The Sound of Nine Years

Nine Years of Silence: A Thunderclap of a Single Word

My name is Li Defu, and I’m sixty-three this year. If you were to ask me what I’m most proud of in this life, it’s not the time I spent as a workshop director at the factory, nor is it saving up to buy my son an apartment in the city. It’s this—I took my deaf-mute granddaughter, Xiaojing, from a tiny thing who couldn’t speak and only stared at the world with wide eyes, and I raised her into a young lady who laughs, plays, and can even "pick a fight" with people using sign language.

It sounds simple when said aloud, but nine years—over three thousand days and nights—contained more bitterness and struggle than all the mature vinegar I’ve drunk or bitter melon I’ve eaten in my entire life.

Xiaojing is my son’s daughter. When her mother was pregnant, my late wife was still around, looking forward every day to holding a granddaughter. When the baby was born, she was fair-skinned with big, double-lidded eyes, looking just like a porcelain doll. The whole family was overjoyed. But by the time she was over a year old, when other children were starting to babble "Papa" and "Mama," Xiaojing remained silent. Her mother would clap behind her, and she wouldn’t react. We’d shake a rattle by her ear, and she wouldn’t even blink.

Panicked, my son and daughter-in-law rushed her to the hospital. The day the results came out, my daughter-in-law collapsed in the hospital corridor, weeping so hard she couldn't walk. Profound congenital deafness. Her hearing loss was over 100 decibels in both ears; she essentially lived in a world completely devoid of sound.

During that time, the house was a mess. My daughter-in-law washed her face with tears every day, while my son sat in silence, smoking one cigarette after another. My wife’s health was already poor, and the stress sent her blood pressure soaring. I kept saying, "It’s okay, it’s okay, we’ll find a way to treat it," but at night I tossed and turned, soaking my pillow with tears.

When Xiaojing was two, her mother became pregnant again. The following year, a healthy younger brother was born. To be honest, with the arrival of the second child, the family had even less capacity to care for Xiaojing. It wasn't a lack of love, but pure exhaustion. The baby needed nursing, the eldest needed rehabilitation training, my son had to work to earn money, and my daughter-in-law was worn to the bone caring for two children alone.

I had just retired then, and my wife had been gone for less than a year. My son called me, hesitating, asking if I could move to the city to help raise Xiaojing. I stayed silent on the other end of the line for a long time before finally saying three words: "I’m coming over."

And just like that, I went from being Xiaojing’s grandfather to her "24/7 caregiver."

The first two years were incredibly difficult.

I’m just a rough old man. I’ve been a fitter and a turner; I can fix machines and wire electricity. But faced with a two-year-old toddler who couldn't hear or speak, I was truly lost. When she cried, I didn't know why. When she threw a tantrum, I didn't know what was hurting. When she woke up startled at night, staring at her surroundings with terrified eyes, I would pace the room holding her, patting her back and muttering, "Grandpa is here, Grandpa is here," but she couldn't hear me. Not a single word.

It felt like standing outside a tightly locked door, pounding and shouting with all your might, while the person inside can't feel a thing. All your sounds, all your language, were like stones thrown into a black hole—no echo, no response.

Later, I enrolled in a parental training course for deaf children to learn sign language and rehabilitation techniques. Out of twenty-odd parents, I was the only old man, sitting among a group of young mothers, clumsily gesturing with my hands. When the teacher taught the sign for "apple," the mothers learned it in a few tries, but my fingers felt like wooden clubs; I couldn't get them right. I’d practice in front of the mirror at home until my hands cramped.

But I couldn't give up. I am her Yeye—her grandfather. If I didn't learn, who would teach her?

When Xiaojing was three, I got her hearing aids. The first time she wore them, the rehabilitation teacher struck a drum behind her. Xiaojing shuddered violently and whipped her head around, her eyes filled with terror and confusion. She had heard—or more accurately, felt—a vibration she had never experienced before.

Then she burst into a "waa" of tears, reaching up to rip the devices off her ears.

