If any of this information will help Quinn, I need to be honest with her.
“I function just fine until my routines are interrupted or a room is too loud.” Those are the two biggest things that make an auditory processing disorder rear its ugly head. The only way I’m able to sing on a stage at all is by controlling the volume. Other than applause, everything loud comes from me.
She chuckles. “So, what you’re saying is, since you became a parent?”
I hate admitting that. It sounds like I regret Quinn, which I don’t. It doesn’t mean it hasn’t been hard.
“I appreciate you opening up. I imagine this isn’t easy for you to talk about, but I want to reassure you that everything youshare with me is confidential. This is a safe space for you and Quinn,” she says.
She waits for something—maybe a look to signal that I’m okay?—then she asks a few more questions about Quinn’s development since pregnancy. I answer them to the best of my ability.
“The next part of the process is the evaluation. I’m going to check Quinn’s receptive language—having her show me where a certain toy is on the table or follow one-to-two step directions. I’ll check her expressive language after that. It will give me a better idea at the size of her vocabulary. It should be between one to two thousand words and four-to-six-word sentences at her age. Then I’ll test her speech sounds, and we’ll finish with her ability to communicate during play. Things like taking turns, greeting each other, and eye contact.”
I nod. Mostly because I’m grateful the attention will no longer be on me.
“Okay, Quinn. It’s your turn. Are you ready?” Sue asks her.
Quinn gives up her bug puzzle the moment Sue puts a rubber duck, a hairbrush, and a stuffed cat on the table. She starts as promised, having Quinn identify which toy is where. I quickly learn this woman is good at what she does. She redirects Quinn with ease when she gets distracted. Never pushes her so hard that it ends in a meltdown. She makes working with my daughter and understanding her look easy when I know it’s not.
As we near the end of the evaluation, I consider what comes next. Answers, I hope, that help us move forward. But I deflate when I ask her as much, and she says it will be a few days before I hear any results.
I realize I walked in today believing an answer might make me feel better. Expecting that assigning a name to Quinn’s struggle would help me find hope for growth. Instead, dread is whatI’m leaving with.
I thank her for her time, but my feet root to the carpet in her doorway. I’m blocking her exit. The words, glaring and obvious, hang in the air between us. I don’t know if I can sleep tonight without asking them. I don’t know if I’ll ever sleep again when I know the answer. I turn around to face her anyway.
“Do you think…”
My eyes are pleading; I know they are.
From the moment we met, Sue has been stoic. She hasn’t allowed emotion to show on her face like she is right now. Regret is all I can see.
“We won’t know for sure until Quinn’s older. When she is able to repeat numbers, words, and sentences, she can be formally tested by an audiologist like you were. But yes. There’s a chance your daughter has an auditory processing disorder.”
I don’t know how I make it out to the car or how I get Quinn buckled in her seat. I don’t know where the lines converge on the street or how many stoplights I have left until we get home. For the first time in my life, I’m thankful I have the drive to Harrison Boulevard memorized.
Tears blur my vision and threaten to fall. I squeeze tighter on the steering wheel, hoping the added pressure quiets the shaking in my hands.
I didn’t realize I had a vision for Quinn’s future until I saw it tumbling away with the wind.
I wanted her to have an easy time making friends. To hear a story problem in math and not have to look off the kid’s paper next to her. I didn’t want her to have to ask for directions to be repeated ten times more than everyone else. She’ll be different and need help. She’ll struggle in all the ways I did and all the ways I still do.
“Daee otay?”
My eyes shoot to the rearview mirror at the sound of Quinn’s voice. She’s studying my expression like she did on herbirthday when I lit that article on fire over the kitchen sink. I clear my throat.
“Yeah, honey. Daddy’s okay.”
Stuck in a haze, I call Summer.
“Hi!” Her voice is light and happy. Free of burden.
I shouldn’t have called. I don’t know why I did. I don’t have a clue what to say. I wonder if there will ever come a day when our baggage is too much for her to want to stick around.
“Everett, are you there?” she asks.
I swipe at the tears burning my cheeks.
“C-could you watch Quinn tonight?”
