“Can you please repeat what I just said?” Debbie asked. Her usual, wry smile I recognized so well said, “Why do you even try to fool me? I know you so well.” 

“Oh…what…No, I am okay, I got you. I actually heard you,” I replied.

“No, you didn’t, and I know it. I absolutely do not mind repeating myself for the fourth time, Abha. And, if you really got me, why don’t you repeat what I just said? Repeat it,” Debbie said.

I smiled, but did not repeat the words.

Debbie insisted. “Abha, you know your face gives you away, right? Why don’t you admit it? I can read you like a book.” 

I failed to repeat the words. I asked Debbie to repeat herself. 

Over time, I perfected the art of letting go of many conversations. Maybe I was lazy. Maybe I worried the speaker would get irritated at my second or third query. Maybe I needed to comprehend just one word for the entire conversation to become clear in my mind. Maybe I was simply getting old and tired of asking.    

Pretending I had heard never worked with Debbie. Just as it never worked with my daughter, Akanksha. Both read my face. Both recognized my pretense. Both often insisted I repeat what I said I had “heard.” Both discerned this was my wriggle-out strategy for not furthering the conversation with a soft-speaking someone, or a person who, despite being aware of my hearing loss, would not, or could not, speak loud and clear enough for me to comprehend. 

Debbie would look quizzically at me and Akanksha would say, “Did you hear that?” followed by, “You do know you have to speak up louder with her, right?” to the other person. 

Debbie Greer was one of my best friends. She was smart, introspective, and beautiful. She was my first white friend. 

We both worked in two different research labs on separate floors at the University Texas Medical Branch in Galveston. There was a main elevator and stairwell at the back. Just a floor above us, Debbie liked to use the stairwell and would often come down three to four times a week to use a specific instrument in our lab. Excellent at experimental work, Debbie was a clever and innovative lab tech. She asked all the right questions when she had something new to learn. She even joined classes at the community college to begin a master’s degree. “Let’s do classes together, Abha,” she said. “It will be good.” 

I have no clear memory of how we became friends, but we chatted between experiments in the hallways or near the spectrophotometer instrument she often used. And, of course, in the stairwell. There were no coffee breaks, no shared lunches. I was not much of a coffee drinker. Usually, I ate alone during the incubation period of an ongoing experiment. Other times, I shared homemade leftovers for lunch with my husband. At the time, I did not call my husband by his name, Raj. That intrigued Debbie. She loved to tease me. 

“You, my dear, are his wife and the mother of two children. How can you not call Raj by his name?” 

We knew each other four short years but talked a lot in that time. Our conversations ranged from life in general, our experiments, her coursework, Indian food (she loved my cooking), her sister’s children, my two children, our immigration process to the US, and how I would be very successful if I wrote a book on how to save money and raise a family as an immigrant on the miser salary of a post-doctoral fellow. 

I lived on the East end, in a one-bedroom apartment at Casa Carribe. The local construction fever began, and Debbie quickly bought an apartment in one of the multi-storied complexes on the far west end of Galveston. A small, one bedroom, one living room set, it was just two miles from the beach. Pictures of her great-great-grandparents hung on the walls. Flowers she often bought for herself sat prettily in the long vase on the central table by the sofa. For our first dinner at her place, Debbie, not the best of cooks, cooked beans and nacho chips smothered with Velveeta cheese. 

“Buy an apartment here, Abha. It will be fun. We will always be close; we will walk the beaches together.” 

When the visa extension permit did not arrive, Raj left for India. In about a year’s time, Akanksha left for college at Boston. Abhishek was finishing his Bachelor’s at UT, Austin. Debbie and I had more time. Every so often, she would ask about my plans for the weekend. It worried her that I worked so hard and would probably spend the weekend in the lab. It could not be helped. The quest for a permanent residency card (green card) required I work long hours to collect the required data and publish in a good, peer-reviewed, scientific journal. I had a resume to enhance. Weekdays and weekends in the lab at all odd hours were the rule. 

For some time, Debbie wanted me to explore Galveston with her. She found it interesting that, despite a stay of three years in the US and a husband who liked to drink, I had still not visited a bar. Maybe now I could accompany her to one? Drink some wine? Why, why was I not interested in at least trying? Yes, I wanted to see a bar. But could I sit at a bar stool and watch around? Did I really have to drink? Debbie found all this very funny. 

Finally, I declared, “Okay, Debbie, I’ll drink when you get married.” Fair enough. She smiled.   

A few months later, Akanksha, home from college, brought up a similar request. She had a new red wine to taste. As always, I refused. 

