Patrick strides into the kitchen, freshly shaven and smelling of soap. He’s dressed for work in a button-down shirt, chinos, and loafers. “Mmm, pancakes!” he exclaims, patting his belly and then coming around behind me to tickle me, like he always did when we were in the kitchen together. He nuzzles my neck, and I sigh contentedly.
Gross, Mom and Dad, Hannah signs, and we both laugh.
We eat in companionable silence, and I’m surprised to realize that Hannah’s blueberry–peanut butter combination is sort of ingenious; the tart berries balance out the salty peanut butter perfectly.
After breakfast, Patrick and I walk Hannah outside, where a woman in a minivan pulls up curbside a few minutes later with a teenage boy in the passenger seat.
I hug Hannah good-bye so tightly and for so long that she has to wriggle away from me, muttering, “Geez, Mom, clingy much?” She waves from the backseat as the van pulls away, and I stare after her long after they’ve disappeared around the corner.
“You okay?” Patrick asks, putting his hand on my shoulder and squeezing gently.
What I’m thinking is, No, I’m not; I’m terrified I’ll never get to see her again. “I just miss her already,” I murmur.
“She’ll be back,” Patrick says, looking at me oddly before heading back toward the front door. “You’ll hardly even know she was gone.”
Inside, I find him putting a tie on in the bedroom, facing the window. I stare for a moment, my breath stolen by the familiarity of it all. Then, before I can second-guess myself, I cross the room and put a hand on his shoulder. He turns slowly and murmurs, “Katielee.”
The word sends shivers through me, and slowly, deliberately, I loosen his tie and begin to unbutton his shirt. He stares at me for a minute, as if trying to decide something. “Katielee,” he murmurs again, but I can see something powerful flickering in his eyes.
“Please,” I murmur, shorthand to a thousand unspoken words as I gaze up at the husband I thought I’d never see again.
He only hesitates another second before pulling me into his arms—the strong arms I love and remember so well—and holding me against his chest. I can hear his heart pounding the way it never will again, and then his hands are on me, and we’re on the bed.
His body feels different than it used to, more solid, less lithe, and there’s a confidence to the way he moves that wasn’t there before. It’s like he’s known my body for years instead of just the precious twenty months we had together. Then I push away all my thoughts, all my endless analysis, and make love to my husband, slowly, tenderly, with every cell on fire.
Afterward, I collapse on Patrick’s bare chest, tears streaming down my cheeks.
“That was amazing,” Patrick murmurs.
“I love you so much,” I reply. But then I think of Dan, and I’m flooded with shame.
I look up at Patrick, into his perfect green eyes, the ones I miss so much. I can’t stop crying, even when he takes my chin in his hand and gently tilts it up. “What’s wrong, Katielee?” he asks gently. “I’m right here.”
“Yes,” I murmur, the pain of my words shooting through my heart like a million little daggers. “You’re right here.”
Twelve
In the morning, a tremendous tidal wave of guilt crashes over me when I roll over and see Dan fast asleep beside me. The way my stomach lurches uneasily upon seeing him isn’t normal, and it makes me feel even worse about everything.
As we get ready for work, Dan’s kindness is almost torture; I’d almost rather he be distant and removed so that I don’t have to think about how in a way, I cheated on him last night. But is it really a betrayal if I imagined everything?
Imaginary or not, as I brush my teeth, I can still feel Patrick’s touch on my skin. As I wash my face, I can still smell his musky cologne on me. As I walk to the kitchen, trying to block out all thoughts of him, I can still hear him whispering in my ear. I just can’t understand how the dreams feel so painfully real.
“Baby, I want to apologize again for last night,” Dan tells me as he brings me a steaming mug of coffee fixed just the way I like it, with hazelnut creamer and a packet of Splenda.
“Last night?” I ask blankly. All I can think is that last night, I made love to my husband.
“Those things I said. About the kids you want to work with. I was wrong. And I’m sorry.”
“Oh,” I manage to say.
He sits down across the kitchen table from me and rakes a hand through his hair. “I had no right to question you. Honestly? I was jealous. And I know that’s a completely unattractive trait, and I’m trying hard not to feel that way. It’s an uphill climb. You know my history, but that’s no excuse.”
I nod. Dan was married in his early thirties to a woman named Siobhan. They were together for three years, and it had ended when she cheated on him with her boss. He’d told me on our very first date that he was a little commitment-phobic because of that, and that he had some trust issues but that he was working on them. I’d told him that my husband dying had made me a commitment-phobe too, and he’d smiled and said we’d just found the first thing we had in common.
“I’m not Siobhan, you know,” I remind him.
“I know. I know without a doubt that you would never be unfaithful.”
“Never,” I mumble into my coffee, but I can still feel Patrick’s lips grazing my collarbone, his hands on my breasts, his body pressed against mine.
“Kate?” Dan’s concerned voice brings me back to earth. “You okay? You zoned out there for a minute.”
I look up in surprise. “Sorry. I just haven’t been sleeping well.”
