In the Stillness (16 page)

PTSD.

Tosha and I had been talking about it, and my very minute research suggested that was exactly what was going on with Ryker. I didn’t know what to do, until I looked into his eyes.
 

In a flash, I was flooded with images of the boy I’d met on the common over two years ago. He was wearing the same t-shirt, taking me in with the same painfully beautiful blue eyes that made me approach him without nerves, and biting the same bottom lip that kissed me for the first time—seconds after we first met. He was still in there, and I couldn’t walk away.

Instead, I took two steps toward him, and watched him exhale. “You don’t need to be sorry, Ryker. I just want you to get some help, okay? Promise me.”

Ryker took me into his arms and nodded. I breathed in his clean scent, not wanting him to leave.

“Will you stay here tonight?” I asked without a second of hesitation.
 

Ryker lifted my chin and kissed my lips with a softness I thought he no longer possessed. “I don’t want to stay anywhere else. Thank you for standing by me. . . I don’t deserve you.”

I smiled in his presence for the first time in a while. “Don’t talk about yourself like that. I deserve you, and you deserve me.”
 

“I love you, Natalie.”

“I love you too, Ryker.”

That was the first time we’d said “I love you” to each other since the night he first came home. He hoisted me up and I wrapped my legs around his waist as we kissed all the way to my bed. When he set me down, we quickly tore off our clothes and he paused. He looked me over like it was our first time, passion pouring from his eyes.
 

“I love you so much,” he whispered into my ear before making another move.
 

It felt like our first time. It felt hopeful. It was, in fact, the first time I’d felt hope for him and us since he’d come home. God, it was perfect . . .

* * *
 

Several hours later, Eric’s mom picked Oliver up from the Audiologist once his tests were complete, so we could chat with the doctor uninterrupted. Eric showed up halfway through the exam and looked like he’d been through the ringer. He said they were moving offices and the elevators were down.
 

It’s seriously always something.

The tests were more involved than I thought they’d be. They did some with headphones, needing Oliver to respond one way or another. But, they also taped electrodes on his head, and did some tests putting a small microphone in his ear. The doctor said they were “auditory brainstem response” (ABR) and “otoacoustic emissions” (OAE) tests.
 

Sitting in the office with Eric, my nerves are getting the best of me and my palms begin to sweat.
 

“What’s the matter?” Eric asks, reaching for my hand.

I pull it away and rub my palms nervously on my dress. “This isn’t going to be good, Eric. If it was just fluid in his ear, or nothing, they would have sent us home with him and had us make an appointment with his pediatrician.”

 
Eric rolls his eyes. “Seriously, Natalie? You can’t stay off the internet for five seconds, can you?”
 

Before I can stab him and flee the scene, Dr. Moore comes in. And sits down. My throat tightens as I try to read her eyes.
 

“What’d you find?” I ask before the doctor has a chance to open her mouth. I hope my tone is just stern enough that she knows I don’t want to beat around the bush.

Her eyes volley between Eric’s and mine for a second before she takes a careful, but noted, breath. “Well, Mr. and Mrs. Johnson . . . our testing today shows that Oliver has something called auditory neuropathy.”

I don’t recall coming across this information on my intense WebMD search the other day, so I’m begging my brain to retain whatever she’s saying, though I can hear my heart pounding through my ears.

“While we’re not sure of the cause of auditory neuropathy, in Oliver’s case it seems to be damage to the inner hair cells. Those are the cells that transmit vibrations from sound into electrical signals for the brain to interpret as sound. That’s why he seems to be jumpy sometimes, and not others, as you described. Sometimes the hair cells function normally, and sometimes they don’t. This is one of the reasons we don’t necessarily recommend hearing aids for cases like this.”

I feel Eric’s hand over mine as I lean forward. “Hearing aids?”

Dr. Moore’s face changes just enough to send my stomach into a tailspin. “Unfortunately, the condition is usually degenerative, and—”

“Wait. Oliver’s going to go deaf? Is that what you’re telling me?” Heat overtakes my face as tears strangle my voice.
 

Eric interjects, “No, Natalie, she hasn’t said that.”

“She said
degenerative, Eric.
We’re
both
educated enough to know what that means.” I turn back to the doctor. “That’s what you’re saying, isn’t it?”

Dr. Moore lets out a slight sigh. “Yes.”

Change never comes slowly, brewing on the horizon. It’s always in a second. Balanced on the tip of a razor blade, in empty pill bottles, behind two pink lines, or learning that one of your children is slowly slipping into a world of silence. And you can’t leave your husband. Not now.

Chapter 19

“Thank God the Clarke School is in Northampton, and they have a kindergarten program,” I say to Eric as I pour a glass of wine after the boys have gone to bed. The Clarke School for Hearing and Speech is a fabulous school, with campuses across the state. And, thankfully, one right down the road. “I’ll call them in the morning.”

“Don’t you think you’re being a bit hasty? Shouldn’t we see where this goes?” Eric sits at the kitchen table, elbows rooted in the light wood.
 

“What? Were you not in the same office I was?” My voice cracks for a second, “Ollie’s going deaf, Eric, and we need to get all the support in place before his hearing is totally gone.” I sit and gulp my wine.

“So, what, we’re all going to have to learn sign language now?” His petulant tone rises like bile through my stomach.

“Oh, I’m sorry, does that not fit into your pretty little schedule? Yes, we’re going to have to learn sign language. Again, you heard her, Dr. Moore said it’s clear that Ollie’s starting to teach himself how to read lips. Don’t you notice how he always stares really hard at our faces when we talk?”

“So then why do we need to learn sign language?”

“To give him the most options for communication—what’s your fucking issue? Given the nature of his condition, hearing aids and cochlear implants aren’t a great option; we’ve got to encourage him to read lips and use sign language to make his transition as smooth as possible.”

