Page 61 of Hush, Little Baby

The words are somewhere underneath the pressure and the cotton and the fact that my mouth is opening and closing like a fish. I stretch my jaw again, wider this time, then press my tongue to the roof of my mouth, swallowing hard enough to make my throat click, but my ears still don’t pop. The ache only deepens, blooming outward toward my temples until tears spring to my eyes.

Nikolaus stares at me with growing alarm the longer I don’t say anything, while I keep making stupid little grimaces and try to force my ears open by stretching my mouth like an idiot.

“Charlie,” he says, more forcefully. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

I shake my head again.

Another tear slips out, more from pain than fear this time, though there are plenty of both mixed together. I lift one hand, but I don’t know what to do with it. Point to my ears? That seems so obvious, but also impossible. My fingers flutter uselessly near my cheek, then drop back to my blankie.

Nikolaus catches my wrist gently before it falls.

“Where?” he asks urgently. “Show me.”

I try.

I really do.

But the plane is still climbing, the pressure keeps building, and the floaty place has turned into something murky and thick where every instruction arrives too late. I open my mouth wide again, jaw trembling, then squeeze my eyes shut and make a tiny, pained sound I would be embarrassed by if I had any room left for embarrassment.

Nikolaus curses under his breath. “Constantine. What the fuck is wrong with him?”

11

Charlie

Constantine is frowning as he looks at me. “I think it’s his ears, but I’m not sure. That’s why babies usually cry during take-off, because they can’t equalize the pressure. I know some adults struggle with it too, but I’ve never heard of it being this severe.”

Yes.

That.

That thing.

Thank God.

Nikolaus looks back down at me, worry still carved into every line of his face. “Your ears hurt? Is that it?”

I give the smallest nod I can manage.

His lips flatten into a line. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

I stare at him helplessly.

Because I can’t talk.

Because I don’t know how to climb out of wherever my brain put me.

Because you keep calling me baby and little one and good boy, and every time you do, the words in my mouth get farther away.

Because I forgot how to be a person who asks for things.

Because everything hurts and nothing makes sense.

Nikolaus’s face changes, as if he hears at least some of that without me saying it, and his expression flickers with frustration that does not seem directed at me.

“How do we help him?” he asks.

Constantine unfastens his own seat belt despite the climb not being finished, reaches into one of the nearby compartments, and pulls out a small pack of gum from a side pocket of his bag.