Shouting was the least of what she wanted to do—that full-body, molten Quiet Room anger surged as she watched them discuss her in the third person.
She’d need a couple days for recovery. Three to six weeks until reactivation. We could schedule for spring break.
The thing in her head was trash, and it was their fault. They knew, and nobody said anything. All the headaches, the struggles in school, they’d been somebody else’s failings. Someone who was too chickenshit to even admit it.
The doctor shifted seamlessly into sales mode, and they endured a short presentation on the advances that had been made since she’d been implanted over a decade ago: more channels on the array, Bluetooth connectivity, and rechargeable batteries for the external processor. There was even a chance that with smaller components and more precise surgical methods a new implant wouldn’t destroy her residual hearing. He handed her mother a pamphlet on the latest Edge Bionics models, and then another from a rival company when her mother questioned the safety of the first.
Out at the reception desk, her mother got the contact information for a surgical consult while Charlie said goodbye to the interpreter, who seemed to have forgotten any mention of his son. Had the appointment changed his mind about what he wanted for his daughter? Charlie and her mother left the hospital and headed straight for the Starbucks.
I can’t believe no one told us any of this. I should sue that damn company. Grande skinny vanilla latte, please. Charlie, what do you want?
Hot chocolate.
Whipped cream? said the barista, pointing to a photo.
Charlie nodded. Her mother looked relieved by the ease of the interaction.
I’m not doing it, Charlie said once they’d claimed a table.
Charlie, don’t start.
I don’t want another surgery.
Well you’re not leaving a chunk of rusting metal in your head.
Fair enough, but she wasn’t about to give her mother the satisfaction of agreeing. She took a long draw from her drink.
Then I’m not getting a new implant, she said. Especially on the other side.
I don’t think you understand what being a minor means.
You’re lucky I understand anything! Charlie said, too loud.
She slammed her cup on the table, felt the insides slosh. Other patrons were looking at them; her mother turned pink, and Charlie sat back in her chair, took a breath.
Sorry, she said. But it’s my head, not an oil field. You can’t just drill around in there until you hit eureka.
Her mother’s facial cues for horrified were subtle from decades of practiced repression, but the fact that she didn’t admonish Charlie for being melodramatic was evidence that she, too, had been shaken.
We’ll talk about it later, she said. With your father.
They drank in silence, both chewing on the lips of their plastic lids when they were done, eyeing one another with alarm when they noticed their shared habit. Muddled noises rattled through Charlie with every step back to the parking garage.
nonmanual markers and facial grammar
ASL doesn’t only exist on the hands—it requires a complex use of the upper body, including shoulders, head tilt, and eyebrows, nose, and mouth to provide supplemental information. These movements, called “nonmanual markers,” are in addition to the ways that speakers of any language (signed languages included) use their facial expressions as part of a conversation. They are standardized as part of the grammar itself.
the morning of the play, Charlie woke again with double vision. Kayla had already left to shower, and not knowing what else to do, Charlie FaceTimed her father.
It really hurts, she said, and knew from the look on his face he was thinking of calling her mother. He told her to drink a glass of water and lie down, then called back after what Charlie knew must have been just a few minutes, though it had felt like much longer.
School says you can rest and you’re good to do the play if you’re in class by lunch. Your mom’s calling the doctor.
I don’t want another implant, she said. Can they just remove the dead one and leave me alone?
Her father rubbed his temple like she had transferred her headache to him. His sign language was maxing out.
We got lucky this summer. That j-u-d-g-e, Deaf school, he said after a while. I’m not sure we’d win a C-I fight.
I’m just gonna get it taken out when I’m eighteen, she said. It’s a waste of money.
Maybe the new one will be better.
Not you, too.
Try to sleep. I’ll call you back at 11:30.
Charlie staggered to the bathroom and wet a washcloth, then returned to bed and laid it across her forehead. She wished for her father’s frozen spinach.
She woke later to the flash of his phone call.
How you feeling?
Charlie sat up. Her vision was still blurry but not doubled, and she did feel a little better.
O-k, she said.
Good enough to go to class?
She nodded. They hung up, and she returned to the bathroom to wet her hair in the sink and pull it up into a ponytail. Then she put on her all-black stagehand ensemble and ventured out onto the quad, blinking hard against the sun.
* * *
—
She managed to navigate the afternoon unscathed; teachers seemed to notice she wasn’t feeling well and didn’t bother her much. At the final dress rehearsal, they ran lighting cues and curtain call and polished off a dozen pizzas, and too soon, it was time for costumes, places. Fickman strobed hard on the light switch, which, for Charlie, sent the room swirling, a top in its final wobbly spins.
In the dressing room, the girls-as-Lost-Boys streaked brown eye shadow as faux dirt on each other’s faces, while across the table, Gabriella was wrangling herself into a push-up bra to achieve maximum nightgown cleavage. Not a chance, girl, Charlie thought, and went backstage to look for Austin.
She found him beside the ghost light, fussing with the feather in his hat.
You look hot in tights.
Shut up, he said, a little too harshly.
But he pulled her by her belt loop close against him.
Where you been?
Sick, she said, and gestured to her head.
Fickman rounded the corner, now wearing her headlamp and waving frantically.
Ready? Ready!
You gonna be o-k?
Go! said Charlie.
She gestured to the video monitor they’d rigged, where she could see they’d already dimmed the houselights. Austin kissed her cheek and ran behind the cyc to stage left. Charlie waited until the Darling children were frozen onstage, then opened the curtain.
The show was running smoothly, but somewhere toward the back end of the first act the pain in Charlie’s head returned full force. During intermission, she poked her head out and spotted her parents, plus Wyatt and her grandmother, in the fourth row, looking bewildered. Charlie was rocked with surprise, not only that her mom had shown up, but that she’d invited her own mother. Could it be that she was actually proud? The thought softened Charlie, and she pulled her implant from her pocket, reattached it for appeasement purposes, and hopped down from the stage to say hello.
Thanks for coming, she said.
Nice hat, her father said, motioning to the headlamp.
Here’s our little heartthrob of the theater, said Charlie’s grandmother. I hear it’s Peter Pan himself you’ve ensnared?
Are you kidding me? she said, shooting a look at her parents.
Her father stuffed his hands in his pockets.
Your father and I are just looking out for you, said her mother.
Right, Charlie said. Can we do this literally any other time?
But her mother could not be stopped midperformance.
Emotions run high at your age, she said. God knows I always felt like the world was ending. Makes it hard to think.
We’re just friends, Charlie said, directing the comment at her grandmother because that was easier than looking at her parents.