Blind and Deaf Faith
Short Story Fiction
By Lynn Donovan
Faith was just
like everybody else; she grew up, went to college, established herself in a
rewarding career. The only thing she didn’t have—sight and sound.
Gestational
Rubella measles left her blind and deaf at birth She knew nothing different.
Thirty surgeries, lens implants, and corrective lensed glasses allowed a myopic
view of her surroundings. It let her read and maneuver without the gaudy, white
cane that screamed, “Blind person walking!”
Hearing was
another matter. Hearing aids and even cochlear implants were ruled out early in
her life due to her non-existent nerves. But she didn’t care. Life was—as it
was. Besides, she could hear through her feet. Approaching footsteps were felt and
she would turn toward the person. The mail cart rattled so violently, she knew
when to step out of her office and receive her bundle with a nod. Few realized
she could not hear. She liked it that way.
As a marine
biologist, she communicated with everyone by writing notes or sending e-mails. The
notes were simply passed on through intra-office mail or a giant clip on her
office door. This aloofness had gained her a reputation as an eccentric bitch,
but she’d rather be thought of as a bitch than deaf, handicapped, or worse
yet—different.
Besides, she
preferred to work alone, except for the sharks. They were her life, her
single-minded focus. She loved working with them, studying them, feeding them, and
writing about them. Interacting with people
was unimportant to her. With her immediate family, mom, dad, and sister,
she communicated with her hands. But with the rest of the world, she wrote down
her thoughts, commands, and instructions. The internet made that easy. Everyone
typed rather than spoke on the internet. She simply refused to participate in
any video conferencing where speech was required.
Everything was
as she wanted it to be. Her routine was, well—routine, and that suited her
fine. She contributed to the knowledge-gathering infrastructure of the marina
through her diligence and dedication to sharks. Her life was fulfilling and
complete.
Until he walked
in.
Dr. Donnie
Fitzgerald, PhD., Marine Scientist, and now her supervisor, had been
transferred in by a committee she ignored. Her lack of verbal skills had found
the one niche she could not fill—public speaking. She could publish anything
they needed to disseminate her valuable knowledge about the importance of
preserving the sharks and their habitats. She set up social networking sites where
she could “chat” with the public. But she could never present any information publically.
Now she had to
deal with Dr. Donnie Fitzfumble, Fitzfutile, Fitz-whatever, just stay out of the
way. She hated him instantly. In her mind, she signed his name with an F at her
right temple. That allowed her to insert an additional vulgar name. Since she
was forced to share her office, her marina, and her sharks with him—it was her
own delightfully private insult.
“Funding. It all
boils down to funding,” signed Hope, her older sister, at Thanksgiving.
“Why can’t we
get funding from the blog, Twitter, Facebook, even Pininterest? What about the mail?”
Faith demanded. “I set up a webcam. The sharks can be observed twenty-four-seven.
Why isn’t that enough?” She folded her arms across her chest.
“Look at me!”
Hope gestured with two hooked fingers pointed at her eyes. “Some things require
face to face. Sales, fundraising, things same as that, require face to face.”
Faith frowned.
She knew Hope was right, but it didn’t make her like it any better.
On the day she
and Dr. Fitzgerald were to enter the tanks, she typed up all the shark information,
laminated the multi-colored papers and bound them with a plastic ring. She had
inserted pictures of the sharks beside the descriptions and, in particular, why
they were in captivity. The print was large, so she could see it. To anyone
else, it appeared to be benefit readability under water. Since communication
underwater was all point and signal anyway, her goal was to point at the
picture and then at the actual shark. He could read the rest. Or not.
The scuba gear
was arranged on a bench in the non-public access area of the pools. She was
mostly geared up when Dr. F arrived. Ignoring him, she hoisted the air tank
onto her back. She reached for the regulator, but missed due to the extreme
angle it hung from her tank. The hose appeared in her limited peripheral as his
fingers guided it toward her face. She grabbed the regulator and jerked away.
Sharp, glaring eyes told him she didn’t appreciate his interference. His
eyebrows rose but his mouth did not move.
She paused. Glancing
back at him, she shrugged. He nodded and returned to squeezing into his wet
suit. She’d never considered him before. His muscular limbs and smooth abs might
place him around her age, maybe younger. She remembered his face from a photo
she had examined. Light sprigs salted his otherwise dark neatly cut hair, but
the skin around his aqua-blue eyes was smooth. Premature grey, maybe?
He glanced up at
her as he zipped his black and green suit. Her eyes darted to the bench, and
she sat down next to the laminated manual. Her heart beat violently in her
chest. She consciously inhaled and exhaled to slow down the uncomfortable
feelings—all of them. She hoped he would assume she was oxygenating her lungs,
preparing for submersion.
Once he bounced
up and made a two-finger salute, she stood and handed him the manual. He opened
it, scanned the pages, and nodded. She jerked a thumb over her shoulder indicating
she was ready to go in. He gave the scuba signal, “okay.” They stepped over to
the side of the pool, suspended one finned foot over the water and hopped in.
Pain instantly pressed against her skull. She removed her regulator, squeezed
the nose of her mask and pushed air out her ears for relief. Dr. F hovered,
watching her, then held up the “okay?” sign again. She did the same and took
the lead, swimming down into the shark tank.