I rushed to pull her into my arms, my nose stinging, old tears nearly falling. My girl, Grandpa knows those things are uncomfortable, but if you don't wear them, you'll truly spend your life in a silent world.

From then on, the first thing I did every morning was put on her hearing aids. If she resisted, I’d bribe her with her favorite fruit leather. Put them on, get a piece. Take them off, nothing. We did this for half a year before she finally got used to them.

Rehabilitation is grueling work. The teacher taught her to make the "a" sound, placing her hand on her throat so she could feel the vibration of the vocal cords. If once didn't work, we did it ten times. If ten didn't work, a hundred. Xiaojing would slap the table in frustration, and I’d be drenched in sweat from anxiety. But she would watch the shape of my mouth, following along earnestly, her little face turning red and her lips trembling, until finally, she squeezed a blurred "a" from her throat.

In that moment, my tears just poured out.

She looked at me crying, paused, then reached out her small hand to touch my face and grinned. She didn't understand why Grandpa was crying, but she knew she had done something right.

We ground it out like that, word by word. From "a" to "ba," from "ba" to "Baba." The day she learned to say "Papa," I specially recorded a video and sent it to my son. He watched it at the construction site and then spent a long time crying in a corner.

But she could never say "Yeye."

The word for "Grandfather" was too hard for a deaf child—a retroflex sound followed by a delicate airflow. Since she couldn't hear it, she couldn't mimic it. The rehab teacher said she might never be able to pronounce it. I said it was fine; if she couldn't say it, she wouldn't say it. I didn't need that one word.

I said that with my mouth, but in my heart, there was a touch of sadness.

When Xiaojing was five, my son and daughter-in-law took on a project that required them to go out of town for over six months. Before leaving, my daughter-in-law held Xiaojing and cried repeatedly, apologizing to her daughter and promising to buy her the best cochlear implant once they earned the money. By then, Xiaojing could lip-read; she watched her mother cry and started crying too, desperately wiping away her mother's tears with her little hands.

I stood by, feeling an indescribable bitterness. My son had his struggles—two children to raise, and Xiaojing’s ongoing rehab and implant costs were a bottomless pit. How could they not go out to earn money? But this child was already so pitiable, and now her parents would be away for a long time...

After they left, Xiaojing was despondent for a while. She wouldn't eat or play; she just clutched a cloth doll her mother left behind and sat on the windowsill, staring blankly at the gate downstairs. I knew what she was waiting for—she was waiting for that door to push open and for her mother and father to walk through.

My heart ached for her, so I tried everything to cheer her up. I folded paper airplanes, took her to the park to see the fish, and taught her the names of flowers and grass. When she was sad, I’d make funny faces or pretend to bark like a dog—even though she knew I couldn't hear myself, seeing me open my mouth, stick out my tongue, and bob my head finally made her laugh.

With that one smile, I felt everything was worth it.

Slowly, Xiaojing and I developed a set of "secret signals" known only to us. One tap on the table meant she was thirsty. Two taps meant she was hungry. A tug on my sleeve meant she needed the bathroom. Touching her ear meant the hearing aid battery was dead. If she had a nightmare at night, she would draw circles in my palm with her finger; I’d know she was scared, pull her close, and gently pat her back until she fell back to sleep.

Most of our communication was silent. But that silence wasn't a barrier; it was a deeper understanding. One look from her, and I knew what she wanted. One raised eyebrow from me, and she knew I was teasing her.

My neighbor, Old Zhou, often joked: "Old Li, the two of you are like mimes. Such perfect chemistry."

I’d laugh and say, "Of course. My granddaughter and I have a bond forged in the trenches."

When Xiaojing was seven, she finally received a cochlear implant. On the day it was activated, my son, my daughter-in-law, and I were so nervous we barely breathed. The doctor adjusted the settings and gave a light click—

Xiaojing shuddered violently, as if struck by an electric current, then whipped her head toward the source of the sound. It was the first time I saw that expression on her face—not fear, not confusion, but shock. The shock of "So, this world actually has sound."

The doctor whispered, "Xiaojing, can you hear me?"

