Page 32 of The Voice We Find

Gabby’s home. Gabby’s safe. Gabby’s here.

And I’ve missed her. More than I dared to admit to myself.

When she pulls back an instant later, I spot the tiny hardware inside her ears and wonder how often she wore her aids during camp. I want to ask, but I won’t. Questions about her customized bilateral routing of signal—BiCROS—hearing aids is one of the quickest ways to kill a good mood. But this tiny transmitter and amplifier system is the best solution we have as of right now. I sold my favorite guitar to afford them, and I’d do it again to be able to communicate with her.

For now, the technology allows Gabby’s dead ear—her right—to pick up sound through the transmitter and send a signal to the active hearing aid on her left. Even with extensive hearing loss on that side due to trauma, the system helps balance the sound she can hear, much like a regular hearing aid. It’s been deemed a miracle for some, and for others, like Gabby, the adjustments are ever-changing due to her degenerative condition. Noisy rooms and environments frustrate her to no end, as does trying to localize sound. But it’ssomething. And until I can afford something better, something more permanent, thissomethingis better than nothing.

“Is Aunt Judy in the house?” I ask.

Gabby shakes her head and signs at the same time she speaks. Another surprise. She’s tried this in the past, and from what her ASL tutor and speech therapist have explained, the two languages are quite different, each with their own rules, patterns, and grammar codes. It’s often been too frustrating for her to keep it up for long, but I’m struck by how quickly her hands are moving when she says, “Aunt Judy didn’t take me home, a friend did.” She raises up on her toes and claps her hands. “Do you have plans for dinner tonight? Because we stopped at the grocery store on our way home. I took a cooking class at camp and learned a new recipe. I can’t wait to make it for us!”

She signs whatever menu item she’s referring to, but I have no clue what it is. Her speed is nearly triple what it was before she left, and I make the sign for her to slow down. In the early days of Gabby’s recovery from the accident, before we knew if she’d have any hearing in her left ear at all, the doctors had encouraged Aunt Judy and me to take some online ASL classes in order to motivate Gabby to learn. Turns out, Gabby didn’t need much in the way of motivation. I only managed to learn the basics before the swelling in Gabby’s head went down enough for her to test slightly above profound loss in her left ear.

“What’s that sign?” I ask, but before Gabby can respond, she catches sight of the woman engrossed in an epic performance in my booth. Though neither of us can hear what Sophie is saying into the mic from this side of the glass, it’s obvious she’s continued on with the scene—which looks quite distressing.Did Rayun make it to the healer in time?

Did I seriously just wonder about the fate of a fictional character?

Gabby swivels back to me, and her rapid-fire questions knock me back a step. “Why is there a woman crying in your booth? What is she saying? Does she need help?”

I raise both hands in an attempt to bring calm, but then her focusmoves to my bandage. Her eyes go wide as she grabs my arm and assesses me accusingly. An entirely new set of questions begins. At the time of my injury, it seemed unnecessary to recount the whole medical drama over text. Especially when our texting sessions were often sporadic and limited.

I’m regretting that decision now.

“What happened to your hand?” she demands.

“It’s no big deal. Just a cut that got infected. I saw a doctor and got on some antibiotics. My friend’s been helping me with fresh bandages.”

“How did it happen?”

I grip the back of my neck.

“August?”

“I was fixing the roof of Mom’s greenhouse.”

“The roof?!” She glowers at me with the look of offended teenage girls everywhere. “Remember how you gave me that whole big speech at camp drop-off about not taking any unnecessary risks? And then you go and get on a roof?”

I feel a swift kick of guilt as her accusation lands.

“You should have texted me,” she says, crossing her arms.

“I didn’t want to worry you.”

She rolls her eyes. There is no need for interpretation there.

I press my right fist to my chest and rub in a clockwise circle.Sorry.Thatis one sign I know well. I used it a lot in the early days.Sorry, but you can’t go surfing with your friends this weekend. Too risky.Sorry, but turning up your music that loud can damage your remaining hearing.Sorry, but Aunt Judy isn’t your legal guardian. I am.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “But I’m good now. I promise.”

She drops her arms and then gestures to the booth again, where Sophie has balled up a tissue in her hand and is currently blotting her eyes. I have no clue how she hasn’t seen us out here. A testament to her professional focus, I suppose.

“So?” Gabby asks. “Who is she?”

“Her name is Sophie,” I explain. “She’s an actress Chip hired tonarrate audiobooks for his publisher. She’s been coming to the studio for the last few weeks. The scene she’s reading is sad.”

Her gaze shifts left to right. “Does that mean Chip’s your boss now?”

I scratch the back of my neck. “In a way, I guess. I signed a contract to produce ten audiobooks for Fog Harbor, with an option for more.”

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