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Without looking at me, he spoke. “Paul McCartney or Dave Grohl?”
He wanted to know what version I’d had in my head as I played “Blackbird.”
“Paul McCartney. Always.”
“Big Beatles fan?”
“No, actually. But my brother is. He knows every word to every song.”
Chase finally turned around. His face had softened. “Your brother who’s deaf.”
“Only one I have.”
“Do you play often?”
“It’s been years since I played. I’m kind of shocked I remembered the chords. My fingers just started playing it—probably because I played it about ten thousand times when we were kids. I only know four songs. ‘Blackbird’ was Owen’s favorite before he lost his hearing. I learned to play it for him after he’d completely lost all audio reception. He would hold the guitar and feel the vibrations and sing along.”
“That’s cool.”
“Yeah. Oddly enough, music was a big bond between us growing up. We used to play this game where I would hum songs, and he would touch my face and try to guess the song from the vibration. He was really good at it. I mean really good at it. I only had to hum a few bars, and he would know the song. Over the years, it became our secret little language—a way of communicating what I was thinking to him without anyone knowing. Like, sometimes we would go to our Aunt Sophie’s house, and she would sneak and pour gin into a coffee mug. She thought none of us knew. But after her third cup of ‘caffeine’, she would start to slur a bit. So when she called our house, I’d answer, give our mom the phone, and then hum Pink Floyd’s ‘Comfortably Numb’. Owen would hold my face for two seconds and then guess who was on the phone.”
Chase laughed. “That’s great.”
“Except I often still do it, and I don’t even realize. I’ll be in the middle of something and notice I’m humming a song that expresses my thoughts.”
“Well, hopefully you won’t be humming Johnny Paycheck anytime soon.”
“Johnny Paycheck?”
“Sings ‘Take this Job and Shove It’. I’d rather hear some Marvin Gaye flowing from those lips.”
“Let me guess, ‘Let’s Get it On’?”
“You know you’ll be humming it, too, huh?”
“You have a one-track mind.”
He looked at me funny, seeming almost perplexed at his own answer. “Lately, I think you’re right. Got this spitfire on my mind all the time. Her attitude is as fiery as her hair.”
I laughed it off like it was a joke, but something told me he was being honest, that he really was thinking about me all the time. Or maybe it was just wishful thinking from my own one-track mind.
“So how did your brother lose his hearing anyway? You mentioned it was an accident. Was it a sports injury or something?”
While I never liked telling the story, I figured Chase of all people would understand, considering what I’d learned about his girlfriend. I’d pretty much obsessed over what Lindsey had told me the other day. It made me wonder if the past experiences Chase and I shared were some sort of unspoken connection between us.
“When I was nine, and Owen was ten, there was a string of home break-ins in our neighborhood—mostly just burglaries while the homeowners were out. Owen and I were latchkey kids. Our parents went to work before we left for school and came home after us. They also didn’t get along, and my dad would frequently take off for a few days at a time, so the house was pretty much empty most days. One Tuesday, we had a half-day of school because the teachers were having some sort of a development conference. When we came home early, we walked into our house being robbed by two men.”
“Shit. I had no idea, Reese. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have assumed.”
“It’s okay. I don’t talk about it much. But it’s part of who I am, part of who Owen is, for better or worse. Even though Owen was only ten, he pushed me back out the door and started screaming for help. One of the guys was holding our Xbox and used it like a bat to Owen’s head—fractured the temporal bone and severed a nerve that sent Owen to the hospital with a concussion for a few days and left permanent sensorineural hearing loss.”
“Jesus Christ. You were just kids.”
“It could have been worse—at least that’s what Owen’s always said. He was still a pretty happy kid even after he lost his hearing.”
“And you? Were you hurt at all?”
“I fell waiting for the ambulance while I was trying to take care of Owen, cut my hand on a piece of jagged metal on the broken Xbox.” I held up my right hand and showed him the faint star-shaped scar between my thumb and pointer. “Didn’t even need a stitch, healed itself.” I laughed. “It’s funny. Owen bore all the physical injuries, and he walks around pretty much carefree. I, on the other hand, walked away unscathed, yet I’m the one with a half dozen locks on her door and a compulsion for checking the backseat of my car and behind the shower curtain multiple times a day. I’m sort of afraid of my own shadow.”
