Chapter Text
Prologue:
September 23rd, 2022
Detroit Lakes, Minnesota
The thing that stands out the most to Luke about the audiology office is how strongly it smells of disinfectant. He’s been in his fair share of hospitals and clinics over the past ten months, but for some reason, this one’s been cleaned with enough alcohol that he immediately feels like he’s a freshman in college again, back at an off-campus house party drinking illegally. That, however, couldn’t be further from his actual reality. Instead of doing shots of UV Blue and learning how to shotgun a beer in under ten seconds— both of which always ended in him throwing up into someone’s recycling bin, of all things— he’s sitting next to his girlfriend of nearly five years, waiting for their infant daughter’s audiology appointment forty-five minutes from home.
He remembers everything like it was yesterday— huddling with Kayla at her parents’ house immediately after New Year’s, ten days after her period was supposed to come, watching each of the six pregnancy tests she had taken light up like fireworks to read positive. He and Kayla had been together for four years at that point, having started dating mid-way through their senior year of high school, and were both on track to graduate from Minnesota State University in Moorhead that May. Luke thought that fateful January day was going to be the only curveball he’d be thrown— he always assumed he and Kayla would get married someday and while it hadn’t necessarily been in his life’s trajectory to have a baby immediately after graduating college, all this was going to do was speed up his expected timeline by a few years. His entire life was still going to go according to plan.
Oh, how naive he’d been.
Kayla’s pregnancy had been fairly uneventful. She was due at the end of August, had all the typical symptoms associated with being pregnant, and hit every milestone she was supposed to. They’d heard the heartbeat at the end of January at a women’s clinic near their Moorhead apartment just days before their final semester began. They’d found out they were going to be having a little girl in mid-April in between preparing for their final exams. They’d graduated and moved back home to Wadena a month later in May, settling in with Kayla’s family temporarily to wait out the rest of the pregnancy. And, finally, Kayla had given birth to their daughter on August 11th, a few weeks ahead of schedule, and Luke’s life as he once knew changed forever.
Sitting in the labor and delivery unit at the exact same hospital he’d been born at just over twenty-two years prior, Luke had been so excited for the rest of his life to begin. He’d been looking for entry level jobs around town, his parents had offered their basement for them to live in, and, as he watched both Kayla and his baby sleeping comfortably and soundly, he thought that he could so easily get used to this. He couldn't think of anything better than what he had in that exact moment.
Until one of the doctors had come in and uttered the one sentence that he never in a million years thought he would hear:
“Your daughter didn’t pass her newborn hearing screening.”
Two weeks later, at their re-test, Luke and Kayla heard the same thing:
“She still didn’t pass. I’d like to refer you to a pediatric audiologist for further testing.”
Which is where they are today. In a whirlwind of a year, Luke has gone from college senior to expectant dad to college graduate to brand new father, and now to this. What this is, he really isn’t sure. All he knows is that the six-week-old baby currently asleep in his lap is the most important person to ever exist, and whatever news they may or may not get today, he and Kayla will always be there to support and love her.
“This is gonna be fine,” Kayla whispers, resting one of her hands on Luke’s knee. She gives it a squeeze. “I really do think it’s just residual fluid or something. Little preemie things.” She smiles at him, one that he recognizes better than nearly anything else, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. It’s all she’s been saying, ever since the first hearing screening, echoing what they’d been told by everyone from the doctors to the nurses to their families and even from Google: approximately ten percent of newborns fail their initial hearing evaluations. Over ninety percent of them don’t actually have hearing loss. Premature babies are much more likely to fail than full-term babies. The most common reason to fail is residual fluid in the ears.
“It’s not like this runs in our family,” Kayla continues. She’s repeating herself; at this point, Luke can basically tune her out. He knows she’s only saying it to make herself feel better. “Hopefully she can, like, absorb the fluid on her own and won’t need to have tubes put in her ears. I’m not sure I could handle that. She’s too tiny for surgery.”
“Hey,” Luke finally says, interrupting Kayla before she can spiral into further panic. Their appointment was supposed to start ten minutes ago. “Try not to get ahead of yourself, alright? Whatever’s gonna happen will be fine.”
That’s been his mantra for the past six weeks. Between feedings and diaper changes at all hours, tired eyes and sleepless nights and even in all his moments of joy, Luke has only let himself believe that no matter what, things are going to be okay. Kayla does the panicking and the worst case scenarios; Luke holds onto his optimism. And, of course, to his beautiful daughter.
“Of course it’s gonna be fine,” Kayla snaps, irritation growing in her tone. “All I mean is—”
“Margot?”
Kayla stands, looking down at Luke. “Luke, get up.”
“What? Oh, right. That’s us.” He still isn’t used to hearing his daughter’s full name. In his mind, she’s Maggie. Readjusting her sleeping body against his chest, Luke carries Maggie as he follows Kayla and the nurse down a foreboding hallway and into an examination room.
“The doctor will be with you shortly,” the nurse says, giving them a smile before she leaves. The door clicks softly behind her.
The next hour ends up being both the fastest and slowest hour of Luke’s entire life. Dr. Ruban arrives, bringing with her the same equipment he’s seen be used on Maggie the last two times, and before he knows it, she’s being examined and fitted with different devices in her ears, and sticky sensors all over her head. He holds his breath, willing her not to wake up, as Dr. Ruban begins the testing; Luke watches her carefully, trying to determine one way or another what’s going on from her facial expressions alone. She’s stoic, however, and gives absolutely nothing away. Next to him, Kayla grips onto his hand for dear life.
It’s then that everything actually changes. Turns out that finding out he was going to be a father had been nothing. Even seeing his daughter be born and take her first breath paled in comparison to this. For a second, he’s not sure he even heard Dr. Ruban correctly, and before he has a chance to try to comprehend, he asks her to repeat herself.
“Margot seems to have severe-to-profound bilateral hearing loss.”
Kayla drops his hand. Luke forgets how to breathe.
“It appears that she doesn’t have any hearing in her left ear. Her right might have very minimal, but for all intents and purposes, she isn’t able to hear anything.”
From his lap, Maggie continues to sleep soundly.
“Is it because of fluid?” Kayla asks. Her voice is shaking. “Like, does she have fluid in her ears? Will it get better?”
Dr. Ruban shakes her head. “She doesn’t actually have any fluid in her ears. Structurally, from what I can tell, everything looks good. You’ll want to see an otolaryngologist next, they’ll be able to help you determine what kind of care she’ll need.”
“So— so she can’t hear anything?” Luke’s voice doesn’t sound familiar. He's also never been more aware of his own ability to hear more than he is right now. It's something he's always taken for granted. His hold on Maggie tightens; it feels like the only thing he can do. “Like, she actually can’t?”
The disinfectant smell is never going to leave him. That much he knows for sure.
“That’s correct.” Dr. Ruban sighs before she turns to look Luke right in the eyes. Her face is no longer neutral. Instead, all he can see is sadness. “I’m afraid your daughter is deaf.”