Page 40 of Give Me a Sign
“Very rough. But actually, apparently our entire staff gets tomorrow off for a Saturday night break, since our director and nurse will watch the campers. They said some restaurant—Freddy’s, I think? You should join us, and we can catch up.”
“Perfect, I’ll see you tomorrow.” Oliver smiles. “Well, and at the lake in, like, an hour. And probably at the pool... and any water-based activity.”
Chapter Fourteen
After breakfast,we spend a couple hours at the lake. While campers swim and hang out at the beach, we observe from a distance as potential donors arrive for Gary’s luncheon and gather at the picnic tables under the big pavilion. The campers are just as watchful of these strangers as they are of us. Gary is busy running around and setting up tin trays of food while one of the guests stands at the grills. There are probably about fifteen people visiting. Where did Gary find them all? How much money do we need each of them to give? It seems like many of them are here with family members. It doesn’t feel great to need their charity, but at the same time, it’s necessary to make sure Gray Wolf is affordable and accessible to as many campers as possible.
When it’s time, we gather our things and march the short distance over to where the visitors have congregated. Mackenzie pulls her crumpled gray staff polo from her backpack, and I dothe same with my camper T-shirt, which still has the tape lettering Isaac did across the back. But I try to put Isaac, and however he feels about me, out of my mind in order to get through this lunch.
At the pavilion, our cabin chooses a table at the back, and we all stick together. Gary tries to discreetly gesture that we should leave space at each table for our guests, but all the other groups clump together as well, not wanting to sit interspersed with the donors. I don’t blame us. Our visitors all seem to be hearing, and none have shown any proficiency in sign language, though I do recognize a light skin-tone hearing aid on one of the older men.
Mackenzie tries to coax some of us to come chat with the potential donors, but none of the girls follow, so she goes on her own and appears to be having a grand time. Other than Mackenzie and Gary, the rest of us aren’t particularly in a social mood, but Assistant Director Ethan is doing his best to be professional.
When the food is ready, Ethan calls for our attention, drawing all eyes to himself. “We’re so grateful to have our special guests here today,” he says and signs. “And even more grateful that they helped us prepare lunch. I know we’re all starving, so we’ll let the kids go ahead and line up for food while Gary lets you know a little more about Camp Gray Wolf.”
Gary takes a spot next to Ethan and gives a brief introductory speech while we file to get food. But on the walk back, Gary is positioning all the campers and staff on only one side of the picnic tables so our guests can sit across from us.
Sure enough, I’m only a few bites into my burger when a couple walks up to me.
“Is this spot taken?” a cheery old man with a gray receding hairline asks. A woman who I suspect is his wife hovers closely beside him. They seem like nice grandparents, the kind who spend most of their retirement volunteering.
“Please join us,” Mackenzie calls from the other end of the table when our campers, being too shy, don’t answer or hear the man in the first place.
“Don’t mind if we do.” The man leans forward to put his plate down, carefully lowering himself onto the bench. “I’m————,” he says. “And this pretty young lady with me is my wife,————.”
“Nice to meet you, Bill and Susan,” Mackenzie says and signs. It’s helpful that she’s one of those people who repeats names after meeting someone.
Everyone else takes their seats. Most of the potential donors seem unsure who they could easily converse with, and campers who are normally very vocal are keeping to themselves. I want to do the same, but I also know what’s at stake with this luncheon and force myself to do my best to engage in the conversation, mostly nodding along while Mackenzie talks.
“Yes, I’m studying to be an interpreter. This camp is amazing practice. It’s almost a rare thing to be able to immerse myself in American Sign Language this way. It’s such a wonderful experience.” She makes it sound like this entire summer is homework and we’re experiment subjects, rather than just disabled kids enjoying time outdoors.
Susan is directly across from me, trying to get my attention while I drink from my water bottle.
“What?” I ask.
“Is your shirt in the wash?” she repeats.
“My shirt?”
“The polo,” she clarifies.
“Oh, we didn’t have enough.” I turn my shoulder, demonstrating the duct tape that practically screams “donate some money so I get a polo next year.” “And I’m only a junior counselor this summer, so this works.”
“Interesting. Does that mean you’re new this year?” Bill asks.
“Well, I was a camper. But now I’m seventeen—well, eighteen this fall, and yeah.”Really coherent here, Lilah.“So I’m a junior counselor.”
“Very impressive,” Susan says, looking truly proud for some reason. “Then will you be a senior counselor next summer?”
“I’d like to be.”
Bill takes a bite of his hot dog. He says something before he’s finished chewing, so he holds his napkin over his mouth while he talks. I shake and tilt my head to the side. He wipes his beard, places the cloth down, and repeats himself. “How’d you like being a camper?”
“Great. It’s an important place to meet other people like me.” I hope my response doesn’t sound too rehearsed, but that’s what they want to hear, right?
“Of course,” Susan says. She takes a sip of soda, formulating her next thought. “So you’re hearing impaired?”
“Hard of hearing,” I correct her, though I also dislike this preferred terminology. It feels so medical and outdated, more suited for the elderly than for someone as young as I am. There’s also a misconception among hearing people that these terms mean my hearing loss isn’t significant and that simply shouting could do the trick, which is far from accurate. Therefore, I primarily use “hard of hearing” only when I’m worried aboutnot being “deaf enough” to use “Deaf.” Because my hearing falls short of a profound ninety decibels, some might argue that the severe loss isn’t diagnostically deaf, making me feel like I have to watch my step with my own identity.