An eight-foot-long
tiger shark swam toward them. Faith reached over to the laminated manual and
turned to the orange page. She pointed at the picture and then at the shark as it
serpentined past them. Dr. F nodded and scanned the page. He pointed to his
side, indicating the shark’s original injury. She nodded and pushed off the
bottom of the pool. The shark made a side-ways arch with its spine and doubled
back toward them. It slithered through the space they no longer occupied, then
doubled back again. She knew its territory had been invaded, and it did not
like it.
She swam over to
where the nurse shark hung out. She showed Dr. F the appropriate blue page. It had
been caught in a fisherman’s net as a newborn. It’d never had a chance to learn
to survive in the wild. Now six foot in length, it was a member of Faith’s family.
Dr. F held up two index fingers, “small.” Then pointed down, “here.” Faith
nodded.
On through the
tank they swam locating and identifying each species. A dark mass passed into
Faith’s visual range. The Tiger shark was still agitated. It was time they left
him alone. She would treat him to fish chunks once they got out. She turned to
Dr. F and gestured the scuba sign, “go up.” He signaled, “Okay.” In the lead,
she propelled herself toward the exit ladder. A dark hazy contrast against the
light-blue wall indicated she wasn’t far from the ladder. Three, maybe four
more strokes then she would remove her fins.
Suddenly her
chin slammed against her chest and she tasted blood. Her body jerked backward,
and the strap to her air tank slipped away from her shoulder. Another jerk
pulled the other strap and spun her around. The Tiger shark was attacking her. It
held the tank in its razor-sharp teeth and shook it violently, yanking her
along with it. She kicked at its underbelly and struggled to remove her arm from
the strap. The shark let go of the tank and darted past her. She swirled to
keep her eyes on its position. It was between her and the ladder.
Her eyes darted
around. Where to escape? Where was Dr. F? The shark arched its spine and glided
through the water, straight toward her undulating legs. She drew her legs and
arms in close to her body and screamed. Bubbles spilled from her mouth. The
shark rammed into her torso. Plastic scraped across her wet suite rather than
teeth. She opened her eyes. Dr. F’s multi-colored laminated pages protruded from
the shark’s mouth as it shook its head fervently.
A firm grip took
hold of her arm. Dr. F kicked long fluid strokes with his fins, pulling her
toward the ladder. He shoved her up out of the water and scrambled backward,
fins sticking out from the ladder. He fell on his bottom next to her and stuck
his feet straight out across the sloshing surface of the pool. Crab-walking
away from the sinking dorsal fin, he wiggled to get the air tank off his back.
Faith’s eyes darted from him to the water. She could not stop
hyper-ventilating. “Uhh, uhh,” the sound escaped her mouth as she tried to
regain normal breathing. She swallowed. A metallic, copper taste caused her
stomach to lurch. She closed her eyes to fight the nausea.
A hand touched
her shoulder. She jerked and kicked away from it. “Uhh!” she screamed. Dr. F grabbed
her by both shoulders and held her firmly. She stared into his eyes and shook
her head. His eyebrows knitted tightly together, and he slowly nodded as his
mouth moved. Something about his face cleared the terror in her mind. She
stopped fighting and relaxed. Her head turn to the right. Red covered her
shoulder. She jerked away. It wasn’t her, it was him!
Blood flowed
from a gash that laid open from his knuckles to beyond his wrist. She grabbed
his forearm and squeezed her fingers around the muscle. He looked up into her
eyes and smiled, then his eyes rolled up as color drained from his face. He
fell limp across her lap. She held tightly to the arm. It was the closest thing
to a tourniquet she could devise.
“Ooooo!” she
screamed and stamped her foot. “Ooooo! Ooooo!”
She felt the vacuum
effect of air moving and knew the heavy doors had been opened. People frantically
ran in to them, cell phones to their ears. “Mum, mum, mum.” She screamed the
best she could and held up Dr. F’s bloody, torn hand. Someone wrapped something
white around Dr. F’s arm and pried her bloody hands off. Adrenaline waned. The
room tilted and began to spin. Everything elongated into a darkening tunnel—consciousness
waned with it.
# # #
Faith sat next
to her family as Dr. Fitzgerald stood at the podium, delivering the speech he
and Faith had written. His heavily bandaged hand resting on the podium, it had
been six weeks since the accident. Representatives from large corporations sat
among local residence as Dr. F spoke. A slide show flashed brightly colored
pictures of severely injured sharks; rescuers feverishly scrambling to save
them; medical staff, including himself and Faith, administering hypodermic aid
to the animals; expansive undersea terrains; healthy, revived sharks traversing
the aquarium; and finally young people pressed up against glass walls admiring
and learning about the sharks.
The words of his
speech scrolled along the bottom of the huge screen. Faith drew her eyebrows
together. Subtitles? She scratched out a question on her program and handed it
to her sister. Hope glanced down and then back up at her. “Don’t you know?” she
signed with small, discreet gestures.
Faith leaned
back, “Know what?”
Hope turned her
head and glared at her for a moment. “Dr. Fitzgerald is deaf, Faith. The
subtitles help the audience understand him. Although, I don’t think they’re
necessary.” She leaned away from Faith and shook her head. “You really didn’t
know?”
Faith shook her
head. She lifted her eyes back to the podium and the man who stood before the
people. Suddenly the audience jumped to their feet. Their hands slammed
together and vocal vibrations filled the air. Faith stood and clapped too. She
smiled at her sister, who stared at Dr. F. Faith touched her sister’s shoulder.
Hope turned.
“I saw him
first.” Faith signed.
Hope dipped her
head and smiled.
