Lost: A Counsel Novella Read online

  By Shenda Paul

  Counsel

  Justice

  Angel

  Novella

  Lost

  Lost

  Shenda Paul

  Copyright © 2016 Shenda Paul

  Vivid Publishing

  P.O. Box 948, Fremantle Western Australia 6959

  www.vividpublishing.com.au

  eBook conversion and distribution by Fontaine Publishing Group, Australia

  www.fontaine.com.au

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written prior permission of the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to persons living or dead or events is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  This eBook published in 2016

  ISBN 978-0-9944722-9-8

  Cover Design: TW/SPaul

  Cover Image: © Master1305/Shutterstock

  Dedication

  To Jacqueline, Emily, Sebastian, and Madeleine.

  Believe in your dreams.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  About The Author

  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.

  F
or 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 her head and smiles indulgently, and I wink at her on my way out.

  I met Emma Thorne when I was six years old. I remember the day well. Someone knocked at our door, and I looked up, afraid because I expected it to be one of Eleanor’s male visitors. Instead, when she opened the door, a woman smiled back at me. She looked a lot like my mother—her auburn hair was lighter, and her eyes were golden brown, not green, but they were bright like I remembered Eleanor’s used to be. Her soft voice, her smile, so many similarities between Eleanor and Emma, things I missed and hankered after, that I felt an almost instant connection with the stranger at our door.

  “I’m Emma Thorne, with the department of social services,” she said to Eleanor, who glanced back at me nervously.

  “I’m taking care of my son,” Eleanor protested.

  “I’m sure you are, Miss Mannering, and I’m here to help in any way I can,” Emma said and then something about someone else coming.

  I didn’t understand what it meant, but, for whatever reason, Eleanor allowed Emma in. I remember how she sat on our faded sofa, pulled a chocolate bar from her bag and then gave it to me. I felt unsure and, despite being desperately hungry, hesitated. “My daughter loves these,” she told me. “I’m sure you will too.” She smiled, so I accepted the chocolate and offered it to Eleanor. She shook her head, her dull eyes tearful as she touched my cheek. “You have it, baby. I’m fine,” she said.

  I ate sitting on the floor where I stayed to play when Emma suggested that she and Eleanor talk in the kitchen. I looked up often to make sure Eleanor was okay, and every time I did, Emma was watching me. She smiled, but I didn’t reciprocate, not until I felt sure she wasn’t there to harm Eleanor and me.

  Emma visited often after that, and I always looked forward to seeing her. She’d bring milk, bread, peanut butter, cheese, sometimes, even cooked food. “I made too much,” she’d say. I loved when she did that because Eleanor hardly ever cooked like she used to. In fact, during the last year or so, we barely had food in the house. And, for me, Emma always brought one of those special chocolate bars. She’d help Eleanor get me ready for school. When Emma didn’t visit, Mrs. Doyle did. Much later, I learned that she’d asked Mrs. Doyle to pop in when she couldn’t. I don’t know what would have happened to me if they hadn’t cared enough.

  Eleanor’s bad spells increased. In the last months of her life, she was listless, often barely able to function. I didn’t know then, what the problem was. All I knew was that my once-vibrant mother, who’d doted on me, had changed almost beyond recognition. Others noticed, of course, and, at school, I was picked on mercilessly because of my ‘odd’ mom. Finally, having had enough, I pushed Roger Montgomery over in the playground. When questioned, I stubbornly refused to repeat what he’d said. I didn’t know what whore meant, but I just knew it was bad. He, of course, claimed innocence, saying I attacked him for no reason. My silence, in the teacher’s eyes, confirmed my guilt.

  Unable to reach Eleanor, she called Emma, who, for whatever reason, Eleanor had listed as my emergency contact. Instead of getting into trouble as I’d expected, she bought us each an ice cream and took me to the park. All I’d say when Emma asked what happened was that Roger had said bad things about my mommy. Emma gently reprimanded me for fighting, telling me there was a right and a wrong way to deal with someone who I felt had harmed me. She said if something like that happens again, I should tell a teacher and explained that it’s always best when someone does you harm, to go to the right authorities. I asked what authorities means, and she said people like mommies and daddies, teachers, the police, and doctors.

