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Prologue, Chapter One, Chapter Two, Chapter Three

He knew that people were shouting behind him, screaming in rage at him. He didn't know if they were closing the gap on his head start, but stones were finding their way to him and stinging him on his back. He was running for his life and knew it. Ahead of him in the clearing a woman who was tending her morning fire looked up at him. He could see the look of alarm that spread across her face. He could feel himself screaming for help in the bones of his skull. The woman snatched up her walking staff and beckoned him to follow her. Even in his fear he noticed she was pretty.

She ran into the forest and he immediately lost sight of her. This wasn't her fight. She didn't have to become involved with this. If they were going to beat him to death, he didn't want this woman to die because of him.

His breath came and went in violent, ragged gasps as he tripped and then fell to the forest floor. This was it, then. They would find him and he would die here. It would be a fitting death for a thief, even if his crime was only stealing a small loaf of bread. He involuntary ducked his head as he felt a strong hand on his shoulder, and he rolled over to meet his fate.

It was the woman! He saw her mouth move silently. "Come," he knew she said. "Come quickly. I will hide you."

The atrium was pleasant. The sun slanted through the windows and warmed her as she sat very peacefully in its healing glow. She needed these silent moments. Depression was an insidious invader. People who were blessed with an accepting, happy disposition couldn't begin to imagine what depression felt like. They couldn't possibly know what it was like to have your whole life wadded up in a knot, lying like a stone in the pit of your stomach. They couldn't fathom what it was like to have all hope spin away from you and to fall headlong into a black, bottomless pit. But Molly Ling knew.

Her father hadn't known what to do with her. He had checked her into this facility a month ago. The psychiatrists had put her through the standard battery of tests. Molly didn't care for the testing, the probing, the endless questions. She couldn't answer their questions she couldn't. "What kind of relationship did you have with your mother when you were a child?" one psychiatrist had asked. "I loved my mother," Molly answered. "Wonderful," said the psychiatrist. "Do you harbor anger toward your father?" "No, but I'm harboring anger toward you." Questions, questions, and when she was exhausted with their questions more questions.

The doctors could find nothing in her past that would cause the debilitating depression, so they finally concluded that it must be Molly's brain chemistry that was at fault, although they didn't use the phrase, 'at fault.' They were much too savvy, Molly realized, to place blame. They instead talked of "causes," "triggers," and "hereditary predisposition." Their solution to Molly's problem was to prescribe a seretonin adjuster. Molly refused to take it. She didn't object to other people taking drugs like that, but she would not take it. She had tried to explain this to her father before he insisted on bringing her to this place, but he would have none of her explanations. He just wanted her to get well. It mattered little to him that Molly was thirty-two years old, an attractive, intelligent woman who may not know what was wrong with her, but who insisted she knew what wasn't wrong with her.

So Molly sat here now in the atrium, basking in the sun's glow, able to escape, if only for a little while, from her depression. She looked up at a familiar flash of movement next to her. It was her father. Molly and her father had an especially close relationship, and she took great comfort in that.

He sat down beside her and looked at her with a father's love. "You've got to cooperate with the doctors, Molly."

"I won't take a prescription drug. We've had this discussion before. Taking a designer drug runs counter to everything I stand for."

"But . . ."

"No," Molly interrupted. She put her hand on her father's arm in way of comforting him.

"You don't need to tell your friends you are taking a prescription. It's not their business to know."

"I realize this, but I'll know. My friends know the stand I've taken on the side of natural healing. It's my philosophy of life, for God's sake. Taking a designer drug to ease my depression would be hypocritical. I can't take anything like that. I just can't."

Sam Ling sat back and sighed. "You are the most stubborn daughter a man could have."

"I know this has been tough for you. I appreciate you bringing me here," she said softly.

"You damn near died with that suicide attempt! I had no choice but to bring you here!"

"Dad, keep your voice down," Molly whispered frantically. "Let's not announce this to the world. All right?"

"I'm sorry. You just steam me so much."

Molly looked across the room. She was relieved to see that the elderly lady who had been sitting across from her before her father came in was no longer there. She turned to her father. "Look, I've been doctoring myself with herbs."

"You need something more . . ."

"I know that now," Molly interrupted. "I know. I'll work on it. I'll double dose, triple dose, whatever it takes. I'll get my depression under control. Somehow I'll straighten myself out."

