Her son looks at her directly. He’d gone to speak with his father, not with her. He’d intentionally come while she was out
When I take out the protective earplug, I hear sounds from an unfamiliar place. I can’t explain it to regular people — it’s weird. Until now, I heard everything through my bone-anchored device. Now sounds are coming into my ear, and I need to process them in a whole different way. I’ve noticed that I’m wrinkling my forehead as I try to understand what people are saying to me, like some professor. I guess it’ll take time to get used to this new way of hearing.
Before I leave the house, I always slip an earplug into my ear — a bright fluorescent pink one. Dr. Barclay warned me not to go out to any public place without an earplug until my hearing canal is completely healed. At the clinic they offered me a choice of these bright-colored earplugs or plain, ugly beige ones. Abba almost took the ugly beige ones.
He looks at me now. “Are you sure you want to come to the bar mitzvah?” he asks.
He’s hesitant. My stitches are showing, and there’s still some swelling. My new ear is still a bit purplish-red, though it’s slowly taking on my normal skin tone. And that crazy pink earplug.
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