myself I fit in.

 Nathan’s mom was always trying to convince me to forego college and stay in our hometown. For her, a hearing girl who could sign and understand her son was a dream come true. On the day of my high school graduation party, she asked me to accompany Nathan to her friend’s house. His son was a dental assistant who made custom dentures. We descended the stairs to his basement and saw a table with stainless steel tools plugged into a strip with multiple sockets. There were narrow shelves filled with rows and rows of false teeth. It felt like at any moment he could flip a switch and they would all start yammering at us. The only reason I had agreed to come is because I thought she wanted me to interpret for Nathan.  A few minutes into the conversation, his mom’s plan became clear. Did she really think I would give up my college scholarship to make dental molds like this creepy guy in his basement? I inched my way toward the door fearing I would be trapped down in this little shop of horrors. My life could not be reduced to this type of work no matter how much I cared for Nathan. I scrambled up the stairs using my upcoming graduation party as an excuse to flee.

The morning after the frat party, I opened the door to my dorm room and my sister was standing there looking like she would rather be anywhere else. She didn’t have a car of her own, so I was immediately suspicious that something must be wrong. “Nathan is dead.” She said it just like that. She could have said the sky is green and it would have made just as much sense. Nathan had crashed his car into a retaining wall after dropping off my parents at home. He had died instantly. I started screaming. I didn’t stop until I felt the sting of my RA’s slap across my face. Somehow my sister calmed me down, holding my hand and letting me rest my head on her shoulder while we rode home in the backseat of her girlfriend’s car.

Nathan and I used to sit in his car under a tree in the park with the radio turned all the way up. He could feel the bass of the music vibrating through the car’s seat. I would sign the lyrics for him. Together we learned to sign the words to Groovy Kind of Love by Phil Collins. Nathan worked as a car mechanic. No matter how hard he scrubbed, he always had a smidge of grease under his fingernails. Like his mom, Nathan hoped I would stay in town and settle down with him. “Why go college, be nerd-girl?” he asked in broken English. My aspirations for the future were hard to explain. For my high school graduation gift, he gave me a large wooden chest. “It’s your wish box,” he said. He meant hope chest.

Nathan’s father never learned sign language. One day when I was at his house, his father was angry with him about something. He started yelling and gesturing wildly at him, but Nathan couldn’t understand. Nathan tried to dismiss him, but he persisted. His father forced me to interpret for him, his angry, hateful words coming off my hands.

Nathan’s father didn’t say much more on the way to his house. The fact that Nathan had been driving late in the night after traveling four hours to see me hung in the silence between us. The air in the car was heavy with my guilt, and the unspoken truth about that night was threatening to suffocate me. Nathan’s sister was in the car with us. I told her that today was my birthday.  She stared out the window.  “Jehovah’s Witnesses don’t believe in birthdays,” she said.

– Jennifer Pinto