Page 17 of Unloved

One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. Three Mississippi.

“Why are you asking?”

Reluctantly, he pulls away and brings his phone between us.

What I’m going to tell you might be a lot to take in, and I’m sorry. Tell me to stop when it gets too much and I WILL.

I read the words on his screen and nod.

Dr. Keriakos said it was likely that the football injury contributed to your hearing loss, but it isn’t the cause.

Confused, I try to connect the dots.“And what? Getting thrown around by my foster parents is?”

He winces at my admission, and I watch as he opens his mouth, but then quickly realizes his mistake, returning to typing furiously on his phone.

You have a genetic degenerative condition. You would’ve lost your hearing eventually, no matter what, but getting knocked around, then and now, may have brought it on quicker.

“Do you have it?” I ask, selfishly wanting him to feel as shocked and off-kilter as I do.

He shrugs nonchalantly, like even if the answer is yes he wouldn’t care, and I hate that. I hate that he’s so secure and so stable that nothing shakes him.

Despite the abundance of emotions I’m feeling, I continue to read the screen as Frankie continues to relay everything Dr. Keriakos told him.

Your inner ear and nerves in your ears have been damaged over time because of the condition. Add in some decent blows to the head, and you now have what’s called sensorineural hearing loss.

“The doctor told me what I have now, but he didn’t say anything about a genetic condition. Why wouldn’t he tell me that? Why didn’t he ask me about my past?” I fire question after question, struggling to understand this new piece of vital information. “I’m the patient. Not you.”

Frankie has the decency to look remorseful before answering my question.

You told him he could talk to me.

The abuse was supposed to be the only secret. It was supposed to be left behind because it was a different life and a different Lennox.

“I thought he would be telling you stuff I already know,” I spit out. “I’m sure this is a breach of confidentiality.”

I know it isn’t, but I’m feeling all types of things and clutching at straws to try and understand how I got here.

What are you mad at? That I found out about the abuse or that it’s genetic and you didn’t know?

What am I mad at?

What am Ifuckingmad at?

“What am I mad at?” I roar. “Do you know what it’s like to feel yourself boil over in anger and to know you’re screaming and not be able to hear it? Do you know what it’s like to wake up from a concussion and realize you can’t hear a single fucking thing?

“And not only am I deaf, but it’s also genetic and nobody knew because nobody gave a shit.” I grab the Jell-O cup that’s been sitting on the tray and throw it across the room, causing it to splatter against the wall. “Because once again, nobody gave a fuck about me.”

I slump against the pillow in defeat and throw my arm over my eyes, my breathing shallow and labored.

“I can’t do this, Frankie,” I say, the words catching on a sob. “I can’t fucking do this.”

Frankie pulls me back into his arms, rocking us back and forth. I feel so helpless and small, like the child who was used as a punching bag, hoping that each passing day was the day things got better.

Tears uncontrollably stream down my face; I can’t even stop them if I wanted to. The worst part is, I don’t even know what I’m crying about. Is it the fact I lost my hearing, or is it everything I’ve endured that led to it?

As my crying subsides, I feel a shift in Frankie, and when I tilt my head up, I come face-to-face with a worried Samuel.

He glances down at me, and I offer him a sad but hopefully reassuring smile. I should be embarrassed, knowing my eyes are probably red and puffy, and there’s no doubt I have snot running down my face. But if there was anyone other than Frankie who was ever going to know every single one of my truths, it’s him.

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