Lost: A Counsel Novella

By Shenda Paul

Lost is a novella, a companion piece to Counsel, in which Adam tells the story of his tragic last years with his biological mother and his first meeting with his new family, the Thornes.

Happy and settled into his new life, Adam’s life is disrupted once more with news of the man who abandoned him and his mother.  Confused, angry, and bitter, Adam struggles, not only with those emotions but also his awakening teenage body.
 
The mix is volatile, often destructive, until he finds himself in a situation that forces him to change his ways and, ultimately, sets him on the path to becoming the formidable prosecutor we meet in Counsel and Justice.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Dec 1, 2016
• ISBN: 9780994472298

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Chapter One

You’re late! Where’ve you been? Cait demands when I enter the kitchen where she and Mom are.

None of your business, I tell her, grabbing the cookie jar.

No arguing, Mom warns as she kisses my cheek.

Milk? Cait offers, already opening the refrigerator door.

Thanks, I smile at her unspoken apology. Shifting between affection and irritation is how it’s been for us for nearly a decade now. Six, two years younger than me when I came to live with the Thornes, Cait almost instantly assumed the role one would expect from an older, not younger sibling.

It seems that she’s always trying to either bully or mother me. She nags when she thinks I’m holding back, argues when she disagrees with me and comforts me when I’m upset—and I admit to being agitated a lot in those early years. Matt says I was a moody bastard, that I still am, but withdrawing is my coping mechanism. I dealt with my confusion and feelings of rejection in my last years with Eleanor that way. It’s what I still do when wrestling with something that bothers me. I have no problems being sociable, but I’m not naturally gregarious, probably a symptom of spending so much of my early life only with Eleanor or alone. Now, I prefer socializing with my family and close friends.

When I want to be alone, Mom and Dad will check that I’m okay. They’ll only push if they think it’s necessary, and my friends, even Alan, who can be a pain in the ass, will give me space when I demand it. Cait doesn’t. She ignores whatever mood I’m in. She’s always done that, even as a little girl, and my response has always been either one of acceptance or irritation, depending on her level of pushiness, my mood, or the circumstance. But, no matter how annoying she can be or angry she makes me, my love for Cait is unquestionable. I think she’d say the same about me.

Our affection had been almost instantaneous and, despite her hearing problems and my inability to sign, we managed to communicate. Somehow, Cait always seemed to know when I was feeling sad. She’d sneak into my room, squeeze into the small space between my bed and the wall it was pushed up against, to hold my hand, silently letting me know I wasn’t alone.

I didn’t realize the feeling of protectiveness was a two-way street until some months after I arrived, when hanging out with Matt in the playground, I heard spiteful laughter. I don’t know what made me race over, but I did and found a group of kids teasing Cait. I didn’t care that those little punks were younger than me or that two of them were girls; I shoved them aside roughly and put my arm around Cait’s shoulder.

She was flustered, angry, and on the verge of tears. At that stage, she hadn’t yet learned to lip-read well. She could only pick up familiar words and had difficulty when people spoke too fast. Without them signing or speaking slowly, she had no idea what they were saying; and those kids were all yelling at once, confusing her even more. It hurt seeing her like that. I was so mad. Then, when one of the boys called her a deaf freak, I saw red. Leave my sister alone! I yelled.

She doesn’t have a brother, he said.

"She has now; and if I catch you messing with her again— I glared at them, including the girls, I’ll punch your lights out." They must have seen how serious I was, and Matt, by this time, had moved to stand on the other side of Cait. They left without another word.

The Thornes had, we still have, a ritual where, at the dinner table, we take turns to share something about our day, good or bad. That night, I waited for Cait to tell what happened, but she didn’t. Instead, I listened as Mom translated her signing for me. Cait told how her teacher praised her drawing.

When my turn came, I asked to learn sign language because I realized I was as bad as those kids who hadn’t learned to communicate with her properly. When Mom told Cait, her face split into the widest grin I’d ever seen. Cait, already proficient, insisted on joining me in ASL classes, and our bond only grew stronger after that. I was ecstatic, of course, when less than a year later, my adoption was finalized, and I officially became Adam Thorne. But I can honestly say that my happiness that day did nothing to dim the sense of belonging I felt standing up for Cait in the playground. That was when I felt like part of the family.

Almost two years ago, Cait, who’d been adamant about not having a cochlear implant, changed her mind. Mom and Dad immediately arranged for her to see a specialist, and she underwent a myriad of tests before he pronounced her a viable candidate. Cait, in fact, our entire family were warned it would not be an easy journey. The surgery was vital to her regaining adequate hearing, but it was only the first step, the specialist said. It would take a lot of work, perseverance, and patience from Cait and our unwavering support for her to gain the maximum benefit from the implant.

Surgery for pre-lingually deaf recipients is not always successful, and there are varying levels of success, he warned. I want you to be realistic; you especially, Cait, he stressed. He had, however, been optimistic about a good outcome. Your parents did a good thing ensuring that you could read and sign from an early age. Because of that, you have excellent language comprehension, he told Cait. Strong language skills, we learned at that meeting, are crucial to helping deaf people understand spoken language.

It made sense to me then, and probably Cait too, why, despite her refusing an implant, our parents insisted that she continue speech therapy, something she did for years, even after I joined the family. Mom and Dad had, it would seem, always hoped that Cait would change her mind and did everything to ensure that if she did, she’d have the best possible outcome.

Cait had the operation six months later and had her cochlear implant activated about a month after that. Another nine months passed before the specialist announced that it had reached its peak performance. Nine months, during which my sister suffered pain and discomfort in and above her right ear. She experienced dizziness, nausea, and disorientation. And who would ever have thought that one would have to learn to tolerate sound, but, once the implant was activated, Cait had to get used to sound to before she could learn to decipher and identify different sounds.

For some reason, despite what we’d been told, I thought, well hoped, the surgery would restore her hearing and speech overnight, but it didn’t. My admiration for Cait grew and knew no bounds as I watched her determinedly overcome each new obstacle. The years of lessons that Mom and Dad insisted she take helped significantly, just as the specialist had predicted. Her hearing still isn’t perfect; it never will be, but she can do things she couldn’t before—things like hearing the voices of the person or people they love, hearing their children laugh or cry, using a phone, or even listening to music.

Cait still lip-reads, though. I don’t think she’ll ever stop because it’s something that’s become natural to her, and, despite it no longer being necessary, she often still signs when speaking to Mom, Dad, or me. We reciprocate because for us, as a family, it’s a special bond we share.

Cait’s fifteen now and because of her unusual speech, a result of her hearing impairment, still attracts unwanted attention. Also, the external transmitter of her implant is noticeable, especially when her hair moves and the shaved patch on her scalp or the earpiece shows. It irritates me when people stare. What the fuck? I want to demand when I see someone looking, but then, those ignorant, dumb asses would notice any person they view as different. Cait, thankfully, doesn’t appear fazed by the attention her device attracts, which, mostly, helps me to ignore it too. But my sister’s also noticed for other reasons.

She’s beautiful and is, very obviously, growing up. In the last year, I’ve challenged both catty girls and hormonal boys who thought her fair game. I’ve even gotten physical with punks who tried to take their interest too far. Cait, no shrinking violet, is more than capable of standing up for herself, but I’d never let her do that on her own, certainly not if I can help it.

What’s for dinner, I’m hungry? I ask, peering over Mom’s shoulder.

You’re always hungry, sweetheart. We’re having pot roast, so stop filling up on cookies, Mom tells me.

I won’t, I promise and, then, just as Cait moves to put the jar away, I snag another cookie. Mom shakes