Page 22 of The Voice We Find

Maybe I’ll just give an update. Um. I still can’t hear anything at all with my right ear and only random lower pitches in my left. The sound kind of makes me feel sick sometimes, like I’m on one of those teeter-totters Dad and I used to play on in the summers at the park around the corner.

It’s weird to talk about him like he’s not here. I wonder if it ever won’t be weird.

August moved into our house. His stuff was here when I came home from the rehab place with Aunt Judy. He’s been sleeping in the room across the hall from mine. It was his bedroom a long time ago, when I was like ... um ... seven or eight, maybe? But it’s been Mom’s study ever since, even though I never saw her studying much of anything in there except for her Bible. We used to laugh about how that room was mostly used to collect items that didn’t belong anywhere else in the house. I hope August doesn’t feel that way about it now, but even if he did, I’m sure he wouldn’t tell me.

It’s strange how you can live in the same house with someone and notreally know them. I feel like it’s that way with my brother. I always thought he was so cool when I was young. I loved seeing him on holidays and on our family vacations, but I don’t remember the everyday version of him anymore. I don’t know the food he likes or the movies he watches or how he likes to spend his free time, other than at the beach surfing, which he hasn’t done yet even though I told him he doesn’t have to babysit me. I’m now fourteen and a half. Mom and Dad let me stay on my own all the time.

I tried to talk to him again the other night about what happened when I woke up after the accident. But every time I try, it’s like he disappears somewhere inside his head. I know I’m the one with all the ear trouble right now, but I swear it’s like he can’t hear me when I talk about this.

I overheard him discussing something with Aunt Judy three nights ago. Maybe not overheard as much as spied on them. There are certain words I can pick up, and body language is pretty easy to read when you start paying attention. He looked upset when he said my name, and I watched two deep creases form between my aunt’s eyebrows. They went back and forth for a long time until August finally turned away and Aunt Judy cried. I hate that I’m the reason they’re both so upset. I wish Mom were here to fix it. She always knew what to say.

I don’t know how to end this thing, so I guess that’s it for today.

7

Sophie

For a woman who once sang, danced, and acted her heart out on stage for hundreds—even thousands—of people, it’s strange how different reading for an audience of one can feel. Even with my eyes focused on the digital manuscript I’ve been narrating from August’s iPad, it’s impossible to ignore the way he studies me through a layer of soundproof glass like I’m a rare exhibit at a national museum. Despite my limited research onbest practices for audiobook narrators, the whole vulnerability factor of reading while an incredibly attractive producer scrutinizes your every spoken word was conveniently left out of my findings.

As soon as I finish reading the last sentence of chapter six, I raise my hand, indicating my desire for a break. The heat index inside this recording booth requires a reprieve at least every two to three hours. To be fair, the booth was a comfortable temperature when I first arrived, but as the hours ticked on, my internal thermostat crept up. During our setup, August had kindly explained that the reasoning behind no air vents in the booth has to do with the sensitivity of the microphone, which means the only way to effectively cool the space down is to open the door and filter the studio’s air conditioning inside whenever we’re not recording. It’s for this reason I will not be wearing denim in the foreseeable future. Nor will I be wearing my hair down. It’s currently secured into the updo I perfected in the seventh grade after watching Rory wield a BIC pen like a magical hair wand onGilmore Girls.

When August nods in acknowledgment of my raised hand, I ask, “Do you mind if we take ten before we finish the last two chapters for today?” I pinch the fabric directly below the scooped neckline of my cotton tee in hopes of creating a breeze. Parched, I reach for my water bottle only to remember I drained my honey lemon tea during my last break.

“Certainly.” August’s voice comes through the speakers of the sound booth, and I feel the vibration of it buzz through me. “I need to run up to the house for a minute. Do you need a refill? Tea again?”

“Yes, please.” Even though what I’d really love is an ice-cold slushy. Why, oh why does ice have to be so terrible on the vocal cords? “Thank you.”

“You’re making great time. If you continue at this pace, we should finish ahead of schedule.”

“Fabulous.” I take his approval to heart, enjoying the easy communication between us today. From the moment I arrived this morning, August has been nothing but accommodating, often anticipating my needs before I voice them aloud. Whatever awkwardness was present during our first meeting hasn’t made an appearance today.

The obvious reason is Phantom’s absence, I suppose, but it’s hard not to wonder if it could also be related to the friendly texts we exchanged over the weekend. After the unpleasant shift I’d worked in the tasting room Saturday night, I’d escaped to the quiet of the pool house only to discover another text from August.

August:

Good luck on your reading marathon tonight. I won’t be keeping pace with you, but I’ll cheer from the sidelines.

And for reasons I can’t explain, it was exactly what I needed in that moment. A distraction. A reminder that I wasn’t as alone as I felt. And from that point on, I kept him apprised of my progress. I texted him an emoji summary of each chapter, to which he cheered me on in similar fashion.

I bite back a grin, thinking of the ridiculousness of it all. How when I reached chapter thirty-nine and sent him a broken heart and at least a dozen cry-face emojis, he sent back a Band-Aid and an ice cream cone.

I stand from the stool where I’ve been perched for hours, and as soon as I step into the short hallway and feel the cool whisper of air across my sweat-damp skin, my brain reboots. With my empty water bottle in hand, I round the corner to where August sits at his soundboard.

He looks up at my approach. “I still can’t believe you managed to read that entire book in less than two days.”

“I think I did Mrs. Deitz’s third grade class proud.”

“You earned your superstar button for sure,” he says through slightly upturned lips. He begins to roll back in his chair when I hear a thud, followed by a sharp hiss. Immediately, my attention goes to his bandage-wrapped left hand. The same bandage he explained away earlier with the casual mention of a “yardwork incident” when I asked him what happened.

I’m no medical expert here, but I’d say between the excruciating look on his face and the unholy amount of gauze I saw piled in the restroom sink earlier, his little yardwork incident was more serious than he let on.

“August?” I step a little closer, noting the flush of his cheeks for the first time since I stepped out of the booth. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” he manages through clenched teeth. “I just need topop another Tylenol.” He blows out a hard breath. “I’ll bring you back some tea.”

With disbelieving eyes, I watch as he recovers his zip-up sweatshirt from the back of his chair and tries to pull it on—to no avail, seeing as he can’t seem to get his bandaged hand through the left sleeve.

Before I can dull my reaction, I audibly gasp at the sight of his fingers. They’re not okay. And neither is the man those fingers are connected to. Upon closer inspection, I see that August is not only flushed, but his forehead is glistening with sweat. There’s also a patchy rash spreading outside the boundary lines of his bandage.

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