And no discrimination improvement with the new processor?
Charlie shook her head. The interpreter stroked his chin. The doctor keyed something into the computer in the corner of the room.
All right, let’s get you down to imaging.
Where?
X-ray and CT, and we’ll go from there.
So Charlie spent an hour in the bowels of the hospital, shivering in her socks and a pair of mint hospital gowns—one backward, one forward to keep from flashing anyone was the trick she’d learned over the years—Austin’s father relaying the techs’ instructions to her through the window. Now that he was there, she had no idea how she’d ever gone through this process without him.
Unfortunately, I think this narrows our options, said the doctor, when they returned upstairs.
He toggled between the on-screen images of Charlie’s head, drawing a circle in the air around her cochlea.
Given that Charlie’s version of implant has been recalled—
Hold on, said her mother. The thing inside her head was recalled?
A nod.
Why didn’t anyone tell us?
It’s a recent development—a voluntary recall. You should be receiving a letter—
A letter?
The company’s working first with self-reported malfunctions, to avoid unnecessary panic.
You mean bad press, Charlie said into her lap.
She gave Austin’s father a look and he didn’t translate.
I don’t understand, said her mother.
Users themselves provide the most reliable information on efficacy. Case in point. He pointed to Charlie. You experienced problems, you came in. No dangerous outcomes have been reported or expected.
A letter.
What about babies? said Charlie.
What? one, or maybe both, of them said.
Babies can’t report themselves.
What is the recall for, exactly?
The doctor shifted on his stool.
Some users have experienced moisture leakage.
What?
A moisture leak sounds dangerous! said her mother.
What about my headaches?
Austin’s father gestured some mumbling on the doctor’s behalf.
S-o what do we do?
We’ll remove internal components, clear out any damaged tissue.
Surgery again? Nope.
As you can see—more circling—she does have some scar tissue. Totally normal. Depending on the severity, we may or may not be able to insert a new electrode array and receiver. But we won’t know until we’re inside.
Not happening.
And what if you can’t replace it?
We can explore candidacy on the other side.
MOM, NO WAY, Charlie shouted.
Charlie, don’t get worked up.
Shouting was the least of what she wanted to do—that full-body, molten Quiet Room anger surged as she watched them discuss her in the third person.
She’d need a couple days for recovery. Three to six weeks until reactivation. We could schedule for spring break.
The thing in her head was trash, and it was their fault. They knew, and nobody said anything. All the headaches, the struggles in school, they’d been somebody else’s failings. Someone who was too chickenshit to even admit it.
The doctor shifted seamlessly into sales mode, and they endured a short presentation on the advances that had been made since she’d been implanted over a decade ago: more channels on the array, Bluetooth connectivity, and rechargeable batteries for the external processor. There was even a chance that with smaller components and more precise surgical methods a new implant wouldn’t destroy her residual hearing. He handed her mother a pamphlet on the latest Edge Bionics models, and then another from a rival company when her mother questioned the safety of the first.
Out at the reception desk, her mother got the contact information for a surgical consult while Charlie said goodbye to the interpreter, who seemed to have forgotten any mention of his son. Had the appointment changed his mind about what he wanted for his daughter? Charlie and her mother left the hospital and headed straight for the Starbucks.
I can’t believe no one told us any of this. I should sue that damn company. Grande skinny vanilla latte, please. Charlie, what do you want?
Hot chocolate.
Whipped cream? said the barista, pointing to a photo.
Charlie nodded. Her mother looked relieved by the ease of the interaction.
I’m not doing it, Charlie said once they’d claimed a table.
Charlie, don’t start.
I don’t want another surgery.
Well you’re not leaving a chunk of rusting metal in your head.
Fair enough, but she wasn’t about to give her mother the satisfaction of agreeing. She took a long draw from her drink.
Then I’m not getting a new implant, she said. Especially on the other side.
I don’t think you understand what being a minor means.
You’re lucky I understand anything! Charlie said, too loud.
She slammed her cup on the table, felt the insides slosh. Other patrons were looking at them; her mother turned pink, and Charlie sat back in her chair, took a breath.
Sorry, she said. But it’s my head, not an oil field. You can’t just drill around in there until you hit eureka.
Her mother’s facial cues for horrified were subtle from decades of practiced repression, but the fact that she didn’t admonish Charlie for being melodramatic was evidence that she, too, had been shaken.
We’ll talk about it later, she said. With your father.
They drank in silence, both chewing on the lips of their plastic lids when they were done, eyeing one another with alarm when they noticed their shared habit. Muddled noises rattled through Charlie with every step back to the parking garage.
nonmanual markers and facial grammar
ASL doesn’t only exist on the hands—it requires a complex use of the upper body, including shoulders, head tilt, and eyebrows, nose, and mouth to provide supplemental information. These movements, called “nonmanual markers,” are in addition to the ways that speakers of any language （signed languages included） use their facial expressions as part of a conversation. They are standardized as part of the grammar itself.
the morning of the play, Charlie woke again with double vision. Kayla had already left to shower, and not knowing what else to do, Charlie FaceTimed her father.
It really hurts, she said, and knew from the look on his face he was thinking of calling her mother. He told her to drink a glass of water and lie down, then called back after what Charlie knew must have been just a few minutes, though it had felt like much longer.
School says you can rest and you’re good to do the play if you’re in class by lunch. Your mom’s calling the doctor.
I don’t want another implant, she said. Can they just remove the dead one and leave me alone?
Her father rubbed his temple like she had transferred her headache to him. His sign language was maxing out.
We got lucky this summer. That j-u-d-g-e, Deaf school, he said after a while. I’m not sure we’d win a C-I fight.
I’m just gonna get it taken out when I’m eighteen, she said. It’s a waste of money.
Maybe the new one will be better.
Not you, too.
Try to sleep. I’ll call you back at 11:30.
Charlie staggered to the bathroom and wet a washcloth, then returned to bed and laid it across her forehead. She wished for her father’s frozen spinach.
She woke later to the flash of his phone call.