Chapter 17
EVERETT
At eight years old, I forgot the correct term the moment it tumbled from the audiologist’s lips.
All I knew was that I processed sound differently than most people.
It meant that I could hear words spoken, but like individuals with dyslexia, they would jumble, sometimes unrecognizably so, before reaching my ears.
It’s a struggle that has taken up every ounce of space inside my head for as long as I can remember.
Coming from Sue those three words sound casual and clinical. They don’t elicit the same emotional tie for her that they do for me. And I can tell I’m going to be expected to lean into this conversation no matter what feelings it dredges up.
She slides her glasses up the bridge of her nose and drops her eyes back to the documents in her hands. “When did it start manifesting for you?”
The kindergarten portrait frames itself in my mind. A gallery wall of memories that demonstrate my struggle to focus, to follow directions, to comprehend what I was hearing.
I clear my throat. “Five.”
I’m sure I don’t have to tell this woman that it’s like any other disability. It’s vastly different from person to person, and even though I started showing signs of it at that age, it was several years before they put a label on it.
She scribbles something down, then asks, “Did you have any modifications in school?”
Reduce background noise, use pictures for directions, repeat information—just a few of the suggestions the audiologist gave my mom back then after she’d looked into special education services.
According to Idaho state law, APD isn’t automatically recognized under the umbrella of disabilities that qualify.
My parents decided to forego the comprehensive school evaluation and opted for a private therapy route.
I shake my head.
It wasn’t from a lack of continued effort.
My parents bought an FM system that amplified my teacher’s voice through a device on my desk.
When I got caught hiding it, I was moved to the front of the classroom instead.
That’s when I mastered lip reading. I learned if I zoned in on a person’s mouth while they were speaking, I didn’t need all of those other forms of help the therapists recommended.
I’d hide my lack of understanding by mimicking the behavior of other kids around me.
The only thing I admit to Sue is attending speech therapy. That seems embarrassing enough.
Quinn drops one of her puzzle pieces on the floor and reaches for it. The momentary distraction is enough to get my nerves back in check.
“What helped you cope?”
Sue’s hand must be cramping from the speed at which she’s jotting notes. I’m very aware that everything coming out of my mouth right now is being written down. I choose my next words carefully even if her knowing look gives away that she could have skipped this question.
“Music.”
Her pen stops as she waits for me to elaborate.
I hadn’t planned to tell this woman my entire life story, but I gather that’s what she’s waiting for.
Everything there is to know about me can be found on the internet these days.
You can google my address, my family’s names, hell, even my favorite donut.
Between interviews I’ve done, and articles written about me, it’s all there. Everything except this.
“School was difficult for me,” I say.
I know Sue meant for the puzzle to entertain Quinn during this conversation, but watching my daughter smile as she fits two pieces together is therapeutic for me to get the rest of this out.
“I struggled with some aspect of every single subject except music. I didn’t need to hear it when I could feel it… the vibrations through the floor. It made everything else melt away. My mom put me in guitar lessons, and I made sense of my struggles through songwriting.”
Sue sets down her pen and leans her back against her chair.
“And what’s it like for you now as an adult?”
If any of this information will help Quinn, I need to be honest with her.
“I function just fine until my routines are interrupted or a room is too loud.” Those are the two biggest things that make an auditory processing disorder rear its ugly head.
The only way I’m able to sing on a stage at all is by controlling the volume.
Other than applause, everything loud comes from me.
She chuckles. “So, what you’re saying is, since you became a parent?”
I hate admitting that. It sounds like I regret Quinn, which I don’t. It doesn’t mean it hasn’t been hard.
“I appreciate you opening up. I imagine this isn’t easy for you to talk about, but I want to reassure you that everything you share with me is confidential. This is a safe space for you and Quinn,” she says.
She waits for something—maybe a look to signal that I’m okay?—then she asks a few more questions about Quinn’s development since pregnancy. I answer them to the best of my ability.
“The next part of the process is the evaluation. I’m going to check Quinn’s receptive language—having her show me where a certain toy is on the table or follow one-to-two step directions.
I’ll check her expressive language after that.
It will give me a better idea at the size of her vocabulary.
It should be between one to two thousand words and four-to-six-word sentences at her age.
Then I’ll test her speech sounds, and we’ll finish with her ability to communicate during play.
Things like taking turns, greeting each other, and eye contact. ”
I nod. Mostly because I’m grateful the attention will no longer be on me.