This time, she was upset. “Ma, this is no fun. We never have fun together.” 

Seeing her so irritated, I replied gently, “Hey, why don’t I promise you something? I will drink and celebrate when you graduate from medical school.”

What were the chances my daughter and Debbie would ever meet and discuss my non-drinking issue? One day, we were all together. The two girls chatted and somehow shared notes about me: the new job I was hesitating to take, my fascination with bars, and my inhibition with drinking. The truth was soon revealed. I committed to a first drink with each of them, only the occasions were different. There was only one way to pacify my daughter. 

“Hey, I will drink. It will be different. When you graduate, Akanksha, I will drink so much, I will be drunk. Cannot do that at a wedding, can I?” 

The future is so unpredictable. How would I know there would be no wedding for Debbie? There would only be a funeral. Debbie died in a car accident in the summer of 2007. She was only twenty-nine years old. Visiting her as she lay in the casket was not something I ever imagined for us. We were supposed to do so much together.

This was not supposed to happen. Debbie was a careful driver. It was Debbie who plastered me with questions when my young daughter received her driving permit. “Are you sure Akanksha is ready for this? Isn’t she too young?  Does she know how to change lanes? She does turn back to look before changing lanes, right?” 

Two weeks later, the disaster happened. I lost Debbie. 

Her car was smashed to smithereens. Bought only a few months before, Debbie loved it. It was her dream come true, a two-door, red Mustang. 

That afternoon, a colleague from Debbie’s lab visited. He knew how close we were. Debbie drove to work early that morning at around eight. As she turned on Broadway, an oncoming truck smashed into her car. Trucks were not supposed to be there so early in the morning. This one was. Debbie died instantaneously. I realized that, ironically, my husband and I passed the wreck less than forty-five minutes later, wreckage still visible, completely unaware. 

The evening before, Debbie came by our lab. She seemed perturbed. I could not ask her anything at the moment since I was busy pipetting in the culture hood. After a while, she left without saying anything. I finished my experiment and immediately went over to her lab. Perhaps she was worried for her niece, Rachel. Diagnosed with leukemia, the little girl was continuously in and out of hospitals for treatment. Perhaps Debbie wanted to talk about her. 

But now, Debbie was in the culture room. I waited. Maybe she would talk after a few minutes or ask me to return later. She did not. She seemed hesitant, as if there was something that needed more time and attention to understand. I waited some more, then returned to my lab. I would ask tomorrow. 

There was no tomorrow. Only regret. A long-lasting regret numbed only by passing years. What was it she wanted to tell me? Why was I not there for her that evening?  

Debbie had so many expectations for me. Write that grant and submit it. Submit manuscripts. Be confident. I had it in me to achieve more. Why was I not exploring my potential? Why would I hesitate to accept the Research Assistant professor position at the University of North Texas Health Science Center in Fort Worth? Yes, we would be in two separate towns, but we could always visit. Why was I not ready to purchase a house now that I had a green card? 

Sadly, I could never invite Debbie to visit the first home we purchased in the US. 

Time passed. While I could not bring myself to get drunk on Akanksha’s medical school graduation, I certainly drink a fine wine now and then. I have also visited some fancy and expensive bars, courtesy Akanksha. We have had our special times. I accepted the position in Fort Worth and went on to resurrect my career in Washington. I have submitted manuscripts and grants. I have checked every form thoroughly before signing. 

Sometimes, I still nod my head in agreement as if I heard an entire conversation. I do not let the speaker know there is much I cannot comprehend. I do not ask them to repeat another time. I do not tell them I have severe hearing loss; I am almost deaf. Regardless of what I do, I know Debbie’s wry smile continues to both accept me as I am and nudge me toward my better, more independent self. 

-Abha Sharma

Abha is a research scientist in the Department of Bioengineering at the University of Washington, Seattle. A self-taught lip reader who has struggled to hear since childhood, she was diagnosed with bi-lateral moderate to profound sensorineural hearing loss in her early teenage years. Staunch support from her parents, especially her father, enabled her to complete college with a strong academic background and a PhD in Biophysics from the premier All India Institute of Medical Sciences (AIIMS) in India. Abha is married to Rajendra. Together with their two children, they traversed a tough immigration process to Texas in 2000 before relocating to Seattle. Her passions include dancing, writing, painting, cooking, and exploring ancient alternative therapies. Currently, Abha is working on a memoir of hearing loss experiences that have enriched her life. One of her articles, “Puja with Mother”, has been published in Hearing Life (a Hearing Loss Association of America publication). Another one accepted by Touchstone Literary Magazine will be out online for the Spring 2021 series.