desertion

75

LYDIA

The first thing I noticed when I woke up was the silence. It pressed against my ears, suffocating and unnatural. I blinked a few times, my gaze sweeping the room. The chair beside my bed was empty, and so was the small couch near the window. I was alone.

Curling into a ball, I stared at the wall. My thoughts raced, spinning into a spiral I couldn't stop. What's wrong with me?  The question echoed in my mind, louder than anything I had heard since waking up. I felt tears prick my eyes but stubbornly blinked them away.

My dad didn't need this. Neither did Miles. I could see it in their faces—the stress, the worry. I was the cause of it, and I hated myself for it. Dad had Chris to think about. He couldn't stay here the whole time, not again. And Miles... Miles put too much on himself for me.

As my chest tightened with guilt, a high-pitched frequency sound suddenly rang in my ears. I gasped, pressing my hands over them, but it didn't help. The noise pierced through me like a blade. Panic bubbled in my chest. What is wrong with me?

I forced myself upright, grabbing the remote from my bed. My hands shook as I pressed the call button, my heart hammering in my chest.

Moments later, the door opened, and the doctor walked in, followed closely by my dad and Miles. Their faces etched with worry, and I felt my guilt deepen. I shot them a disappointed look, shaking my head.

I needed something to write with, or for them to write with. I held out my hand, palm facing up, and mimed writing.

The doctor nodded, speaking to my dad and Miles before leaving the room. Dad stepped closer to my bed, his eyes soft as he brushed a few stray hairs from my face. I blinked up at him, the realization suddenly hitting me.

I can still talk.

But the thought made my stomach twist. I didn't  trust my voice. How could I, when I couldn't hear it? How could I know if I was getting my point across?

Still, I tried. "You shouldn't be here," I said, my voice foreign to my ears. I could feel the vibrations, so I knew I was talking. Dad's eyes widened, and I saw Miles frown.

"I'm serious," I continued, trying not to cry. "You should be home. Chris needs you there. He's told us how lonely he felt the last time I was in the hospital. I don't want him to feel like that again."

Dad's face fell, and Miles's shoulders slumped. I crossed my arms, my frustration bubbling beneath the surface. I waited, knowing Dad would find a way to argue.

Miles's mouth started moving, his lips moving too quickly for me to read. I stared at him, frustrated. The doctor returned with a pen and paper, handing them to me. I took them but immediately passed them to Dad.

"Write your argument," I told him, watching as he hesitated. "Go on. I know you have one. I can see it in your eyes."

Dad took the pen and paper. After a moment, he turned it around for me to see: I can't just leave you here.

"Yes, you can," I replied, shaking my head.

Eddie looked at her, his expression a mixture of guilt and frustration. I didn't let up. "You need to listen to me," I said firmly. "Chris can't feel what I felt."

My dad tilted his head, confused. I swallowed hard. "When you and Mom were always in the hospital with Chris... I thought no one cared about me. At least, that's what younger me thought."

Dad's face crumpled, and he quickly began writing again. He turned the paper to me: I'll go see him. I promise.

I nodded, my chest loosening slightly. I turned to Miles, holding out the pen and paper to him. He took it, raising an eyebrow at me.

"You need to go home, too," I told him. "Be with Dahlia."

Miles frowned, scribbling on the paper before showing it to me: I just got back from seeing her.

I smiled faintly, my heart softening.

The door opened again, and Athena and Bobby walked in. Bobby started talking to Dad about something, standing back as Athena approached my bed.

"How are you feeling?" Athena asked.

I surprised myself by being able to read her lips. I nodded. "I'm fine. I just... wish I could hear."

Athena turned to Dad, her mouth falling open in shock. Dad nodded, his mouth moving too fast for me to catch. I caught glimpses—fragments—but not enough.

Then I saw it: tears running down his face.

"Crying isn't allowed," I told him, shaking my head.

Dad turned to me with a soft smile, wiping at his eyes. The doctor stepped forward, taking the pen and paper. He wrote something before turning it to me: We think your hearing loss is from the concussion.

I blinked. "Concussion?"

The doctor nodded, writing again: You hit your head on a counter during your seizure.

My chest tightened. "How long will it take to heal? Can it heal?" I asked.

The doctor frowned, writing one more note: It could take days or weeks.

I shook my head, panic rising again. "I can't," I whispered. "I can't do this for that long. Not like this. Not without hearing my surroundings."

Dad stepped forward, resting a comforting hand on my shoulder. He bent down, pressing a kiss to my head. I look down at my hands, my fingers trembling.

There was nothing anyone could do.