  It didn’t matter what Roger said, my mommy loved me and was doing the best she could, Emma told me. I didn’t respond. I didn’t want to talk about what had happened or the way my mommy had changed. I wanted to eat my ice cream and pretend I was normal, and being with Emma made me feel that way.

  “I got us tickets to the game next Saturday?” Dad announces as he passes me the potatoes.

  “Thanks, Dad!” I return his grin, help myself to a large serving and hand the bowl to Cait.

  “Field box, tier one,” he adds and my smile nearly splits my face.

  “That’s not fair…” Cait complains.

  “It is, Caitlin. You got the shoes you wanted, and Adam’s been getting excellent grades; he deserves a reward,” Dads counters, looking up to smile at me—that smile, the one that lets me know he’s proud of me.

  And that’s just another reason why I love Callum Thorne. He always lets me know he’s proud of me. Well, both Cait and me, but she’s his biological child; I’m not. I hadn’t always been this easy with Dad, though. Unlike with Emma and Cait, I hadn’t felt instantly at ease with him when we met. In fact, I’d been downright wary of him because my only interactions with men, until then, had been with Eleanor’s visitors, and those meetings hadn’t been pleasant. So, when first entering the Thorne home, I saw him, I hid behind Emma.

  He smiled at me and dropped to his knees, bringing his face level with mine. “Hi Adam, I’m Callum, and I’m very happy to have you here,” he said. I stepped back and bumped into someone behind me. I spun around to face a blonde, blue-eyed girl with lopsided pigtails and a big smile. She moved her hands and then looked at me expectantly.

  “This is Caitlin, our daughter. We sometimes call her Cait. She’s nearly six, and she says hello and welcome,” Callum said.

  “She didn’t talk,” I turned to Emma, refusing to acknowledge him.

  “She talks by signing. Those movements she made said, ‘Hello, Adam, welcome home’,” Emma explained. I stared at her in amazement before turning back to the girl.

  “Thanks,” I said, and she smiled, showing the gap in her front teeth.

  “Cait wants to show you your room,” Callum announced and got to his feet. The girl clutched his hand, glanced over her shoulder, and when I didn’t follow, motioned for me to hurry.
<
br />   It took months before I’d speak freely with Callum. By that time, he and Emma had been appointed my foster parents. Matt wanted me to join his Little League baseball team, but I was afraid to ask, worried the Thornes would think me a bother and send me away. Matt nagged for weeks before I built up the courage to mention it to Emma, and then, to my disappointment, she said she’d have to discuss it with Callum. I was sure he’d say no, but he surprised me that night when he told me I could join.

  Emma and Cait accompanied me to my first match and waved when I looked for and found them in the bleachers. I was so happy and proud to have someone—a family—to support me. When my turn came, I ran onto the field, grinning like an idiot, took my stance and managed to hit the ball. “Great shot, Adam!” a familiar voice shouted. I looked over, shocked, to find Callum jumping up and down excitedly. I can’t begin to describe how I felt seeing him there.

  I’d secretly longed to have a dad like other kids but had resigned myself to never having one. In the past, whenever I’d raise the subject with Eleanor, she’d grow sad. “I’m sorry, Adam, but you don’t have a daddy; you only have me,” she’d say. After a while, I stopped asking and, eventually, stopped dreaming about having a father.

  When I walked off the field that day, and Callum put his hand on my shoulder, drawing me close, I hugged him back. I introduced him to my coach as my foster dad. “Soon to be his adoptive dad,” Callum said, looking as proud of me as I was of him. I stared up at him, surprised and overjoyed that they’d want to keep me.

  “Adam?” Mom brings me back to the present. “Did you hear what I said?”

  “He’s probably dreaming about Natalie Jones,” Cait says before I can respond. I feel my face flush.

  “Who’s Natalie Jones?” Mom asks.

  “No one,” I mutter, but my busybody sister, who has nothing better to do than stick her nose into my business, keeps talking.