Chapter 3

Violet is fidgeting and wringing her hands. It’s distracting. I place my hand gently on hers and she stops. She looks me right in the eyes.

“I just wanted to let you know that I’m sorry. That’s not who I am anymore.”

I raise another spoonful of gumbo to my lips and blow across it to make sure it’s cool enough to eat. I thought that Violet was done, but the words just keep pouring out.

“That was my parents, Red, not me. In fact, I haven’t really spoken to them since I started nursing school. You’re probably going to laugh, but I actually feel closer to your grandparents than my own mom and dad. That’s part of the reason I spend so much time here.”

I rub my hand over hers and give her a squeeze.

“And my other reason … I was hoping … oh, I don’t know what I was hoping. I’ve babbled enough. I should probably quit while I’m ahead.”

“You were the prettiest girl in school,” I say in English. Normally I only sign, because everyone I care about knows my language. But I knew what I said would be too complex for Violet to understand with the limited vocabulary she had built up, so I say it in English.

I think the sound of my voice must have startled Grandma, because she came over to lean on the doorway. I flash her a quick “I’m OK,” and she smiles and gently closes the door.

“More than that,” I say, “When I see you with my grandparents — the way you care for them — I know there’s more to you than just a pretty face.”

“Oh god, Red,” Violet says. “I’m not surprised you hated me for so long. I was horrible.”

She’s hearing my words, but not really listening to a single thing I’m trying to say. She’s still too hung up on the way things used to be.

I really can’t stand this self-deprecating shit anymore so I decide to cut right through it and use a language I think each of us understands equally well. I reach up with both hands and cup Violet’s cheeks. Pulling her down gently, I manage to plant a kiss on her quivering lips without dipping her in Grandpa’s gumbo.

When I release her, Violet exhales a big breath, flashes me a smile, and moves the dinner tray off to the side. “Thank you,” she signs and lays her head on my chest.

As nice as that feels right now, there’s something I need to say. I tap Violet gently on the shoulder and she raises her head to meet my gaze. I spread my five fingers wide and circle my face. “Beautiful,” I say in English. Violet smiles, but her lips are still quivering, so I repeat it. “Beautiful. Inside and out.”

As Violet lays her head across my chest once again, I begin to feel self-conscious about how I must smell after being laid up in bed for a few days. I gently tap her on the shoulder again and teach her two more signs, the one for stinky and the one for bath. She gets a kick out of stinky and snickers for a moment at bath too until it sinks in that I’m asking her to join me in the tub.

“I’m injured. You’re my nurse.” I feel a devious grin crossing my lips. “Earn your paycheck.”

Violet takes my hand and helps me as I gingerly make my way to the bathroom. Out of the corner of my eye I can see Grandma smiling, and in the soles of my feet I can feel Grandpa’s booming baritone singing. By the way Violet is grinning, I’m guessing he’s pulled out his Barry White repertoire again.

I’m up and around and feeling much better these days. My neurologist says that it’s due to a marked decline in the swelling around my brain. Personally, I think it’s because Violet and I are sharing my bed and she’s been taking such good care of me. Actually, I think we’ve been taking care of each other, each helping the other to heal.

Violet has even started coming out to the barn with me when I tinker with my bike. She says she’s interested in what I’m doing, but I think she just needs some time away from Grandpa and his endless renditions of Barry White’s greatest hits. He’s been singing a lot these days, and not just to Grandma.

While I’m checking the tension on my 450R’s chain, Violet is up and flipping through the pages of the motocross calendar that’s tacked to the wall. I grin at the puzzled look on her face.

“Do these girls really race?” she asks. Like many of our conversations these days it’s half signing and half in English. Her signing vocabulary is getting bigger all the time, and Violet’s a fast learner. It makes me wish we’d taken this step a long time ago and saved ourselves a lot of pain.

“Not dressed like that,” I reply and Violet grins.

“Probably just waiting to hug their racers when they come in under the checkered flag,” she says.

“Something like that.” Satisfied that the chain is OK, I stand up and wipe my hands on my pants before making my way over to where Violet is standing.

I smile as she drapes her arms around my neck. “Would you like me to be there with a hug you when you win?” she says.

“I thought you said I wasn’t allowed to race anymore.”

“I never said that.” Violet kisses me quick before continuing. “I just said you’re not allowed to crash.”

I slide my hands around Violet’s waist and nuzzle her neck. I promise I’ll take it easy for a while, and then take Violet’s hands in mine to teach her the signs for dinner and proper date.

