Dad takes me by the arm, stands on my good side and drags me next to him. “Joy,” he says loudly. “This is my son—well, one of my sons—Ryder. Ryder, this is Joy Sutter, Willa’s mom.”
I elbow Dad.
Joy looks like her photo on Willa’s phone. She looks like Willa, but painfully thin, with a headscarf and a couple of decades to her.
I wave hello, and feel guilt twist my stomach. Willa should know about this. I want her to know.
Dad turns so I can read his lips as he directs himself to Willa’s mom. “Ryder’s deaf, Joy. He came down with meningitis a few years ago which damaged both his ears, and we’ve had a hell of a time getting his auditory and speech processing to happen since. He can read your lips if you speak slowly and clearly, or you can text him. I’ll send you his number.”
I swallow a strangled noise as I watch Dad send Willa’s mom my cell. Joy just smiles, hands in her lap, her phone sitting on the side table. She looks like the cat that ate the canary.
“Ryder,” she says clearly. “Nice to meet you.”
I nod.
“Well.” Dad glances over his shoulder at the ancient dresser. “Let’s do this, son.”
It’s hell moving it, but we do, before carefully unlocking the breaks on Joy’s hospital bed and spinning her. I can see why she wanted the change. There’s a cheery view out the glass doors to the backyard this way. It might be December, but it’s still sunny out, plenty of plants thriving. A soccer net sits toward the edge of her view. I wonder if Willa’s used it at all.
“Thank you, gentlemen,” she says.
“Anything you need, Joy?” Dad steps up to her and sets a gentle hand on her frail shoulder. “Patty will be in soon for your meds and such but if I can do anything to keep you more comfortable right now, just say the word.”
Joy’s staring at me. “I’d just like a minute with Ryder if that’s all right.”
I lock eyes pleadingly with Dad. He glances between us as a grin brightens his face. He squeezes Joy’s shoulder once more, then walks up to me, speaking closely in my right ear. “Good luck.”
With a smack of my back, he leaves and closes the door behind him.
“Ryder,” Joy gestures to the chair near her bed. “Please join me, won’t you?”
I walk up to her slowly, sitting cautiously as she watches me.
“So you’re the asshole lumberjack.”
My eyebrows fly up.
Lifting one hand, she gestures me closer. I lean obediently. Her hands go to my beard, down to my throat. “Make a noise, Lumberjack.”
I hesitate. She tugs my beard. I glare at her.
“Make. A. Noise.”
Sighing, I hum. She holds her hand to my throat, her eyes tight with concentration. When her hand falls away, she tips her head, the gesture so like Willa. “So you voluntarily don’t talk. You could if you wanted.”
I hesitate for a moment, then shrug.
“Why not? You’re embarrassed? It doesn’t sound how you like?”
I pull out my phone, but Joy’s hand rests on my arm. “My eyesight’s shot, son. Nice side effect of the latest cancer treatment. Talk to me or we won’t be getting very far.”
Silence hangs between us. Her eyes bore into me, even as she reaches for her nightstand. Her hand finds a book and slips it off the edge.
The book lands with a soft thud in my lap. “Willa’s been reading to me in the evenings. Don’t believe me, you can ask her. You and I will never talk unless you swallow your pride and open that mouth.”
My heart bangs in my fucked-up ears. Emotion tugs at my throat. She can’t see. I can’t talk.
Except you can. You just don’t. Because it’s hard and weird.
“Alex says you had the cochlear implant surgery.”
I nod.
“Speak up, son.”
Clearing my throat, I manage a faint, “Mhmm.”
“That’s better.” She shifts gingerly in bed. “So, you’ve had that surgery, intending to learn how to hear with the implant and to speak once again.”
“Mhmm.”
She grins. “Well, you’re educable at least. So now, until I die, you and I can swap yes or no questions and answers. That’s not much fun.”
Once again she points to the book. I stare down at its cover.
“Pride and Prejudice.” With a glint in her eye, she settles into her pillow and pulls up her blanket. “The original enemies-to-lovers romance. Well, maybe except for Shakespeare’s Much Ado. Why don’t you read me some?”
My eyes bug out of my head, my mouth working for words I’m terrified to use.
“Listen, Bergman.” It makes me sit straight, the shock of watching Willa’s address for me come from her mom’s mouth. “Your vocal cords aren’t going to magically start working the moment your implant’s activated. You’ve let those muscles atrophy for years. Consider this practice. You look like you play sports, exercise regularly. Before you work out, you always stretch and warm up. You’d never start strenuous activity cold, now would you?”
I shake my head slowly.
“Speak up,” she snaps.
“Mm-mm.”
She rolls her eyes. “Lord, you’re stubborn. Can’t even say no. Listen. You’re going to sound awful at first. But until your implant activation, it’s not like you’ll hear how awful, anyway. I’ll be the only one who knows how you sounded before you got all straightened out and I’ll be dead in a few weeks, so who am I going to tell?”
Pain jabs my heart. Willa’s going to…I don’t know what Willa’s going to do. Her mom sounds like her world.
Joy levels me with an intense stare. “Ryder, I’m in pain. I need a distraction while Willa’s gone. I told her to go get some stuff for the holidays because she was a mess, watching me writhe like a worm on the hook. I’m at that point that meds don’t help too much, and every hour I’m awake I’d rather I wasn’t, you catch my drift?”
I feel sick to my stomach. I hate cancer. I hate that she’s suffering.
“So read to me. If not for me, for Willa.”
Knife straight to the heart. Joy Sutter knows she just played the trump card.
Carefully, I scoot closer to Joy’s bed. A slow smile pulls at her lips as her eyes drift closed. “Chapter Thirty-Two is where we left off.”
Hands shaking, I open the book and turn to the earmarked page. My breath catches in my throat when a gentle touch startles me. Joy’s hand rests on my wrist.
“Take a deep breath.”
I do. A slow, long inhale.
“And out.”
I release a steady exhale.
“Now,” her lips say.
My throat catches on my first try. I clear it roughly, taking another deep breath. My stomach presses, air rushes up my throat, and the long-forgotten feeling of sound vibrating through my neck and head startles me as I say, “E-Elizabeth was sitting by he-herself, the next mor…” My voice sticks. I swallow, try again, but it catches. Her hand squeezes encouragingly and I look to her mouth.
“Those will be your hardest sounds. The ones that sit in the back of your throat. Morning. Cleaner. Words like that. Hell, Willa won’t be easy. Keep going. Your voice sounds pretty damn good for such a long hiatus.”