“Okay, Quinn. It’s your turn. Are you ready?” Sue asks her.
Quinn gives up her bug puzzle the moment Sue puts a rubber duck, a hairbrush, and a stuffed cat on the table.
She starts as promised, having Quinn identify which toy is where.
I quickly learn this woman is good at what she does.
She redirects Quinn with ease when she gets distracted.
Never pushes her so hard that it ends in a meltdown.
She makes working with my daughter and understanding her look easy when I know it’s not.
As we near the end of the evaluation, I consider what comes next. Answers, I hope, that help us move forward. But I deflate when I ask her as much, and she says it will be a few days before I hear any results.
I realize I walked in today believing an answer might make me feel better. Expecting that assigning a name to Quinn’s struggle would help me find hope for growth. Instead, dread is what I’m leaving with.
I thank her for her time, but my feet root to the carpet in her doorway.
I’m blocking her exit. The words, glaring and obvious, hang in the air between us.
I don’t know if I can sleep tonight without asking them.
I don’t know if I’ll ever sleep again when I know the answer. I turn around to face her anyway.
“Do you think…”
My eyes are pleading; I know they are.
From the moment we met, Sue has been stoic. She hasn’t allowed emotion to show on her face like she is right now. Regret is all I can see.
“We won’t know for sure until Quinn’s older. When she is able to repeat numbers, words, and sentences, she can be formally tested by an audiologist like you were. But yes. There’s a chance your daughter has an auditory processing disorder.”
I don’t know how I make it out to the car or how I get Quinn buckled in her seat. I don’t know where the lines converge on the street or how many stoplights I have left until we get home. For the first time in my life, I’m thankful I have the drive to Harrison Boulevard memorized.
Tears blur my vision and threaten to fall. I squeeze tighter on the steering wheel, hoping the added pressure quiets the shaking in my hands.
I didn’t realize I had a vision for Quinn’s future until I saw it tumbling away with the wind.
I wanted her to have an easy time making friends.
To hear a story problem in math and not have to look off the kid’s paper next to her.
I didn’t want her to have to ask for directions to be repeated ten times more than everyone else.
She’ll be different and need help. She’ll struggle in all the ways I did and all the ways I still do.
“Daee otay?”
My eyes shoot to the rearview mirror at the sound of Quinn’s voice. She’s studying my expression like she did on her birthday when I lit that article on fire over the kitchen sink. I clear my throat.
“Yeah, honey. Daddy’s okay.”
Stuck in a haze, I call Summer.
“Hi!” Her voice is light and happy. Free of burden.
I shouldn’t have called. I don’t know why I did. I don’t have a clue what to say. I wonder if there will ever come a day when our baggage is too much for her to want to stick around.
“Everett, are you there?” she asks.
I swipe at the tears burning my cheeks.
“C-could you watch Quinn tonight?”
Five words. That’s all I could get out. I don’t think; I just act. Starving for time by myself. Needing to protect Quinn from seeing me like this anymore than she already has.
“Uh…” She hesitates.
I second-guess ever calling her.
“You know what, I’m sure you have plans. I’m sorry. Have a good night, Summer.” I hang up.
I’m praying for green lights and cursing at red ones.
Everything is against me. The trees, the air, my own breath.
Gasping and begging for space, I steer the Bronco down the historic street.
Passing Tim’s old house—the boy who asked me if I was stupid when he saw my flunked English essay on the bus ride home in sixth grade.
I come up on Amy’s who turned me down for Senior Prom after she heard I ran out on my date junior year. Moments I’ve buried are bursting free.
“Summa!” Quinn shouts when she sees her.
She’s already in the driveway as I’m pulling in.
Her hair is down in long waves, sweeping her exposed back.
She’s wearing a tight black dress that cuts off mid-thigh with a top that fuses to her skin.
Her bare legs are on display. Long, lean lines peeking out from a slit on the side of her thigh.
There’s only one explanation for that outfit.
“You have a date,” I say as I shove against the car door. It shuts harder than I intended it to.
She jumps and then folds her arms across her chest, wrapping her hands around her biceps. “Had.”
The second I let Quinn out of the back seat she runs to Summer and jumps in her arms. They both squeeze each other tight.
I’m still staring at her. Trying like hell to remember why I even called her in the first place.
“Are you okay?” she asks, snapping me back to focus.
“I’m fine. I’ll be in around ten,” I bark.
I abandon them both in the driveway for the only place I’ve ever felt like me.