Peter had his back to the shop door, but looked around when the red light in front of him flashed. He turned away from his computer and looked at the person who had entered the small store. It was one of his faithful clients. Peter smiled and pointed to the chair next to his own. The extra chair was facing his computer. "How are you, today, Jacob?" Peter typed on the screen.

Jacob sat down, then typed in return, "I'm just fine."

"What can I help you with?"

"I came in today because I need something for indigestion. Do you have anything for that?"

"Are you the one who has the problem?"

"No," Jacob typed. "It's my daughter who's having trouble."

"Okay. I remember that your daughter, Jenny, is six? Seven?" I think I've forgotten her age."

"You're close," Jacob typed. She's seven and a half."

Peter smiled. "Time's moving too fast for me."

"It happens to us all," Jacob typed.

Peter got up and went to a shelf. He handed his old client a bottle of Cayenne capsules. Then he took out his notepad and wrote, 'adult dose- 3 capsules daily. child dose- at least 1, up to 2 capsules daily.'

Jacob's mouth moved into the shape of a sincere thank-you. He followed Peter to the cash register and paid for the capsules, then left. Peter sat back down at his computer.

The morning moved slowly. A few old and faithful customers like Jacob came and went, some buying bottles of capsules or extract while others purchased herb tea. Some took a candy flavored vitamin C sample from the dispenser by the cash register before they left. A woman from the local gym came in to buy white willow for pain, and oat fiber and wheat germ as a source of vitamins B and D. Peter was thankful for his old customers, but he hoped new customers didn't show up because today he really didn't want to educate them to his own shortcomings. He didn't have the energy to do that today. He was depressed enough already.

He again sat down at his computer, back to the door. The customer alert light, not lit, stared at him like a half dead eye in the head of someone who was as depressed as himself. But now the light blinked on, alerting him to another customer who had entered his store. He got up and tiredly turned around. A woman approximately his age, with short black hair, a petite face and figure, beautiful black almond eyes, and a perfect complexion smiled at him. He felt his face flush. He must have been staring. He was no good with pretty women. He wasn't worthy of a second look from them. What would she think of him? He couldn't even talk to her.

Her words formed into a "Good morning."

Peter scrambled for his notepad. He hastily scribbled down "Please sit at my computer. I am deaf."

The woman looked up at him, then back at the note. She pointed to the computer. "There?" she asked.

The man nodded, then patted the back of the chair. She sat down. She felt uncomfortable. The man didn't frighten her, but Molly was a communicator by nature, and her heart went out to this man who had to rely on a computer to make himself understood.

The man typed, "How may I help you?"

Molly typed, "My name is Molly Ling. May I ask your name?"

The man typed, "My name is Peter Redman. Nice to meet you, Molly." He smiled briefly at her, then typed, "What can I help you with?"

"I'm not sure."

"Why did you come into my shop if you're not sure what I can help you with?" He looked at her quizzically'eyebrows raised, head tilted.

Molly put her head down, suddenly ashamed, then typed, "I suffer from depression." Typing direct answers on a computer screen was making her uncomfortable. It was as if she was baring her brain to the world.

Peter typed, "Have you been taking anything for it?"

"I've been taking Evening Primrose. It seems to help my anxiety, but it doesn't do much for my depression."

"Hypericum will help you with both anxiety and depression. Have you tried Hypericum? It's extracted from St. John's Wort, a flower."

"No, I haven't," she typed in return. I've heard of it, but I haven't tried it." She looked around the shop. It was neat and well organized, and the shelves were stocked with a great variety of herbs, capsules, and teas. It was clear from the sheer variety of posters on the walls that this was no chain store. This was Peter's store, and it felt warm and homey. "I like your store," Molly typed. "You've had this place for awhile."

"Several years," Peter typed. "Would you like to try Hypericum?"

"No, I think I'll wait on that." She didn't know why she didn't trust this man to give her valid advice, but she didn't. He was deaf. How much could he really know? Just how reliable could he be? They sat there, the two of them, staring at the screen, each waiting for the other to type something. Molly felt uncomfortable for both of them now. "Well," she typed, "as I've already said, you have a wonderful store. Maybe I'll stop in again sometime. I'll . . .I'll think about the Hypericum."

Peter smiled, but typed nothing. Molly thanked Peter for his time, then got up and excused herself. The tinkling bells on the door when she left told her that other people, hearing people, worked with Peter.