Eric slams his fist on the table but says nothing. I stare, waiting.

“Well,” I continue after a minute of silence, “if that’s all, I’m going to call my parents and fill them in. I’ll tell them about what we discussed with the doctor for their trip next wee—”

“You’re still sending them to your parents’?” Eric doesn’t look away from the table.

“Yes. I’m not going to start treating Oliver like he’s a glass figurine, Eric. That will only make things worse. Dr. Moore said we need to keep things as normal—”

 
“Screw what the doctor says, Natalie! We just found out our son is going deaf and you still can’t wait to ship them off to your mom and dad’s for a week.” His chair tumbles to the ground as he pushes himself away from the table.

I swear, if he cuts me off again, I’ll punch him. “What the hell are you talking about? They’ve been looking forward to this for weeks, and you know what?” Tears spill out just when I thought I didn’t have any left. “If Oliver ends up totally losing his hearing before the summer is over, I’d like him to be able to have a chance at remembering what his grandparents’ voices sounded like!”

Eric’s dark eyes take on a vacancy I’ve never seen from him. “Do what you want. You always do. I’m going out.”

Meeting him at the door, I grab his wrist. “You’re not walking away from this.”

Eric shrugs and stares through my eyes. “Why not? You get to walk away from everything else.” He tugs his hand free.

“You’re such a bastard,” I sneer, four inches from his face. “If I got to
walk away from everything else,
you and I both know we wouldn’t be standing here having this conversation. At all.”

His eyebrows twitch in angry understanding.

“Blame it on me,
Nat
, go ahead. But
you
would do well to remember that you wouldn’t be upset over that little boy at all if you’d had your way almost six years ago.”

My stomach sinks as the word “abortion” hangs in mocking silence between us.

“You’re a fucking prick,” I whisper, turning back for the table.

I don’t watch him leave, but I jump when the door slams behind him. I study the last drop of wine strolling down the inside of the glass, when a little voice makes me jump again.

“Mommy?” Ollie’s standing in the bedroom doorway.

“Go to bed, Sweetie.”
 

He takes two steps out of his room, blankie in hand. “Can you sing me the Winnie-the-Pooh song?”

“N-” I cut myself off as I stare at his beautiful face. “Sure, Baby.” I meet him at the door and crawl into his bed with him. Max is sound asleep in the other bed.
 

I try to sing it as perfectly as possible so he can commit it to memory, but wonder how Kenny Loggins ever sang “Return to Pooh Corner” without crying. I could, until tonight, but things were different. My tears land on Ollie’s blonde hair, but he’s asleep before I’ve even finished the first verse.
 

I keep singing, though, because an overwhelming surge of emotion courses through my veins. I want so badly to protect him, to shield him from what’s coming, but I can’t. It’s the absolute worst feeling in the world.
 

* * *
 

“Hey Bill. Is Ryker home yet?” I got to Ryker’s dad’s house early for dinner one Sunday.

We’d been doing Sunday dinners there since Ryker slept over at my dorm room a few weeks before. Things were looking up. Ryker’s nightmares were fewer and further between, and I learned which ones I should wake him up from, and which ones I should just leave alone. He was finally starting to talk about re-enrolling in school in January, which I took to mean he was putting off his plans to reenlist.
 

“He went to the store, should be back soon. Sit down, Sweetie.” Bill patted the space next to him on the couch. “How are things going with you?”

I shrugged as I sat. “Things are fine. Why?”

Admittedly, I was struggling through my course work. While Ryker’s moods seemed stable most of the time, they weren’t perfect. I forced a smile and bit my tongue during his mood swings to help keep him balanced. I knew he didn’t mean to lash out, and he was always apologetic afterward, but I felt like I was locked in a pressure cooker. I’d recently started cutting on my hips, running out of places on my arms and fearful Tosha would be paying close attention. Or that Ryker would find out

Bill put his hand over mine. “I just want you to know how much I appreciate what you’re doing for Ryker.” His eyes glistened for just a second before he continued, “He’s my only son, and I hate watching what’s happening to him. I feel totally helpless.”

“You’re a great dad, Bill. Ryker’s lucky to have you. I can’t imagine how hard it is.” Only I could, because I was with Ryker probably more than Bill was.
 

 
“I’ve talked with the VA a few times but they said if he doesn’t want the help . . .” He shrugged and brushed his hand over his face.

I leaned forward. “I thought he was getting help. He told me he was getting help.”

Bill’s eyebrows came together as he muddled over my words. Just then, Ryker entered, carrying grocery bags.

“Hey guys!” He set the bags in the kitchen and turned to hang up his coat. October was unusually cool that year.

“Hey, Babe.” I stood and kissed him as we met in the entryway.
 

I could feel Bill watching us with concern. It occurred to me that I had no idea what Ryker was like when he was here and I wasn’t around. Maybe Bill had more reason to be worried than I thought.

“You’re in a good mood.” I smiled as I walked to the kitchen to start helping prepare dinner.

“Yeah,” he rubbed his hands together in excitement, “I talked to my recruiter today and we worked out a plan.”

I stopped. Mid-whatever-I-was-doing, I stopped and watched him carefully. Bill ran a hand through his hair and listened. I tried to, too.

“A plan?” I asked, hoping for any answer other than what I feared was coming.

“Yeah. I’ll go back to Amherst in January, finish the courses that would have made up my sophomore year—before I was deployed—and I’ll reenlist when the semester’s over.” The look on his face was pure joy.
 

Bill stepped toward me as I stared into the counter. “Natalie, are you okay?”

I looked up, sweat breaking out across my forehead. “No.” I swallowed hard and ran to their upstairs bathroom.