Page 12 of Juliet's Echo

Juliet smiled—small, relieved—and leaned into her for just a second longer than usual.

That brought a smile out of me.

“...In Jesus’ name we pray, Amen,” I said, closing out the prayer before it turned into a full-blown comedy show.

The drive to Havenbrook’s prestigious elementary campus was about a 30-minute ride from our home. If there was no traffic, you could shave off about eleven minutes. Today, I wasn’t in any rush. The slower I arrived, the longer my Ju-Ju stayed my little baby and my best friend.

Juliet sat in the backseat, secured in her booster seat, gazing out the window. Her long eyelashes fluttered softly as she took everything in.

I turned the radio up as my boy Optimus’ track, “Proved It,” came on.

“Daddy had no love for me, mama had no hope for me

Came up where the dark had a tighter grip than faith on me

Turned pain into pressure, let that fire put a scope on me

Now the world gotta see it—yeah, I proved it.”

I rapped the lyrics hard, letting out an occasional “whew!” every time Optimus dropped some hot shit. Turning the volumeup, the bass from my custom stereo system made my Bentley Bentayga vibrate beneath us.

At a stoplight, still bobbing my head, I glanced in the rearview mirror to check on baby girl. She was still looking out the window—but her small hand had lifted to her ear, rubbing it lightly.

That was the signal.

Discomfort.

Her hearing was starting to go.

Juliet wasn’t completely deaf—she could hear very well when her hearing was present. But heightened emotions and overlapping frequencies would cause it to disappear. It was like her brain couldn’t process everything fast enough, so it just… checked out.

It always came back.

The longest she had ever gone without hearing was a full day, and that was only because she had a cold.

Without hesitation, I reached over and turned the music off completely.

The light turned green, and I eased forward, but my eyes kept flicking back to her through the rearview mirror. Watching. Waiting.

When her shoulders finally dropped and she let out a small sigh, I felt my own chest loosen.

I mouthed, “Too much?”

She nodded, then signed, “Thank you.”

With one hand on the wheel, I signed back, “Always.”

We drove the rest of the way in silence.

My father trailed behind us in his Ferrari; my mother sat calmly in the passenger seat.

When the elementary campus came into view, its brick entrance made it look more like the X-Mansion than a building filled with crayons, markers, and snot-nosed kids.

The parking lot was empty—only the cars of teachers and staff scattered throughout.

We were late.

Intentionally late.