Molly Ling liked to think of herself as a self-made woman. She was no millionaire, but her real estate business kept her very comfortable. Gone now were the gruesome start-up days of showing houses sixteen hours a day, every day including weekends. She had other people selling for her now, and this was the way she liked it. Occasionally she would keep her fingers in the pie by showing an especially attractive house and then selling it for a good profit, but most of the time she was content just to run the business.

Molly occasionally dated, but at thirty-two years old she figured she had plenty of time to find a husband. Besides, she hadn't found anyone yet who even remotely interested her. For the past four years Molly had suffered from a debilitating depression. She was quite convinced that the only reason she had become so financially successful was because the depression made her fight. The depression would come in waves--waves that threatened to capsize her life. But she hung on most of the time. Driving herself to make her business succeed was the only therapy she needed. Besides, if no one knew about her depression, did it really exist? Sometimes she was convinced that she was just over-tired.

Molly thought she had beaten the depression, but five weeks ago it came again, and this time she had almost lost her battle. She overdosed on sleeping pills. She knew it was almost cliché in the way she tried to do herself in, but Molly wasn't looking for an original way to go out. She simply wanted out, and wanted the exit to be as painless as possible.

Right now the man at the nutrition store was in her thoughts. She didn't mind admitting to herself he was very good-looking and she realized he had to be intelligent to run such an established store. Inwardly she felt guilty that she had dismissed him so quickly. She wished now that she would have bought something from him; she hadn't wanted to hurt him. Molly was an astute observer of human nature and the man's smiling face belied his inner self. Molly was sure he was a very lonely person. She knew she was.

Molly clapped her hand over her mouth and coughed. She shuddered as she hacked. Today she woke up feeling lousy, and the cough had followed her to work. "You sound terrible, Molly." Molly's secretary, Louise, sitting across the room from her, was constantly mindful of Molly's health. Molly needed Louise's motherly ways. Molly's mother had died when Molly was six, so Molly was raised by her father. Molly's father and Louise had been intimate friends for years, but they never married. Molly often wished they had. But her father couldn't give up the love he had for Molly''s mother, and like a ghost, it stood between the relationship Molly so wanted for her father and Louise.

"I feel terrible," Molly said.

"You should go to . . ."

Molly turned to Louise and smiled. "I'm okay, Mother, she said with comic emphasis.

"I mean it, Molly. You should go to the doctor."

"I will when I have the time."

Now she had an excuse to walk back into the store. She didn't know why, but she hoped Peter was there, and she hoped he had something for her cough.

The bells on the door tinkled merrily as she pushed it open. Peter, back to the door, eyes fixed on his computer screen, was just barely visible to her as he sat hunched behind the counter. But he quickly stood up, now, and turned around to face her. He smiled at her, but he made no sound of greeting.

"Hello," Molly said.

Peter quickly saluted a 'hello' in return. He indicated he wanted her to sit down at the computer. She did.

"May I help you with something?" Peter typed.

"I have a very bad cough," Molly said.

"How bad? What does it feel like when you cough?" She read the words, but could see his concern out of the corner of her eye.

"It feels like I'm turning inside out." The cough she tried to hold in check now exploded from her in a hacking spasm. She looked at Peter and choked, "Excuse me."

Peter smiled and then quickly brushed the open palm of his left hand with the tips of the fingers of his right hand. Molly looked at him, puzzled.

Peter typed, "The sign for 'excuse me' is," and he repeated the sign.

Molly mimicked Peter's sign. "Like this?" she asked, immediately fascinated.

Peter nodded his approval.

Molly turned to the computer screen. "I'm sorry I left yesterday without getting something for my depression." She looked at Peter.

Peter typed, "People are uncomfortable when they meet me for the first time. It's hard for them to believe there is a brain up here." He tapped the side of his head and smiled.

Molly quickly pulled the keyboard to her and typed, "I truly apologize, Peter."

Peter typed, "You don't have to buy anything from me. I don't want you to feel uncomfortable just because I can't hear you."

Molly typed, "And I don't want you to think I don't have confidence in you. I'll admit that when I first met you yesterday, I was uncomfortable. We hearing people are very uncomfortable with silence. But I do trust your knowledge." She smiled. "At least today I do. I was foolish for leaving without Hypericum yesterday."

"You made a decision that at the time seemed like the right one to you."

"I made the wrong decision. I want to try what you recommend. And I want something for this cough." She hacked again, feeling embarrassed at coughing her guts out in front of him.

