My Hands Hold My Story (Rough Draft)

Chapter One

My world became one of silence when I was six years old.

Where others would hear the creak of the swaying wood or the pounding of the horses who were pulling the stagecoach, I heard nothing at all. Whenever the other passengers—five others in this coach— attempted to have some kind of conversation, their mouths would open wide and they would lift their chins, to raise their voices above the din.

There was little to occupy me beyond watching my fellow travelers, so I could recognize the signs of them just short of yelling at each other. I was fortunate enough to have a seat on the side, making the skinny man next to me was the only one I could not see clearly even though I knew he contributed to the conversation by how the four others would look toward him.

I didn't always know how to read the body language of everyone around me; there were so many nuances to a person's facial expression. In fact, I wasn't as good as some of my former schoolmates and I knew I would never be an expert at it. Most of the time it was a matter of guesswork.

Still, after many hours together, I could have a better grasp for how those around me spoke.

With the others occupied with their thoughts, I turned my gaze to the window next to me, I stared at the passing scenery. In ten years, my deafness was a daily struggle. It set me apart from the majority of the world and made everyone treat me as different.

Though the event that took my hearing will always stick out in my mind, many of the details are forever fuzzy in my mind. Fever will do that to a person's memory, I suppose.

At the time, Father was fighting in the War Between the States and he had been gone for two years. It hadn't been easy with him away. Simon, three years older than me, stocked the shelves of the family's store and did whatever odd jobs he could find to help out, while Mother did needlework to fill the gap Father's absence caused in our income.

The fever struck us without warning. I have a slight recollection of being ill, of hearing wheezing and coughing nearby whenever I managed to fight my way out of the blackness that seemed determined to consume me. Strange nightmares haunted my sleep. And then, when I woke up, everything was silent.

It took several moments for me to recognize that something was not as it should be. I'm not entirely certain what it was that made me realize I couldn't hear a thing—was it seeing the door swinging open but no corresponding squeak of the hinges?— but I do remember how I reacted. I had screamed. My throat had vibrated with the action and I didn't hear a single note.

And it wasn't Mother who flew to my side to comfort me, it was Aunt Ruth. Because, as I would learn later, my mother and baby James had died that morning.

As quickly as that, our family of five was cut down to three. With Father gone, Simon and I had to stay with Aunt Ruth and her husband. Grief stricken and panicked over the sudden loss of one of my main senses, I unequivocally label the time as the worst period of my life made even worse when my father did return, injured from a battle.

These memories never failed to bring tears to my eyes, especially given what happened next. I shook my head, pushing away the feeling of being unwanted that followed me wherever I went. How I wished for something to occupy my mind! Though I had a novel on my lap, it was difficult to read in the moving stage, and so there was little else to occupy my mind besides the event that had sent me west.

The stagecoach gave a sudden jolt, and the passenger next to me squished me against the side of the coach. If I had been in the middle, I had no doubt I would have had elbows in both of my sides. As it was, it seemed to take the man longer than necessary to give me back what little bit of room I was entitled to.