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Unlike most people he sees, Theo Dimas is not addicted to his phone.
He does not normally read the news online; there are well-textured print magazines for that. His cell stays on his bedside table until he’s completed his morning shower and eaten breakfast and caught up on reading, and only then will he thumb through to double-check if his parole officer or father needs something. It’s his small act of self-care, of rebellion—or it was at first. Now, it’s simply his normal.
So when the doorbell light flashes while he’s pouring a bowl of oat cereal, and he peeks through the peephole to see a brunette bob and a grand orange coat, he is understandably caught off guard.
He opens the door, quizzical. Mabel Mora, her forehead crinkling, says something like, “Didn’t you something text?” With a pat across his pockets, he shakes his head, motioning toward the bedroom where his phone is still on its charger. One side of her mouth tucks into her cheek, and she makes a few swipes across her own cell and then shows him the screen. Four bubbles stack up in a row.
Hi. I want to learn ASL. Maybe it’s selfish, but I think it could be useful in a lot of scenarios. Particularly the ones where I don’t feel like talking.
Would you be willing to teach me? I get it if not.
I can stop by tomorrow morning if you’re not busy.
Hey. Haven’t heard from you. Totally fine about not wanting to teach me. Just gonna stop by to make sure you’re not dead. Can never be too sure in the Arconia.
Oh! He starts to sign an apology on instinct and pauses mid-motion to grab a worn notepad nearby. The other scratches on it mostly relate to deliveries; yes and no both have many circles around each, and then there’s not today or down the hall or no, that’s my dad. Now he writes, Sorry, haven’t looked at my phone, yes! Happy to teach. Come in.
She reads this, her face implacable, and as she steps past the threshold she takes in the half-set table and its cardboard box adornment. She spins, waving her arms, which have the unfortunate effect of partially blocking her mouth. Without context, it seems she’s suddenly gone into a minor panic and he reaches out for her shoulder just to ask for a pause, but it has the unfortunate effect of startling her and she shoves herself away and backs into a side table. He immediately throws up his hands in surrender.
Her eyes are wide, the pools a warm brown in the morning sun. It’s not the first time he’s noticed their color, but it’s a terrible time to be looking at eyes when he needs to be watching her lips. Blinking, she mutters something and then presses her hands to her face. It must be something along the lines of, this was a bad idea.
He waits until she lets her hands fall to show her his newest scribble: Do you want some breakfast first? Then he makes the sign for food: a scrunched hand tapping on the lips.
“Wait, I know that one. I think. Does that mean to eat? Or food? Or breakfast?”
He shrugs and nods, and after some hesitancy, she more or less does the same in return. So he sets out a second bowl and spoon and offers her a choice from his grand selection of honey oats, raisin bran, or the last dregs of Fruity Pebbles. The reveal of this rainbow-confetti-esque food draws out the barest smile from her.
“Really?” she says, the word perfectly clear from both her lips and the angle of her chin, and he feigns mock outrage. It’s my favorite, he writes, and she continues that little smile but doesn’t argue, only opts for the raisin bran and some milk.
They eat together without communication for a bit, as multitasking (and lipreading) is difficult when one’s mouth is repeatedly obscured and skewed by food and the spoon. Sometimes he dares glance up, still entirely off-put by Mabel Mora, of all people, being in his proximity—never mind his apartment—willingly, without the threat of instant danger afoot.
Seeing her always brings a mild spectacle of emotions, a swirl that speeds his heartbeat but dampens his spirit with guilt. There is an ache, too, the one that stems from the thought that this is not fixable no matter how many times he could save her or give her shelter or teach her a new language. He is stained. He will always incite a hurt in her; and she, him.
When the dishes are stacked in the sink and they angle themselves at safe distances in the living room, she on the couch and he in an armchair, he flips to a new page and writes what do you want to know?
Her eyes flare open. “Whew. Big question. I assume you mean sign language?” He nods with a twist in his gut, only now realizing the question could have been interpreted much differently. “Well, I guess the basics. Hello, goodbye. Where’s the bathroom. Help.”
Through his demonstration, she picks up the signs for ‘hello’ and ‘goodbye’ and ‘help’ almost instantly. It takes a few more minutes for her to rethink the other question in terms of sign; instead of a question, it’s bathroom and where, both with an inquisitive expression.
“Oh gosh, the expressions. I’m something so bad something,” she laments, squirreling her brows down to look adorably—not adorably, scratch that, he mustn’t think that way—confused. He points at her, puts on a deadpan look, and slides the same hand over his face. “What does that mean?”
Poker-face, he writes.
“Oh, I thought you were making fun of me. What’s the sign for ‘don’t be mean?’”
He laughs, but obliges: points to her, pops one thumb out from under his chin, and then rakes both hands in clenched claws against each other.
“I imagine you’re supposed to look disapproving while signing that.”
