Page 4 of Silent Is The Heart

Speech. There goes my smile and him thinking I’m incredible.

But then he smiles again, like the prospect of talking to me is the reason he was put on this earth. It’s such a goddamn sunshine-y sight that it should make me sick, not send a ping of static down my limbs.

“I’m looking forward to getting to know you and, if you don’t mind…I’d love to see more of those drawings sometime.”

It’s probably cordiality, trained professionalism, and more fake pleasantries because he’s a staff member here. Maybe I hit my head harder than I thought because it doesn’t register as a ploy. It just sounds like exactly what I want to hear.

Ben and I must have been really bad at our camping explorations because not a single blow job from him left me as breathless as I feel right now at the idea of Aaron Manicki wanting to get to know me. Hampton Hills must have had him locked up in the fuck-me-running-closet and just unleashed their biggest weapon because if he keeps smiling at me like that, I think I might try to say anything he wants me to for him.

CHAPTER 2

Aaron

Dr. Norton’s pipe tobacco fumes hit me like a dense fog as I walk into his office. I don’t have the heart to tell him that the window he has cracked open behind his desk does little to conceal his habit.

“Aaron! Planning on lunch at your desk today?” he asks, nodding at the carryout bag in my hand. The lines in his forehead multiply as he squints over the top of his bifocals. “Don’t suppose you could encourage the rest of the staff to adopt that work ethic?”

“I just wanted to kill two birds with one stone.” Trying to limit how much contaminated air I inhale, I approach, setting my reports down on his desk. “Here are my summaries from my morning cases. Thought I’d drop them off before my next session.”

Before I can pivot and make my escape from the ashtray office, he asks, “The Bennick boy? How’s that going? He talking yet?”

It shouldn’t bother me that his question seems like an afterthought, the way he redirects his gaze back to the mess of paperwork on his desk. He’s in charge. I’m just at Hampton Hills for my fellowship, but maybe I’m in danger of doing theone thing you’re not supposed to do—getting attached to a patient.

I’m not. I just can’t believe Easton Bennick has been here for almost two months and in that time, no one had gotten him to complete his swallow therapy or speak. Granted, he was intubated for three weeks, which is part of his current problem, but I didn’t fathom anyone in the medical profession would ever consider washing their hands of a patient, especially one so young. Then again, I never fathomed a patient would refuse to do their swallow and speech therapy.

“Um, not exactly…”

“Mm. That’s a shame. We don’t get many patients that young. Shame to think of the difficulties he’ll have ahead of him, but we’ve done what we could.” He sighs. “Well, I warned you. Edwards and Wagner had a heck of a time just getting through swallow therapy with him, so don’t beat yourself up. Just file your close-out report when you have time, and I’ll put it in his record, so they can consider it when they make placement for him.” Glancing up, he hands me a new file. “Here’s one that you should be able to make some headway on. Sixty-two-year-old stroke patient.”

Is he…suggesting I’m done with Easton? It can’t be that simple.

“I…didn’t mean to give you the impression all was lost,” I assure him, taking the file. “I made some progress yesterday.”

Squinting, he nudges his glasses higher up his nose. No. Not the pipe again.

“I thought you said he still hasn’t spoken yet.”

“Well, no…not verbally, at least. I…taught him how to signyesandno.”

“Sign language?” He blinks at me.

“Y-yeah. Um, my older brother is hearing impaired.”

“Yes…I remember you mentioning that in your interview,” he says thoughtfully. “But…he’s not a candidate for signing. You should know as well as I do that ASL is difficult to learn past childhood. I just don’t know if you’re doing him any favors. We don’t want to encourage himnotto use his voice.”

Heat creeps up the back of my neck. I know that well enough, but where the hell did Edwards and Wagner get with him? The kid’s been through major physical and emotional trauma. I studied selective mutism in school, but hadn’t seen it until now. At least, that’s my assumption. There’s something about the shadows in Easton’s eyes, a wall of pain like I’ve never witnessed. He has things to say. I cannot in my soul believe that someone who looks like they have so much to say cannot at least attempt to speak. The session notes I received from my predecessors said there were vocal sounds. Not many, and they were followed by outbursts or Easton shutting down, but there were vocal sounds. Hechosenot to speak. I don’t care if it’s well past the date he should have done his vocal exercises. I’m not giving up.

“I’m not,” I say with polite determination. “I think it’s a trust issue with him. And…I have a plan. I’d like some more time with him.”

Taking a puff off his pipe, Dr. Norton considers my request. I’m going to smell like an ashtray by the time I get out of here if I don’t pass out first. The milkshakes in my hand are starting to drip sweat onto my slacks. At least, they’ll be a thinner consistency by the time I get to Easton’s room.

I nearly jumped for joy after realizing he’d snuck a drink of my shake when I took a break from our last session to use his bathroom. The dribble on his shirt stood out like a stop sign,giving me the idea for myin. If he can swallow that well, he can try to speak. He just needs the right motivation. I can’t fathom that a kid whose eyes light up when I talk about his drawings is the same one the other therapists say throws things and shoots death glares at the mere mention of any suggestions.

Dr. Norton lets out a tired breath, making me wonder if I’ll look that exhausted at his age after a lifetime in this career. “I admire your determination, Aaron. I really do, but if you haven’t noticed, we’re kind of like a bus station here. Overrun with cases and very little staff to get through them all. This is a state-run facility. We just do the best that we can. You’ll get that shiny quality time to change lives that all new therapists want when you sign on with your first private hospital. I remember wanting to change the world myself, even though it was about a hundred years ago.”

“I understand. I do, but I can still handle all my cases and keep taking more. I won’t get behind.”

Idon’tunderstand. I hate it. I hate seeing how the system works, but there’s not much I can do about it—besides insisting on not giving up and working myself to exhaustion since everyone else here has burnout. I refuse to give up on someone relearning how to communicate after a lifetime of seeing what my brother George has gone through being deaf.

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