Peter looked at her as she was gasping for breath. Without asking--because he couldn't verbally ask--he firmly pressed his thumb on the right outer part of her chest, three finger widths below her collarbone. The spasms immediately stopped. "What . . . what did you do?" Molly asked, grateful at his touch. She took a deep breath and sagged with relief against the chair back.

Peter pointed to the keyboard. Molly took it and typed, "What did you do to me? The cough is gone."

"I apologize for touching you without your permission," he typed. His face was flushed with embarrassment.

"Please don't apologize. Please don't. You stopped my cough. How did you do that?"

"I pressed the "Letting Go" acupressure point. It helps with coughs, breathing, and emotional tension."

"Thank you," Molly typed. She stopped and then pressed in the approximate spot Peter just had. "Here?" she asked verbally.

He looked at her. She could see his overwhelming shyness on his face. She quickly typed, "Please show me again."

Peter placed his thumb into the same spot and pressed, first gently, then more firmly. Molly felt a sense of calmness and peace as he pressed and held his thumb on that magic spot. "Th . . . thank you," she verbalized, completely forgetting for a moment that Peter was deaf.

"There are other points that will strengthen your immune system," Peter typed. "You have a cold and probably a touch of the flu as well. When you learn where those points are, you should press them several times a day until the cold is gone. Then, every morning when you wake up, you should press those same points, even after the cold is gone. It helps to keep the cold away."

"Where are these points?" Molly asked.

Peter picked up a book that said, "Accupressure Points," on the front. The book had colorful index tabs on the pages and from the look of the book, Molly knew that Peter used it often. He quickly opened the book to a chapter titled, "Immune System Boosters." He laid the book in front of her and pointed to the diagrams. She pointed to the points labeled, "B-36," one on each side of the spine, off the tips of the shoulder blades. "I can't reach those points myself, can I?" She looked at him. She felt her heart beating under her blouse. She wanted him to touch her again.

"You can reach behind and press the points with your fingers," he typed.

"How will I know where to press?" Molly could actually hear her heart beating in her ears.

"You will feel it when you are on the right spot." Through simple gestures he indicated she should stand up and turn around. She did so. He touched her shoulder indicating she should turn her head to look at the computer screen. Then he typed, "Please don't interpret what I am about to do as medical diagnosis or treatment. By law those of us who are natural healers are not allowed to medically diagnose or treat someone." He looked up from the keyboard, smiled, then typed, "Understand?" He put his turned in fist to his forehead, then flicked his index finger up once. He pointed back at the word, "Understand," on the screen, then repeated the sign.

Molly hesitantly mimicked the sign.

From behind, Peter put his hands on Molly's shoulders and gently steered her to her chair, but he turned the chair around and indicated she should sit and lean forward against the back. She did so.

He felt with his thumb along her right shoulder blade, probing, pressing, exploring, then moving on to a different spot, a fraction of an inch at a time. She couldn't believe she was allowing this strange man to touch her. But it was obvious to Molly that Peter knew what he was doing. And in this very public shop, it seemed the right thing to do.

Suddenly, like a white hot needle, pain burst from under Peter's thumb press. Molly flinched, but instinctively knew this was the right spot. She felt herself leaning into the pain as Peter's thumb pressed steadily into her flesh. "Ohh," she groaned. He couldn't speak to her as he worked, but a trust, a trust so deep she couldn't explain it, passed through her soul.

She gasped as the pain simmered. She wanted to ask, How much longer? but knew Peter couldn't understand. Finally, after what seemed to be an interminable amount of time, he released his thumb. Then he began probing on the left side of her spine. She pinched her eyes shut, waiting for pain to strike. This time he found the point quicker. She clenched her teeth as pain once again flooded through her. "Geez, Peter," she voiced, teeth gritted.

When Peter released his thumb, he typed, "The Chinese believe wind and cold enter the pores of the skin at these two points. When you have a cold or flu, these points get blocked up. Pressing those points helps to release the blockage." He put his finger up in the natural sign for "Wait." He took the acupressure book and walked to a copy machine nestled in a corner. Molly hadn't noticed it until now. He laid the book face down on it and pressed the 'copy' button. Then he brought the book back and handed her the copy. It was the diagram that showed the immune booster points. He typed, "Now you don't have to buy a book."

"I would be glad . . ." She stopped herself, once again forgetting that Peter was deaf. Then she typed, "I would be glad to buy one of your acupressure books."

