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 the one 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 sign yes and no .”
“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 him not to 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. He chose not 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 my in . 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.”
I don’t understand. 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.
Dr. Norton must see the determination in my eyes. “All right,” he relents, smirking. “He’s slotted to be a resident here a little while longer due to his physical injuries, anyway, before they find placement for him, so consider Mr. Easton fortunate to have a motivated fellow like you in his corner.”
“Thank you.” I exhale. Eyes burning, I make my escape while I can and beat feet toward the south wing where the long-term care patients reside.
Sitting upright in his bed, the look on Easton’s face as he gazes at his window, drumming his fingers on the mattress, would kill birds. Great. Maybe I’ve just been lucky so far. Tapping on the open door, I make my way inside in as unpresumptuous a manner as I can.
“Hey, I’m so sorry I’m late. Boss wouldn’t stop talking.”
I set the shake I got him down on his wheeled table with no fanfare, and then make my focus appear to be on getting situated in the chair by his nightstand. One thing my brother always hated growing up was looking like a spectacle because of his disability. I’ll never understand why people stare at people they think are different than them.
“I think we’ll have an early spring,” I say casually, glancing out the window with a smile, hoping to look in commune with the gazing he was doing upon my arrival. When I finally bite the bullet and make my first eye contact of the day, I find him looking confused.
His gaze moves from me to the milkshake in my hand, and then to the one I left on his table. Right. Not as casual as I thought.
A college degree doesn’t mean I’m any more mature or suave than a teenager, I suppose. Mom says I’m twenty-five, going on fifty, but she’s always had a generous amount of faith in her children.
Maybe that’s why I’m so eager to have a breakthrough with him: we’re only eight years apart. Every other patient I’ve seen at Hampton Hills has been old enough to be one of my parents. I need to learn to connect with younger patients if I want to impress wherever I end up when I finish my fellowship.
“Oh,” I laugh in self-deprecation. “ Nutella milkshake. Kind of an addiction of mine. I didn’t want to be rude and pig out in front of you. Got to eat on the run here. They keep us pretty busy.”
Taking a sip of my drink, I toss his file down on the nightstand and lean back in my chair. I need him to be comfortable enough to work with me, not make him feel like I’m here to analyze him.
From the corner of my eye, I catch him glancing hesitantly toward the door. His hand moves, bringing the straw to his mouth, eyes slipping closed. Although it looks like he has to make some effort to swallow, his face shows he’s pleased with the results.
“It’s kind of an acquired taste,” I digress. “I’m not big on sweets, but Nutella’s my weakness.” Making a show of working a kink out of my neck, I ask, “Want a different flavor next time? They’ve got everything you can think of.”
My lungs freeze at the sight of his hand coming up, his index and middle fingers together. I hold my breath, watching him bring them down to his thumb.
No.
He just signed the word ‘ no ’ to me. Easton Bennick just spoke to me. He remembered.
I showed him the signs casually last session and used them a few times while I talked. After a lifetime of signing to my brother, it’s second nature to me, one that I sometimes have to try to shut off in public if I’ve been around him recently.
Blushing, he averts his gaze down and shifts in his bed with a grimace but then nods to his drink and lifts it in the affirmative before taking another sip. I have to bite my cheek to keep from grinning with joy. I don’t care what Dr. Norton said. Easton just communicated. Baby steps.
Smirking, I hoist my cup up and tap it against his. “Cool,” I sign back as I say the word aloud. “ Nutella Addicts Anonymous.”
I’m pretty sure the amused little smile he flashes me has a bigger one behind it, but I’ll take what I can get. A smile is only one step away from a laugh, after all. And one day, I’ll hear Easton Bennick laugh.