I pull the 500X into my grandparents’ driveway and feel the crunch of gravel under my feet as I steady it so Violet can hop down. She looks absolutely adorable as she pulls her helmet off and shakes out her long dark hair for the second time this evening. Even the moonlight is cooperating and giving a nice twinkle to her big brown eyes.

I pull her in for a quick peck on the lips.

I miss the feeling of Violet pressed up against my back, her arms wrapped tight around my waist through the twists and turns of the ride home. We shared a wonderful dinner at a nice dimly-lit restaurant, but the highlight for me had to be the detour we took on the way home to the hills that overlook the lake. With the moon in the trees and my girl in my arms it’s a memory I’ll hold for a long time.

Yeah, Violet’s my girl now. We decided that after dinner. Strange I know, considering how our relationship started out so many years ago. But I have to say, Grandma was right when she said that deep down Violet really is a nice girl. And after I was able to understand and forgive her misguided high school behavior, I saw it too.

So I asked Violet to be my girl. I figured it was either that or watching her hang out at my grandparents’ house signing “I’m sorry” for the rest of my life.

I pull the bike up onto its stand and take Violet’s hand in mine as I lead her to the front porch. It’s a beautiful night with a very welcome breeze keeping us cool and insect-free as we sit side by side on the old swing. Violet rests her head on my shoulder and I feel her body melt into mine.

As I kiss the top of her head, she’s sliding her hand under my racing jacket and nuzzling my neck. The gentle warmth of her body on mine is intoxicating and I want to just lie back and let sleep claim me while I hold my girl next to me.

I slouch on the seat of the swing. I’m content to stay like this for a while, but I think Violet has other ideas. She moving around now and the nuzzling against my neck has turned into tiny kisses and the occasional gentle swirling of her tongue.

I shiver and sit up.

Violet looks me in the eyes and says, “You’re grandfather is singing love songs again.”

I crack a wide grin that soon spreads to Violet. Taking her cheeks in my hands I pull Violet’s mouth to mine. We spend what seems like an eternity, lips pressed together, gently exploring each other.

I feel Violet’s tongue seeking entrance and part my lips to let her in and press back. Vibrations tickle my tongue as she moans into my mouth and we continue our passionate explorations. The tender feeling of our intimacy is beginning to cause a stirring down below.

There is something sexy that I’ve wanted to share with Violet for a long time, but first I need to expand her vocabulary a little further. She already knows the word tongue, so I figure there’s one more sign that is the next logical step in her education.

Pulling back from Violet’s kiss leaves her with a pout. But she soon figures out that I want to tell her something and the pout morphs into a smirk. I have a feeling she knows what it might be by the way her lips are pursed, trying to suppress a full-on silly grin.

I take Violet’s hands in mine and form them so that they are pointing downward with her thumbs touching at the top and her index fingers meeting at the bottom. She’s used to me doing this now when I teach her new words and cocks her head in a questioning expression. I bring her hand over and in a bold gesture I place it on my crotch.

“Pussy,” I mouth in English.

Violet beams. But as I take her hands in mine again to reform the sign, this time holding them higher and running my tongue over her fingers, Violet’s smile turns to a shudder. She grabs me by the collar of my racing jacket and mashes her lips to mine. She only comes up for air long enough to nod vigorously while signing ‘yes’ repeatedly.

I rip around the track on the final lap, so far out in front of the pack that I almost feel sorry for the other riders. And as the checkered flag goes down I see her standing there jumping up and down applauding my victory, my girl, Violet Bleu waiting for me at the finish line. And standing right beside her are my dear old grandparents, looking tired but still managing to offer a wave and a thumbs up.

Violet is living with them full time now while I finish up my last year of college. Grandpa’s Alzheimer’s is getting worse, and the wolf inside Grandma — the lupus — is really tearing up the place. But Violet is there for them and her dedication lets me concentrate more on school and racing and moon pies and worry a little less about nursing homes and hospitals and lab tests.

I used to wonder how Violet could survive with only one client who really only paid her in room and board and spontaneous Barry White renditions. But during the nights that we lay together in bed and I continued to expand Violet’s vocabulary with an ever increasing number of new signs, she was busy explaining the ins and outs of wealthy parents and trust funds.

It’s not exactly how I had expected my life to turn out, but I’m not complaining. I’m surrounded by people I love, and they love me. I can’t really think of a better example of happily ever after than that, can you?