He catches himself; he’d been smiling. He nods, conceding the point. You try.
But when she tries to sign the same, overworking her face so that her lips flatten and her chin turns into a map of dimples, he has to tuck in his mouth to keep from laughing again. A scold has never been so cute.
Sorry, he signs.
“I know that one, too. Sorry for what?”
Me. Mean.
“You’re not. Something, you’re… You’ve never been mean.” She overemphasizes the last sentence, finally catching on that he’s doing his best to follow her lips, but this effort is underwhelmed by everything she left unsaid. He can only imagine what could fill her pause. A killer. A coward.
But not mean, he reminds himself, while his chest flushes with red-tinged bitterness. You can somehow commit heinous acts and yet not be a big ol’ meanie. Big win there.
Mabel waves a hand, breaking him from the reverie. “Where did you go?”
He shakes himself, getting back into the instruction. Where, he signs, one pointer finger held up and circling—
“No, I mean right now.”
Yet again, she’s caught him red-handed. A few trite explanations come to mind, but after an awkward length of time he ends up admitting in writing, Sometimes it’s hard to keep bad thoughts out.
Mabel reads this and her lips tighten. She readjusts the hem of her sweatshirt. “Yeah. It’s way too easy to be reminded of…everything that’s something. But, um…I didn’t come here for that, okay? I think me and Charles and Oliver and—well, something something building—could benefit from something, damn it sign. It’s cool. Like a secret language. It might’ve helped us in the boiler room, something…planned something out without speaking, y’know?”
He nods. He’s read the podcast transcripts. Fingerspelling could help. Do you know the alphabet?
She doesn’t, so they take some time with that, glossing over the dreary moment by becoming more diligent about the lesson. Mabel memorizes her own name, and Oliver’s, and they quickly agree to substitute just ‘C’ and ‘H’ for Charles-Haden.
“Actually, I would love a sign for Oliver. What’s something with…a lot of pizzazz?” They try a few signs, glitter again, and theater, but she’s particularly taken with loud. She smiles again as she practices the movement, one hand pointing to the ear and then both fists doing a shimmy. “It’s like a little crazy and a little dance. That’s Oliver in a nutshell.”
He can’t express how much he admires her for being so close with the two quasi-paternal figures. For navigating their oddities and gaining their trust—and them becoming deserving of her own trust, clearly closely-held—in such a small span of time. As she becomes distracted by something on her phone—C-H, she signs, and asks for a minute alone before taking the call—he stares at his own hands lying prone in his lap. What a life he might’ve had, had he ever freely interacted with the Arconia’s motley cast of characters. What friends.
When Mabel returns, she’s in a rush, pacing back and forth and speaking too fast for him to catch a single word. Rather than grab her by the shoulder, this time he simply half-raises a hand and waits for her to catch sight of it and stop.
Do you have to go? He writes.
“Yes,” and then another unintelligible rush, and so he scribbles again.
Will you be safe?
And now she does stop, that corner of her mouth tucked again in uncertainty, a wisp of hair escaping the slicked-back pony, eyes bouncing back and forth between his. The way she takes his measure is bewildering in a way that he mustn’t acknowledge. “Yes,” she says, retreating back to implacability. “I promise. Could we try again on Tuesday, maybe?”
After she’s gone, he finds himself staring at the two bowls in the sink, the two spoons lying side-by-side, wondering if that could ever be his reality. Not with Mabel, necessarily—though—no, enough of that—but with anyone. A person to pass easy mornings with. A partner to laugh with over the oddities of language or sports or building gossip. Someone willing to take him despite his wild and egregious mistakes.
But Theo Dimas is not a dreamer. He knows even this baseline yearning is more likely a fantasy. He is a stain. He can only ask not to besmirch anyone else. Most people were quite right to give him a wide berth in the hallways, or hold themselves uncomfortably still when he joins them in the elevator. Perhaps the Arconia is a living purgatory where sins aren’t forgiven so much as eroded away in time; for good or ill, most people eventually forget about your defining moments in lieu of their own.
But, as he tidies his stark living space, rinsing the bowls and putting them away and thus erasing the evidence of a pair, he remembers that most people are not Mabel. She appears and knows him and remembers and reads him right and yet…still chooses to stay.
With a wrench to the deadbolt, Theo rests his head against the cool door. All the more reason that he does not deserve a woman who has seen enough, held more than her share of hurt—much of it at his hands—and yet keeps overcoming it all in the pursuit of good. Mabel Mora is better than most people.
So if during the week, if he catches sight of her across the lobby with her cohorts, and she catches his eye right back, and if she steps behind Oliver as he explains something in his grandiose fashion, and if Mabel rolls her eyes and signs loud to Theo and only him and they share a secret grin—if that is all he’s allowed?
Then that will have to do.
Let his stain, his spot never fade; it is a reminder of what has been, and what cannot be.