Skin-Deep Love

Chapter 4: The Voice Test

Dr. Bell's office had a soundproof booth, a padded chair, and a rack of test cards arranged by size. I sat beside Elias in the consultation room while the doctor explained what the court had requested.

"The evaluation measures communication and decision-making," she said. "It isn't a test of whether you can talk. You can answer by writing, signing, pointing, or using the tablet."

Elias nodded.

"I'll also explain your medical history," she continued. "The fire caused damage to your vocal folds and a severe concussion. Your voice recovered partially. You may be able to make sounds, but the ability to vocalize doesn't tell anyone what you understand or what you want."

I heard that last part as a correction.

"I know," I said.

Dr. Bell glanced at me. "Do you?"

Elias's gaze shifted to my hands. I pressed them together in my lap.

The evaluation took an hour. Elias answered every question through the tablet. He named the date, recognized photographs, and completed the memory tasks. When Dr. Bell asked whether he wanted me present, he selected No.

I walked to the waiting room.

The door was thick enough to muffle the conversation. I sat beside a rack of brochures and stared at the watercolor of a lighthouse. I could have called Nina. I could have checked the trust portal. Instead, I listened to the quiet hum of the ventilation system and tried not to imagine Elias being asked to prove that he was a person.

After forty minutes, Dr. Bell came out.

"He did well," she said.

"Will the report support him?"

"It will describe what I observed. I won't write conclusions the evidence doesn't support."

"Can he speak?"

She took a moment. "His vocal cords can produce sound. He used a brief vocalization during the examination, but he did not attempt speech."

I stood. "What kind of sound?"

"That isn't relevant to capacity."

"But he did it?"

"Once."

The word opened something in me. A memory of waking in the hospital after the fire, my throat raw from smoke, Elias sitting beside the bed with his own bandaged hand folded beneath his chin. I'd asked him if he was all right. He'd made a rough, broken sound, then pressed both hands to his throat.

I had thought it was a promise he would speak again.

"What did it sound like?" I asked.

Dr. Bell's expression hardened. "Mara, he doesn't owe you a performance."

"I didn't say he did."

"You're asking me to turn his private medical examination into something you can use to satisfy your hopes."

"I'm worried about him."

"Then let him decide what recovery looks like."

Elias came out carrying his coat. He glanced at us, then at the chair beside me.

"How did it go?" I asked.

He typed into his phone. Fine.

"I'm glad."

He typed again. Don't ask what I did in there.

"I wasn't going to."

He looked at me.

"I know," I said. "I've asked enough."

He slipped the phone into his pocket.

Dr. Bell handed him a sealed envelope. "The report goes to Nina first, as you requested."

Elias nodded.

We walked out together, but he stayed several steps ahead. I followed him to the parking lot. His truck was parked beside mine, and he stopped by the driver's door.

"I can drive you back to the motel."

He shook his head.

"I'm not trying to control you."

He lifted one eyebrow.

"I know. I know how that sounds."

He typed, You could stop trying to be forgiven.

I read the screen. "I don't expect forgiveness."

He typed, Then why are you here?

I thought about the answer I'd prepared: the hearing, the trust, the house. They were all true. None of them explained why I had come when I knew he didn't want me there.

"Because I'm afraid you'll disappear from my life and I won't be able to pretend it's temporary."

He looked at me for a long time.

Then he typed, That is your fear. Not my obligation.

I nodded. "You're right."

His hand rested on the door handle. He was close enough that I could see a pale scar under his jaw, a thin line where a piece of broken glass had cut him during the fire. I remembered touching that scar once while he slept in the hospital. I had been scared, and he had been unconscious, and I had thought fear made the touch harmless.

It hadn't.

"Elias," I said, "I'm sorry."

He opened the truck door.

He didn't reject the apology. He didn't accept it either.

He got in and drove away.