I picked Dad up at eight. He was waiting on his porch in his church clothes, a pressed white shirt and his good khakis, his hair combed with water. He’d dressed up for the audiologist the way men of his generation dress up for the bank or the doctor.
He climbed into my car. “Where are we going, sis?”
I’d written it out on a yellow legal pad the night before. I held it up.
Springfield. Audiologist. New hearing aids. My treat.
He read it twice, and his face changed.
“No, ma’am,” he said too loud. “No. I’ll figure something out.”
I flipped the page. I’d written the next part ahead of time, because I knew exactly what he’d say.
Already made the appointment. 9:30. Don’t argue with me. You taught me not to quit.
He looked at that for a long time. Then he looked out the windshield, and his jaw worked.
“Your mama would’ve done the same thing,” he finally said. “Stubborn as a mule. Just like you.”
We drove the forty minutes to Springfield in silence. He couldn’t hear the radio, so I left it off. He watched the cattle fields and the cell towers go by, and every so often he’d point at something, a hawk on a fence post, a new subdivision going in, and I’d nod.
The audiology clinic was in a brick building off South National Avenue. The audiologist was a calm young woman named Dr. Nguyen with gentle hands and a soft voice. She’d fitted Dad’s original pair and remembered him.
“Mr. Lowery! How are those hearing aids treating you?”
Dad looked at me helplessly. I wrote on my pad: She asked about your hearing aids.
“They’re at the bottom of a pond,” he said loudly.
Dr. Nguyen’s eyebrows went up.
I explained the rest in a low voice while Dad sat in the chair.
Dr. Nguyen listened. When I finished, she was quiet for a moment.