Xiaojing’s mouth hung open as tears flowed silently. She nodded frantically.

Then she looked at me, her lips trembling several times as she forced out a muffled sound—

"Ye... Ye..."

It wasn't "Yeye"; it was "Yeyeh." The airflow was still wrong, the tongue position off. But it was the most beautiful sound I had ever heard in my life.

From then on, Xiaojing’s language skills progressed by leaps and bounds. Though she was still far behind children her age, she could say simple words and short sentences. "Mama," "Papa," "Eat," "Drink," "Go play"—the words popped out one by one. Every time a new word emerged, I felt like I’d won the lottery.

But she still never managed a full, clear "Yeye."

She tried many times, but she always got stuck on the second "ye" sound, ending up with "yeya" or "ye-eh." She would stomp her feet in frustration, and I would smile, stroke her head, and sign to her: "No rush, take it slow. Grandpa knows you’re calling me."

She would pout and sign back: "But I want to call you Yeye."

My nose would sting, and I’d pull her into my arms. Silly girl, you can call me whatever you want. Even if you can never say it clearly for the rest of your life, you are still Grandpa’s precious granddaughter.

The days passed like this. Xiaojing attended a special education school and worked very hard. Her sign language became smoother than mine, and her speech was slowly improving. She had a bright personality and made many friends. When she came home, she would "chatter" away about school—even if her chattering sounded muddled to me, I listened with great interest every time, nodding, widening my eyes, or giving a thumbs-up when appropriate.

My son and daughter-in-law were still working away on projects most of the year, returning only two or three times. Every time they came back, Xiaojing was overjoyed, but after they left, she’d be gloomy for days. I told her that her parents were earning money to get her better implants, buy her pretty clothes, and send her to college. She would nod and sign to me, "I know, but I miss them."

I’d ask, "Don't you miss Grandpa?"

She’d laugh and sign, "Grandpa is here every day. No need to miss you."

Heh, this little girl really had a way with words.

This year, Xiaojing turned eleven. She’s in the fifth grade, and her grades are above average. Her Chinese is a bit weaker—language is her shortcoming, after all—but she’s excellent at math and art. Her teacher says she has a special sensitivity to color; her paintings are full of spirit. I bought her a whole set of colored markers and drawing paper, and she was so happy she hugged my arm and swung it for ages.

The other night, my son called, saying the company was sending them to an out-of-town project for about a week and asked me to look after things. I told him not to worry, I had it under control.

Before leaving, my daughter-in-law recorded a video for Xiaojing, saying she’d be back in a few days and to listen to Grandpa. Xiaojing watched the video, curled her lip, and signed back: "Got it, I’m not a three-year-old."

I almost laughed out loud. This girl was even talking back now.

The first three days after they left were normal. I dropped her off at school in the morning and picked her up in the afternoon, buying a roasted sweet potato to share on the way back. She’d do her homework while I cooked. After dinner, she’d watch cartoons while I read the paper. If she saw something funny, she’d tap me and point at the TV, and I’d chuckle along—even though I had no idea what was happening on the screen.

Everything was exactly the same as it had been for the past three thousand days.

Until that night.

That night, after Xiaojing showered, I was helping her blow-dry her hair. She sat on a small stool while I stood behind her, one hand holding the dryer and the other ruffling her hair. Her hair was thick and black, like her mother’s—unlike my son, who took after me with thin, yellowish hair.

Midway through, the dryer suddenly hummed twice and died. I tapped it a few times, but it wouldn't spin. I figured the motor had burned out. It had been used for years; it was bound to break.

"Well, it’s broken. Grandpa will go to the supermarket and buy a new one tomorrow." I put the dryer down and took a towel to dry her hair.

Xiaojing didn't turn around or sign. She just sat there, her back to me.

I thought she hadn't heard—no, she was wearing her implant, she should have heard. I said it again: "Dry your hair with the towel for now, we'll buy a new one tomorrow."

She still didn't move.

Just as I was wondering what was wrong, she suddenly turned around and looked up at me.

