A Gift For All Seasons

A Gift For All Seasons

Bernie Herbert was walking through the crowded mall towards Sanity.

He usually avoided the music store, avoided even looking at it. Once, after his parents had explained to him what the place was, he had stood outside looking in for ages, trying to get his head around the concept: an entire shop full of strange, mystical things that he couldn’t even understand. Noises. Vibrations travelling through the air, which most people could pick up, but some people could not. Sound. A magical word. A magical world, which he could not enter. He had stood there until someone came out and asked if they could help him. He had touched his ear and said, slowly and carefully, that he was deaf, and the lady’s eyes had changed in that way that peoples’ eyes did, and she had looked back towards the store and then back at him, and she looked ashamed, as if she felt she had been hiding this place from him, had been guiltily enjoying the music, the sounds, while she left him isolated. He had wanted to tell her that it was ok.

But he had not gone back.

The reason he was going back now was in a plastic bag, which swung as he walked. A present, for his twelfth birthday, which he had celebrated yesterday.

***

The day had started off well. HAPPY BIRTHDAY BERNIE! was declared boldly in oranges and reds, and slung on a banner which hung between two poles, right next to the barbecue. He had personally written out invitations to his entire family, even his parents who were organising the party. He wrote invitations for the other deaf kids and adults he knew, and their families who could hear, like his parents. He wrote invitations for everyone in his class, even though he didn’t like some of them so much (he liked most of them), and for his teacher, and of course for Mrs Mulvey, who signed for him while he was in class (it was hard to read lips and write at the same time), and her husband whom she only married a few months ago, Mr Mulvey.

He helped his dad to turn over the meat, patting it down and watching the oil bubble and dance on the black plate over the fire. He ran around with his friends, laughing. They went exploring along a creek, and someone found a fish and almost caught it barehanded. With the sun filtering green through the trees and dappling onto the running water, the scene felt like something from a fairytale.

Some of the boys from his class didn’t seem to be having as much fun. Phil Donaldson and his group were among the ones that he hadn’t been so keen to invite, but in the end he had not wanted to leave anyone out. Phil and his friends spent most of the time sitting around by themselves, but now they produced a soccer ball, and said they should play. Bernie realised quickly what their plan was, running up behind him to steal the ball so they could take him unawares, until he became flustered, constantly turning and scanning everyone with his eyes, unable to concentrate on the ball.

Then some of the other boys passed him the ball and formed a tight crescent around him, running with him towards the goals and blocking off the defense. He kicked, full of adrenaline, and couldn’t believe it when it got past the keeper. Just like in a movie, the kids around him put him up on their shoulders, and he had laughed and clapped, and couldn’t help smiling at Phil, who was muttering darkly to his little clique, his mouth sneering up and down like a growling little Chihuahua dog.

After that there was the food. Bernie ate a sausage and two hamburgers with lots of sauce, and coleslaw and potato salad. And then cake. Everyone sang happy birthday, and he was especially touched to see that some of his school friends had learned how to sign it.

And then presents. He received a bike and some books and clothes from his parents, underwear from Auntie Eileen, and lots of stuff in between from everyone else. When Phil handed over his present with a smirk, Bernie was too happy to think anything amiss, and he opened it.

It was a portable compact disc player.

Bernie looked up to see the mouths of Phil’s friends open ridiculously wide in exaggerated laughter. Phil said, “Hope you like it,” and Bernie wanted to hit that viscous little mouth. Phil added, “Mum made me put the receipt in with it, but I wasn’t going to.” The last part was hard to make out as Bernie’s vision started to blur.

Bernie’s father had shook Phil, and after some angry words were exchanged, Bernie’s mum drove Phil and his group home, her face tight-lipped as she pulled out of the park. Everyone gathered around to pat Bernie on the back, and he dropped the CD player onto the grass, vowing to himself to return it at the first opportunity and buy a DVD. He opened his other presents, and tried to forget about Phil Donaldson.

***

Bernie stood outside the doors of Sanity, just as he had a couple of years before. He put his hand in his trouser pocket, touched the receipt for the discman, which weighed down the bag in his other hand. Racks of CDs stretched out before him. In an intuitive flash, he realised that they were probably playing music right now, an invisible presence inside a mysterious domain.

He went in.

***

The last person to give her present that day was Polly Silverberg. Clutching a rectangle-shape covered in red paper with gold stars, she said she wanted to give it to him privately. His heart jumped in his chest, and he smiled and blushed as the boys around him slapped him good-naturedly on the back. The two of them walked off into the woods.

Polly was one of his best friends, probably his best friend. They wrote letters in class, which they passed to each other in between subjects, while Mrs Mulvey pretended not to notice. They would stay up late at night sometimes chatting to each other online, where her nick was Wildflower, and his was Angel (his nick was usually VanHelsing, like the vampire hunter, but he changed it when he chatted with her. Sometimes she called him her angel. Girls, hey? What can you do?). She was just about the only non-deaf person who had never asked him, “What is it like being deaf?” She had curly blond hair and lovely blue eyes that crinkled slightly at the edges when she smiled.

“Here,” Polly said, when they had returned to the magical place by the creek, under the trees. The sun was a little lower now, shining in underneath the canopy of the trees. She gave him his present. He saw as he was unwrapping that it was a picture frame, and thought for a moment that it must be a photo of her. Thoughts raced through his head, and although he didn’t realise it, they had the flicking rapidity of sign language. She’s given me a photo of herself. She must really like me! Could she want to be my girlfriend? No. I’m deaf, she’s not, she never would never never she gave me a photo…

He pulled the wrapper off the rest of the way, and it was not a photo at all, but something written in calligraphy. The disappointment was so great that he couldn’t even make out the words. Polly touched him on the shoulder.

“I made up the poem myself, and I wrote it myself too.” She looked nervous.

Bernie looked down at it, concentrating. Of course she hadn’t given him a photo. Of course she didn’t want to be his girlfriend. She was still his best friend, and that was what was important. The writing really was beautiful, and the paper underneath looked creamy and expensive. He read:

Sometimes the world seems to be lacking
Like a part of me is missing
But when I dream
It’s there

Sometimes I can’t understand what people are saying
Are they cursing or are they praying
But in my dreams
I hear

Sometimes I believe that my life until now has been incomplete
That there was something I was meant to do
Or someone I was meant to meet
But in my dreams when you say my name
I hear
In my dreams
You’re there
My Angel.

Bernie read the last line perhaps ten times, and when he looked up his eyes must have been just as round as wheels. He started to make the sign for thank you, when Polly leaned over and kissed him.

***

Bernie spent some time in the store, looking up and down the racks. When a sales assistant came up and asked to see his bag, he showed them the CD player, and then showed them his receipt, to prove that it was his. He eventually chose a CD by Antonio Vivaldi, called The Four Seasons. He took it out to the park, sat down with his back against a tree. He put the CD into the discman, and put the earphones into his ears. He pressed “play”, and cranked up the volume. The little speakers in the earphones buzzed against his skin, sending tingles down his back. He closed his eyes, feeling the harmonies go through his body.

He dreamed. And in his dreams, there was music.