Tone Deaf(38)

Then she raises her hands, and the story comes tumbling out. “My mom died when I was ten, right at the same time I lost my hearing. I was sent to live with my dad, and . . .” She shudders at some past memory. “And he didn’t like having me around.”

“He hit you,” I murmur.

She shakes her head. “Not at first. I think he always resented having to take care of me, but for a long time, the worst thing he did was ignore me.”

Her expression hardens, and she brushes away a tear. “And he was even good to me in some ways. My school district put me in lessons to learn to read lips and sign, and he was supportive of that. He even learned some signing himself. But he pretty much just avoided me most of the time, and I was happy like that.”

“But you’re not happy now,” I sign. She hesitates, and I add, “Don’t try to tell me that’s how it ended, Ali. People don’t run away just because their parents ignore them.”

She sniffs a little and signs, “When I was about thirteen, he starting getting really angry and drinking a ton. I’d always hear him lecturing the younger cops in his department about getting counseling if they developed PTSD. But I guess he couldn’t take his own advice. He’s a mean drunk, and . . .”

Ali takes a deep breath and looks away from me. I can tell she’s trying to be calm about this, but little tremors keep running through her hands, and her lips purse tightly. “That’s when he started hitting me.” She glances at me hesitantly, her cheeks flushing with shame as she blurts out loud, “He never . . . you know. He just struck me—a few punches and that sort of thing.”

“Just punches?” I repeat. “Ali, there’s no such thing as ‘just punches,’” I sign. “They’re punches. Period. They’re abuse. They never, ever should have happened to you.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, her eyes focusing on the floor again.

I tap her chin, tilting it up so she looks at me. She breathes in sharply and jerks back from my touch, but her attention is on my hands.

“Don’t apologize,” I sign. “Do you understand? You didn’t do anything wrong. Nothing. I don’t care what you think you did, it’s not your fault. No one deserves to be treated like that, no matter what. Got it?”

She gulps hard and nods. I sigh and lean back a little, giving her a bit more space as I desperately try to sort out everything she’s telling me. “I’m still confused though,” I insist. “What mental health issues were they talking about?”

Her hands start signing again, but now they’re a little slower, a little more hesitant. “At first, I didn’t want to tell anyone. My dad helped a lot of people during his career, and everybody thought he was a hero. Then his PTSD started getting totally out of control. He’d have a flashback, and it’d leave him so angry, he’d just lash out at whoever was nearest. Which was usually me.

“That was when I tried reporting him. But right before then, one of my teachers insisted I start seeing the school counselor. She meant well, she was just worried since I wasn’t talking much and my grades were slipping. But my dad used the mandated counseling to his advantage. He said it was obvious I had emotional issues and was just crying out for attention, and that all my claims about his abuse were lies.”

I stare at her hard. “And Child Protective Services bought that?”

She nods tightly. “My dad had worked with CPS probably hundreds of times during his career. They had no idea about his PTSD or his drinking, and they all thought he was a great guy. Plus, all my relatives backed him and told CPS he’d never hurt me. So of course they believed him.”

I let out a small groan and pinch the bridge of my nose, trying to hold back the headache creeping up on me. Either Ali is a pathological liar, and a damn good one, or she’s actually telling the truth.

“I still don’t get how you got diagnosed as crazy,” I sign. “Crying out for attention and crazy aren’t the same thing.”

Her hands freeze and she glares at the ground, like everything is the floor’s fault. Then she signs, “I kept trying to report him, but CPS was totally convinced I was just some needy kid. My relatives all said I was fine, and my teachers said they didn’t see any signs of abuse. I guess no one wanted to get in a fight with someone like my dad. So by the time he started hitting me hard enough to leave bruises, CPS thought I was doing it to myself. I got diagnosed with some self-harm disorder, and from then on, no one would listen to me.”

Her eyes cast down in shame and her shoulders sag, and right then, I know she’s telling the truth. She doesn’t expect me to believe her, just like no one believed her before.

Just like no one ever believed me.

I stroke my thumb gently over her cheek, brushing away a tear. I hate seeing those tears there, knowing I caused them, knowing she’s in pain. Whatever happened to me being her rescuer?

She looks up at me. “I’m sorry,” I murmur. Ali shakes her head, jerking away from me, and stands on unsteady legs. She grabs her duffle bag, which still sits in the corner of the bathroom, and then edges past me, careful not to make contact.

A sharp pang hits my chest, and it just gets worse as she starts toward the door. I reach out and take her hand, careful to make my grasp gentle. It still makes Ali flinch, but at least she doesn’t bolt. Instead, she freezes in the doorway and glances over her shoulder at me.