He waved his hand from side to side in a simple gesture of, 'Don't worry about it.'

"Well, I do want some Hypericum," she typed.

Peter went to a shelf and picked up a bottle of St. John's Wort. He wrote on a small pad, 'One capsule every 8 hours.'

Molly pointed to her open mouth and faked a cough. She hadn't felt like coughing ever since Peter had pressed the miraculous accupressure point on her chest, but knew that when she got home she would undoubtedly begin coughing again.

Peter picked up a package and handed it to her. The label said, 'Mullein Tea.' On the box it said, '25 bags.' On his notepad, Peter scribbled, 'Drink 2 cups daily for cough.'

Molly put the notes in her purse. At the cash register Peter rang up the tea and St. John's Wort, then put them into a sack and handed the bag to her. Molly handed Peter a twenty dollar bill and he handed her two dollars and fifty-four cents in change.

Molly didn't know what to do now. She didn't want to leave. For the first time in months she felt good. "I . . ." She stopped, then took the notepad and wrote, "You are very skilled. Thank-you."

Peter put up his hand, modesty covering his face.

Molly wrote, "I didn't expect so much attention when I came in."

Peter looked down at the counter, his face flushed. But he was smiling.

"Just be cautious." Peter's sister sat across the table from him.

"The woman was very nice," Peter signed. "She was a sincere person and I liked her. But don't worry, she won't come back to see me."

"Don't say things like that," Peter's sister signed. "I wasn't trying to give you a hard time about her. I just want you to be careful. I don't want you to be hurt."

"Tina," Peter signed, "no woman will want anything to do with me. At least not in a serious way. You don't need to worry I'll be hurt. Women can't hurt me. I won't allow myself to become involved with anyone. If I don't give myself up to a woman, I can't possibly be hurt. You know that's right."

"Yes," Tina signed sadly. "That's right. But I'm sure there is a nice woman for you, Peter. I'm sure of it. I just want you to be careful. You are easily influenced by a woman who shows even the slightest interest in you."

Peter wasn't sure he wanted to be married anyway. His sister's husband didn't treat her very well; alcohol and marriage didn't mix. But his sister was a strong woman who wanted to keep her family together, regardless of the emotional cost, so she stayed with Tom. "She won't come back, not for a long time," Peter signed.

"Do you want her to?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"I can't explain why. She thanked me. She was nice to me . . ."

"Peter," Tina interrupted, "it takes more than nice."

Peter waved his hands at her to be quiet. "It was more than nice. I felt close to her. I felt as if I knew her. She trusted me."

"Is it possible you've seen her before?"

"No. She's a stranger. But she's not. I can't explain my feelings to you about her. She's nice-and pretty." With fingers splayed, Peter half circled his face, then closed his fingers into a "bud," the sign for 'pretty'.

Tina looked directly at her brother. "So you want to see her again?"

"Yes, oh God, yes."

Molly didn't want to burden her father with this, but he was a wise man. And he always had Molly's best interest at heart. Without his loving support, she knew she probably would have done away with herself months ago.

A burly man, confident in bearing, handsome in his own way, he waved at Molly as she threaded her way through the barricades, wooden saw horses, and workers of the construction site. Sam Ling, proud in his Chinese heritage, made good, honest money at his construction business. And Molly, being an only child, was raised with everything she could ever want.

She pointed to a trailer parked on the site. The trailer had 'Ling Construction' written on its side. It was her father's office whenever he was on site. He nodded and began walking her way.

Molly smiled at her father's acknowledgment, but suddenly turned with dread at the sound of a construction worker calling to her. She knew who it was and she didn't want to talk to him.

"Wait up, Molly." The construction worker trotted up to her. "How about going out with me again tonight?" he asked. Molly's father was now walking toward her at a good clip.

"No, Frank, I don't think so."

Frank was a well muscled man. Face glowering, arms and chest sweating, he roughly took her by the arm. "Why not?"

"I just don't think we're meant for each other, Frank. You know how it is."

"You're making me work pretty hard just to take you out on a stinking date. You like to be chased, don't you?" Molly could smell beer on his breath.

"I'm not going out with you, Frank," Molly said in a voice that would have discouraged even the most resolute of suitors.

"Oh, you'll go out with me," he said quietly through clenched teeth. "You'll go out with me and you'll like it."

"Don't, Frank." She tried to pull her arm from his grasp. "I told you I don't want to go out with you again. Isn't that clear enough?"

