Page 10 of Stops Along the Way
Maybe it’s difficult to hear me over the airport chatter, but I don’t want to shout about this, either.
“Yeah, with my name.”
It doesn’t take Mom long to figure it out. “You know what it might be? When I booked your ticket, I selected the Deaf or Hard of Hearing box.”
“And they’d give me a wheelchair for that?”
“Who knows what services it automatically triggers in their system,” she says. “Maybe it flags all accommodations similarly.”
“Huh,” Dad says. “Did you take the ride?”
“I’m regretting not considering it.”
My phone buzzes with a text Mom sends to the family group chat. A picture from a road trip we took to Chicago when I was six and Amelia was seven. We’re at a rest stop, standing in front of the car, wearing big cheesy grins and matching blue shirts covered in illustrated butterfly patterns, each holding a juice box in one hand and a cookie in the other.
It’s also one of those photos where my first pair of hearing aids—hot pink with glittery ear molds—is very apparent, a sparkle of personality that my current pair doesn’t display since they are tiny beige receivers tucked alongside my head with clear wiring that trails into my ears. Nearly invisible if I’m wearing my hair down, and only noticeable if you’re looking closely when my hair is up.
My hearing loss is moderate, and I generally feel like I get by well enough on a day-to-day basis, though I’m curiousto maybe find an American Sign Language class in college. I was intrigued to learn, but it took a back seat after Amelia’s diagnosis—to the point where I’m not entirely sure how that would work for me anymore.
I rapidly weave through other travelers down the long corridor, and my mouth waters when I pass a cheesesteak shop, almost tempting me to grab some food for the road. “I’m still trying to find the exit.”
“Call Amelia,” Mom says. “She’s almost there.”
“Okay, I’ll call her. Love you, bye.”
After skipping past three bathrooms, I decide it’s really best if I stop before getting in the car. At least it’s easier to manage without a suitcase, though the first stall I try is missing a hook on the door to hang my backpack.
Then I’m still not sure where the exit is. I take a more leisurely pace as I turn the corner and call my sister.
“Where are you?” she asks. There’s a loud horn obscuring her voice.
“I’m still inside. Trying to get to the exit where I can find you. I go toward baggage claim even if I didn’t check a bag, right? Oh, ground transit—”
Because my brain is still thinking in board game creation, all of this feels like it could amount to some sort of journey-around-the-board-style game. In moments, I’ve pushed past the point of no return and find myself nearing the exit, where other travelers are standing around waiting for bags or outside waiting for ride pickups.
“Aah, I’m going to have to do a loop.” Amelia continues grumbling incoherently as she struggles through airport traffic.
“Oh, you’re likeherehere.”
“Yeah, let’s go.”
“Okay, one second!”
I burst through the automatic doors. “I’m outside. Wearing bright pink.”
“I’m already heading around now,” Amelia says. “Less than a minute or so.”
“Just slow down and I’ll find you,” I say, trying to figure out how to make this whole situation simpler for both of us. But that’s easier said than done. There’s a lot of cars slowing down. I finally spot Amelia, pulling over to the side, but she’s pretty far away. “There you are!”
“They want me to move—hurry up!”
I take off, carefully speeding up as I jog down the sidewalk. “I’m running! I’m running!”
It’s only when I’m about two feet away from the car that she says, “There you are!”
I open the door, my voice reverberating through the car’s speakers. “No shit,” I say before ending the call on my phone.
She smiles. “Hey.”
