Page 9 of Interpreter

I nod, swallowing back another round of tears just itching to be set free in the bathroom.

“Buenas noches.”

Penelope: Thank you, Brian. My life has been quite the whirlwind recently.

Radio host: I can only imagine. How are you and your son holding up since the recent split with your husband? You were married for how long?

Penelope: Twenty-two years. Timaeus and I are managing, though. The divorce was unexpected for the both of us.

My therapist has the patience of a saint.

“I’m fine.”

Dr. Parker, a young doctor in his late thirties, taps his pen against his desk. “You’re fine?”

I stare blankly watching the transformation of Dr. Parker’s expression as he digests the look on my face. Basically it says, “That’s what I said, wasn’t it?”

“So you go completely deaf, and you’re fan-fucking-tastic?” he snaps, unable to hold back any longer.

I grin. Antagonizing Dr. Parker is so simple, yet so satisfying. It’s a shame I get such a thrill out of watching him lose his shit and piss away his professionalism with one well-placed comment.

I shrug, smothering the laugh that threatens. “Maybe not fan-fucking-tastic but more along the lines of out-fucking-standing.”

I imagine the groan and the swear words he lets out behind his hand. It really does brighten my day. I was so pissed off when I woke up to my sunrise alarm clock—which works great by the way—and saw a sticky note on my door with an appointment time to see Dr. Parker, who I haven’t seen in six months. It didn’t seem necessary to go. He asks me how I feel about losing my hearing, and I grunt out nonanswers. We basically waste each other’s time and money.

I figured I’d just spare us both.

Until I was met with Theo, hula-hooping his car keys around his finger and shrugging. “Anniston promised me head.” And we all know he’d do anything for a blow job, even drag me to a doctor’s appointment under protest.

“Tim, let’s be serious for a moment.”

Dear God, is this what hell feels like?

I sigh, slouching back in the chair, letting my knees fall open.

Does he really want to hear that I’m crying myself to sleep at night? Because I’m not. I’m angry. I’m so damn angry that I can’t even think straight. I want to rage. I want to destroy more shit. But what good would that do me? At the end of the night, I’m still deaf. And without the surgery, that I refuse to have, I will remain that way.

The end.

Story over.

“I really am fine, Dr. Parker. This wasn’t a surprise, you know. I’ve been preparing for years, slowly losing my hearing one damn day at a time.”

It’s sort of true.

Dr. Parker looks to the ceiling—probably praying—before placing his pen down exactly in line with his notebook.

“Okay, Tim. I’ve tried to be patient.”

He has. He deserves a medal.

“I’ve tried to let you grieve. You’ve lost a huge part of your life.”

No shit.

“I have grieved,” I lie.

“No, you haven’t. You’re stuck. It’s been a month since you lost your hearing. A month.”

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