"Hey!" It was Molly's father's voice. She hoped he had seen Frank grab her arm. Her father would take care of this.

Sam pointed at the construction worker. "I just saw you man- handle my daughter. You just earned your last paycheck, boy." He pointed at a small trailer, the payroll office, next to his own trailer. "Go pick up what I owe you. And I don't want to see you on this site again."

"But I've been doing good work," Frank sputtered.

Sam walked up to the young construction worker until their chests nearly touched. "Get the hell off my site," he said quietly.

Frank looked at Sam . . . and glared at Molly. Then he strode off to the payroll trailer.

"Are you all right, Honey?" Sam asked.

"I'm . . . I'm fine, Daddy." She wasn't. She was alarmed at Frank's behavior, but she tried not to let it show.

"He won't bother you again. I shouldn't have kept him on after he bothered you that very first time. I should have canned him on the spot."

"He's just immature, Dad. I don't think he meant any harm. He just doesn't know how to be nice to people'certainly not women."

Sam took his bandanna from his back pocket and wiped his face. "Whew, it's hot out here. Let's forget about this guy and go in my office where it's cool."

As they approached the trailer, Sam said, "This must be serious. You don't often visit me on site." Molly mounted the steps ahead of him and opened the office door. Her father stepped in behind her. When he closed the door, Molly sighed loudly as the noise of pneumatic nail guns and machinery softened through the walls of the trailer.

"I need advice, Dad."

"I figured as much."

Molly sat down in her father's office chair. She loved the feel of the leather surrounding her. Her father let her sit in that chair since she was a very small girl. "I've met this guy," she began simply.

"Oh oh." Sam grinned. "You like him, I take it."

"Yes, I really like him. I'm so comfortable with him. I can't even begin to explain why."

"It sounds like you may have found someone that truly interests you, Honey. You need to get out more. I've always said that your depression would lessen if you could find a good companion."

"Oh, Dad, we've been through this a hundred times. My depression isn't related to anything. It's not a brain chemistry problem, and it's not anything that's happened to me in my past. I couldn't have had a better father than you."

"I always felt guilty I didn't remarry. You needed a mother."

Molly stood up and hugged her father. "You made up for it. I had you and you loved me enough for two parents. Please don't beat yourself up over that anymore."

Sam sat on the top of his desk, facing his daughter. "I dwell on that whenever you're unhappy. Let's talk about this new love interest."

"I didn't say I loved him."

"You must have some feelings for him. If you didn't, we wouldn't be sitting here talking about it, now, would we?"

"No." Molly put her head down as she often did when she was upset or distressed.

"What?" Sam asked. "What is it about this man you're not telling me?"

Molly took a deep breath as if she were gathering courage to tell her father something horrendous. "He's deaf."

"So he doesn't hear?"

"No. I mean, yes, he doesn't hear." She looked at her father expectantly, as if he were about to make some grand pronouncement that would suddenly make everything right with the world.

"So, what's the problem?"

"I don't know. I can't communicate with him very well."

"That's understandable. But you must have communicated with him on some level. You're not the type to go running after good looks alone." Sam grinned. "He is handsome, I take it?"

"Oh, he's a handsome man, Dad. He has big brown eyes that just suck you in. His hair is a rich auburn, his face is . . .nice. Just nice."

"How do you communicate?"

"We type on Peter's computer screen. I feel so sorry for him."

"Well," Sam leaned back in his chair, "pity is a very poor substitute for affection or love."

"I know. That's not what really draws me to him, though. He has this wonderful, caring way about him. He has a nutrition store here in town and he's a natural healer."

"He sounds like a nice young man. When are you going to learn?" Sam smiled.

"To sign?"

"Yeah. My daughter is also a loving, caring person. Of course you want to learn to sign. You'll need to learn to speak his language."

Molly stood up, leaned across the desk, and kissed her father. "Just as soon as I can find a sign language book."

Granite Cliff, Colorado, wasn't a big town as big towns go, but it was large enough to support a fine little book store. Round Table Books sat on the corner of Elm and Main Street, and when Molly walked into the shop, the smell of binder's glue made her heady when she inhaled. Molly loved coming here. This shop was like Peter's shop. It wasn't a large national franchise; it was independently run. Molly knew some of the people who worked here, and that made it all the more enjoyable when she would come.

"Arthur?" Molly called to one of the clerks.

