Page 8 of A SEAL's Heart
He’s just staring at me, and I keep talking to hide the awkwardness.
His doctor’s notes, x-rays, and scans show me where his jaw was broken and how it has healed since the injury.
I read from the file. “You’ve got axonotmesis of the lingual nerve.”
He crosses his arms and keeps staring at me.
“And that’s impeding your ability to speak.”
I should be used to patients who can’t speak. When I was on placement, I dealt with all sorts of speech impediments. But it’s disconcerting talking to Ed and not getting anything back. Not even a raised eyebrow.
I stand up, needing to get away from his penetrating gaze.
I walk across the room to a poster on the wall. “This is a cross section of the mouth and jaw. Every organ and cavity work together to produce sound, from the position of the jaw to the shape of your teeth.”
This is familiar territory, and I give him a run down on how humans produce speech and why his isn’t working.
When I glance over at Ed, he’s staring at me as intently as before, and he has his arms crossed over his chest.
He doesn’t want to be here.
Or maybe it’s me. Maybe he thinks I’m too young, or too blonde, to know what I’m doing.
I fix him with a stare that matches his own, determined to get through to him.
“We’re going to start with basic exercises so I can assess where you are and make a treatment plan from there.”
I walk back to my desk, and his gaze follows me.
“I’m going to make some sounds, and I want you to copy me the best you can. It’s not about getting them right, just try your best.”
I start with a hum in my chest. According to Ed’s file, there’s no thoracic damage. He should be able to produce a hum.
“Your turn.” I watch him expectantly.
Ed just stares at me with his piercing gaze.
I place a hand on my chest, and his eyes dart to it. It’s the only recognition I’ve had that he’s even listening to anything I’m saying.
“It’s a low hum. In your chest. Your injuries shouldn’t have affected your chest cavity.”
His gaze flicks back to mine, and he remains stubbornly silent.
I lower my arms in frustration. Maybe he’s more injured than the doctor realizes. Or maybe he’s being an ass.
“Let’s try this one.”
I move the hum into my throat and push my tongue back in my mouth to make a sound like I’m about to gargle.
Ed watches me for a good long moment but doesn’t try to replicate the sound. My frustration bubbles over.
“Are you incapable of making any sound, or are you deliberately not trying?”
His eyebrow twitches upward and I let out a breath, trying to find calm. This is not going well for my first patient.
“Can you make these sounds?”
He shrugs.
