A Million Little Pieces Of My Mind

And Decker's mother had never forgiven herself for what she perceived as a tragedy. She had taken him to specialists; his early childhood was composed of one trip after another to surgeons, hearing clinics, doctors, and faith healers. Decker's mom was a devout Southern Baptist who was willing to allow Jesus to heal him, but just as willing to turn to modern medicine if Jesus chose not to.

The problem was, the auditory nerves were just gone, destroyed by the inflammation of his brain. His mother blamed herself for not somehow knowing that her baby, slightly less than a year old, was sick in time to do something about it. Decker was happy she had been sensitive enough to know something was wrong, even though he was asymptomatic, and to insist on an antibiotic, which saved his life if not his hearing.

Once she had accepted his deafness, Decker's mother enrolled them both in classes in American Sign Language. Fortunately, she had heard of that variant of signing first. Deaf folks who knew ASL had a big advantage in navigating Deaf culture. The primary alternative at the time, finger spelling, mimicked English but prepared Deaf kids for integration into a Hearie society that would never accept them.

In any case, Decker's love for his mother was certainly flavored by his frustration over her refusal to understand that Deafness is a difference, like being left-handed, but not a curse. It didn't prevent him from loving life, appreciating beauty, having a family, enjoying his children or even making a very nice living. Until the day she died, Decker's mother had blamed herself for a tragedy that had never happened. His imagined handicap had blinded her to ever getting to know the real him.

Decker had no idea what kind of history the Reverend Stone had with his mother. But if she'd been controlling the purse strings, there should have been some kind of emotion, if not from her Alzheimer's-riddled brain, at least from him.

As planned, Barry drove the Lexus back to Gilmer's Garden and spoke into the intercom. The gate promptly rolled open. Barry could only sign with one hand as he steered, which made him hard for Decker to understand, but Barry explained that he had said he'd forgotten his cell phone on their earlier visit and was there to retrieve it.

However, instead of going into the office, Barry and Decker scanned the courtyard for Stone's mother in her wheelchair, where she'd been returned after their brief non-meeting. Decker couldn't blame her. The temperature was so much more pleasant here in the hills than down in the District. But he doubted she had chosen to be here. This seemed to be one of those nursing homes where the residents are moved around like so much furniture, for all that it looked very attractive and upscale.

Decker again knelt before the woman, trying to get his eyes below hers so as to appear as non-threatening as possible. Her eyes remained fixed on the spot behind him, as if he were transparent. Her arthritic hands clutched the armrests of her chair. Decker placed both his hands gently on hers. They were cool and bony. He removed them and signed, "Good afternoon, Mrs. Stone. We met about an hour ago."

The woman's gaze never wavered. She blinked every now and then, but seemed to see nothing—or to be seeing something so fascinating she couldn't pull her eyes from it.

A long afternoon shadow signaled someone's approach and Decker turned, expecting it to be a nurse ready to scold him for harassing a resident. But it was a man, and as his face moved away from the sun, Decker recognized Dr. Martin. Instead of speaking aloud, he signed: "I see your concern for Mrs. Stone continues unabated."

"You know why I had to come here," Decker replied. "I can't ask a court to declare Mrs. Stone incompetent unless I'm certain she is."

Martin turned his head slightly to the side. "You asked about my diagnosis," he said. "And on what grounds I made it. But I wonder if you are asking the right questions."

Decker frowned. "What do you mean?"

"There are video cameras and microphones all over these grounds," Martin said. "For the safety of our residents, and also our own. Many times when a beloved senior passes on, the family will try to blame the facility. This way we can prove the resident was not mistreated. But a side-effect is, conversations are recorded. Even conversations in sign. And someone might be brought in to translate."