A man all of sixty years old turned and smiled at her greeting. "Hello, Molly. You haven't been here for awhile. Been staying out of trouble?"

"Yes. I've been working, trying to hold down my real estate business. How's Doris?"

"She's doing fine. She's got one of our grandkids this afternoon. She loves to help out our kids whenever they need a baby sitter. Were you looking for something, or did you just come in to bask in the glow of my incredible personality?" Arthur grinned.

"Both."

Arthur shook his finger at her. "Ah, that slippery personality again. That's why you sell so many houses."

"Probably," she said distractedly. "Arthur, I'm looking for a book on sign language instruction. Do you have anything like that in stock?"

"Sure. Follow me."

She followed him through several aisles of books until they came to the reference section. Arthur took a book off the shelf. "This one is a dictionary. It's a great reference, but it's not really meant to teach you sign language from scratch."

Molly flipped through the pages. "But the pictures of signs are very clear."

"Yeah, but you need a book that has lessons in it. Practice sentences. Look at this one." Arthur handed Molly another book. It was a black, hard covered text that immediately intimidated her.

"I don't know, Arthur." Arthur flipped open the book. "Do you want to learn sign language? Or do you just want to dabble?"

"I want to learn."

"Then this is the book you need."

Molly stood rooted to the floor as she slowly turned the pages. "There are hundreds of different signs in this book," she breathed.

"Did you think this was going to be a walk in the park? Sign language is a real language. It has all the depth of any other language. People think once you learn the manual alphabet, you've learned it all. That's not even close to true. I have a sign language book that has seven thousand cross referenced signs."

"Seven thousand signs?" Molly thought she was going to faint. "Why do you own a book with that many signs?"

"My mother is deaf," he said matter of fact.

"Oh, I'm sorry, Arthur. I didn't know."

"What's to know? My mother doesn't have some kind of disease. Her deafness is simply part of her personality. When you know how to sign, language is no barrier. Since my mother was born deaf, I knew how to sign before I knew how to talk. It's not a sad deal, Molly. You just have to make a commitment. If you want to learn how to sign, do it. But if you decide you don't want to take it on, don't even start. I've seen a lot of deaf people over the years who were sadly disappointed in hearing people who promised they would learn to sign for them. But as soon as those hearing people realized how much commitment was required, they would simply walk away from it."

"You sound bitter."

"I guess I am, Molly. I watched my mother's isolation for too long. Language is everything. Turn it around. Suppose all of us were deaf and all the deaf were hearing. They would have the language and they would have the power. We, on the other hand, would be struggling to make ourselves heard. How would you feel if you were deaf in a hearing world?" He looked at her steadily.

"I want this book," she whispered. She took it from him, walked to the cash register, and paid for the book. Then she went home, sat down on her bed, opened up the book and cried herself to sleep.

"Louise, I'm taking the day off." Molly looked at her good friend and confidant.

"If you are taking the day off, why did you come into the office? Why didn't you just stay home?"

Molly opened her new sign language book and held it up. "Because I need you to practice these signs with today."

"I don't know if I can be of much help to you. I don't know anything about sign language."

Molly got up and laid the open book on Louise's desk. "See these signs? They are the letters of the manual alphabet. I've been practicing them at home."

Louise looked at Molly, surprise in her eyes. "You told me you got the book last night. What time did you go to bed if you've already practiced these?" Louise looked at the signs, then at Molly.

"I couldn't sleep. I woke up at around two and I've been practicing them ever since."

"Dear, I hope this young man is worth it."

"He is, Louise. Will you help me today?"

Just then Louise's telephone rang. "Do you want me not to answer that?"

"No," Molly said, irritated at this intrusion. "If they want me, tell them I'm not available today."

Louise picked up the receiver, listened, gave Molly a strange look, then told the caller Molly wasn't available and hung up.

"Who was it?" Molly asked.

"Someone by the name of Frank."

Molly felt frightened. "Frank who? Did he say?"

"No. But he sounded kind of pushy, and he wanted to talk to you."

"I'm glad you told him I wasn't in."

"You look upset, Honey."

"Dad fired Frank yesterday. Frank tried to hit on me, and I brushed him off. Then Frank grabbed me by my arm and said I would go with him'and I'd like it. Then Dad fired him."

Louise looked concerned. "Did he hurt you?"

"Yes. He also frightened me. He went from nice, shy guy to belligerent bastard right before my eyes. He's done that before. I don't get him at all. He's got real emotional problems."

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