The bathroom light was dim and yellow, reflecting in her face. Those big eyes were bright, like two pools of water.

She opened her mouth.

I thought she was going to sign, so I habitually put down the towel to watch her hands.

But she didn't sign.

She spoke.

"Ye...ye." (Grandpa).

The voice wasn't loud, and it was a bit blurred. The retroflex sound still wasn't quite there, sounding a bit like "ye-ye." But that mouth shape, that tone, that syllable she had struggled with and failed at countless times—

She said "Grandpa."

I froze. The towel fell from my hand to the floor, and I didn't even notice.

"Yeye," she called again. This time it was clearer than before; she was clearly using all her strength to control her tongue and lips. "Yeye, I... can say it now."

My eyes stung instantly.

"Yeye, I’ve been practicing for a long time." The words popped out one by one, each seeming to take all her effort. "At school, I practiced secretly. When the teacher taught the other... students, I practiced in the back. I practiced in front of the mirror. I wanted to give you... a surprise."

My lips were trembling. I wanted to say something, but my throat felt blocked by something heavy; I couldn't squeeze out a single word.

"Yeye." She called me a third time. This time was the clearest, the loudest, the way those two characters were meant to sound. Then she smiled, tears streaming down her cheeks, but she smiled brilliantly, revealing two little canine teeth. "Yeye, thank you."

"Thank you for teaching me to speak. Thank you for cooking for me. Thank you for taking me to the hospital. Thank you for holding me when I was scared. Thank you for these nine years—"

She couldn't go on, shaking as she sobbed, but she still used all her strength to squeeze out the sentence she must have practiced countless times, word by word—

"Thank you for being my Yeye."

In that moment, all the strength I’d held onto my whole life, all the endurance, all the feigned ease of "it’s okay, Grandpa is here"—it all shattered.

I knelt down and pulled her into a tight embrace, holding her as if afraid she might fly away. Old tears poured down, my face a mess of salt and snot, but I didn't care. I buried my face in her damp hair, smelling the scent of the shampoo, and finally let out a sob.

In sixty-three years, I had never cried like that.

"Aye," I said, my voice hoarse and shaking, but I knew she heard me because her implant was right by my mouth. "Aye, Grandpa is here. Grandpa is here."

I let her go, cupped her small face, and looked into her red, teary eyes. Earnestly, word by word, I said to her—

"Xiaojing, remember this: whether you can speak in the future or not, whether you speak well or not, you are the greatest pride of my life."

She nodded vigorously, her tears splashing onto my face.

That night, the two of us sat on the bathroom floor for a long time. She leaned on my shoulder and drew slowly in my palm with her finger. She wasn't drawing circles; she was writing words. She wrote stroke by stroke—

"Grandpa, I love you."

I didn't know how to sign the word for "love," so I just made a "heart" gesture with my hands and placed it over my chest.

She saw it and smiled again, her eyes curving into two crescent moons.

The day my son and daughter-in-law returned from their trip, Xiaojing ran to open the door. As the door swung open, she stood there, took a deep breath, and shouted clearly toward her parents—

"Papa! Mama!"

My daughter-in-law froze on the spot, then knelt down and covered her face, weeping. My son stood there, his lips trembling for a long time, before finally kneeling to pull Xiaojing and her mother into his arms.

I leaned against the kitchen doorframe, still clutching a spatula, my apron splattered with oil spots. Watching this scene, I smiled, turned around, and went back into the kitchen.

The ribs Xiaojing loved most were still simmering in the pot.

That night, the whole family gathered for dinner. Xiaojing sat next to me. While eating, she suddenly leaned over and gave me a loud "muah" kiss on the cheek. Then she leaned into my ear and whispered at a volume only I could hear—

"Yeye, the ribs are so delicious."

I chuckled and tucked another rib into her bowl.

"If they're good, eat more. Grandpa will cook them for you every day."

Outside the window were the lights of ten thousand homes; inside, the fragrance of food filled the air. A voice waited for nine years had finally filled this home to the brim.

There are some waits in this world that are silent and wordless, yet they are more deafening than any sound.