He looks concerned. “Anything I can do? If you need me to take anything off your plate . . .”
“That’s really nice of you. But I’m fine.”
“Hey, about the foster kids and that Andrew guy.” He clears his throat. “If it’s really that important to you . . .”
“Dan—” I begin.
“No, I just wanted to say I’m glad,” he says quickly. “I think you’ll really be able to help them.”
On Tuesday, after an appointment with Max, I head to Queens to meet Andrew at the main offices of St. Anne’s Services. As promised, he has expedited my paperwork and I’ve been approved to work with the kids; he just needs a few signatures before I see my first client.
As the subway rumbles along and I flip through an ASL dictionary I’ve downloaded to my iPad, I feel a surge of excitement. I’ve spent the last few days poring over journal articles about advances in music therapy for deaf and hard-of-hearing children, and I’m fascinated by it all. What sounds impossible on the surface makes complete sense once you take the time to understand the power of vibration, rhythm, and pitch. I’m a firm believer that music is a huge gift in life; it has the power to connect people to each other in a way that words just can’t. If I can share that gift with a handful of kids, I’ll have done a good thing.
I find Andrew waiting for me outside St. Anne’s, which is housed in a converted midcentury church on a busy street corner in Astoria. He’s sitting on the front steps, and he stands when he sees me approaching.
“You found the place,” he says, brushing the dirt off his faded jeans and grinning at me as he comes down the front walkway. We shake hands, which feels too formal, then he gives me an awkward hug.
I smile. “I guess I’m overdressed, huh?” He’s in a vintage-looking Batman T-shirt, while I’m still wearing a silk blouse, pencil skirt, and kitten heels from a day at the office.
“Not at all,” he says. “This is just comfortable, for when I need to get down and play with the kids—or fix stuff around the foster houses. I’m known far and wide as the man who can work magic with a screwdriver and a drill.”
“And here I’m just the woman who thinks she can change lives with a guitar and a pair of maracas,” I say with a wink, tipping my big can
vas bag so that he can see the small collection of instruments I have inside.
“Well, I guess we make a pretty good pair then,” he says. He takes my bag off my shoulder, and when I start to protest, he just gives me a look. “I may be dressed like a five-year-old, but I’m still a gentleman. I’m carrying your bag for you.”
“Just don’t try to take my guitar, or I’ll have to hurt you,” I shoot back with a smile.
“Ooh, a fictional violent streak. Edgy.”
I make a face at him and look up at the St. Anne’s building. “So do the kids I’ll be working with live here?”
He shakes his head. “This is just an admin office and a place where the kids can meet with some of our workers. Most of our kids are placed in private homes, and the ones we don’t have homes for live in a group home run by the city, but we try to make sure those stays are as brief as possible. Actually, if you don’t mind, I’ve brought your paperwork out here—there are just two things to sign—then we’ll walk a few blocks to the foster home where two of the kids I’d like you to meet—Molly and Riajah—live. Okay by you?”
“Sure.”
He hands me a couple of pieces of paper on a clipboard—a declaration that all the information I provided previously is true, and an official statement that I’ve never been convicted of a crime—and after I’ve signed them and handed then back, we begin walking.
“So you never told me what intrigued you about working with hard-of-hearing kids in the first place,” Andrew says as we make our way down Thirty-Fifth Street.
I consider the question before I answer, because obviously I can’t mention Hannah without sounding like a lunatic—and lunacy probably isn’t high on the list of qualifications St. Anne’s looks for in volunteers. “I think music can help everyone,” I finally say. “And there are plenty of ways to hear music that don’t involve the ears. Just because a child is deaf or hard of hearing doesn’t mean he or she can’t benefit from exposure to music, even if that’s not what people might expect.”
We turn left at the corner onto Thirty-Fourth Avenue, and Andrew glances at me. “I love to see these kids defy expectations,” he says. “Deafness and hearing loss present their own unique challenges, but coupled with the fact that these kids are also in the foster system, well, some of them are at real risk of getting lost, you know?”
“Lost in the system, you mean?” I don’t know Andrew that well, but somehow, I can’t imagine him letting that happen.
“Not really. St. Anne’s is great, and the other organizations around the city that do similar work are too. What I mean is, I worry about them just losing their chance to develop into healthy, happy kids, you know? Lots of these kids have low self-esteem, and some of them think their parents got rid of them, so to speak. There’s a lot of acting out, a lot of anger. And because they have special needs, they’re a lot harder to permanently place than the average kid. The pool of parents with the right skills is smaller.”
“So what happens to them?” I ask softly.
“Some of them find homes. Some of the kids are reunited with their biological parents. And some, unfortunately, get bounced around from home to home or wind up in a group facility.
“It’s why I think I’ll be in this job forever,” he adds as he leads me up a walkway to a narrow, brick row house. “I want these kids to know that they always, always have an adult who will care about them, a person they can come to if they need anything.”
“Andrew, that’s really incredible of you,” I manage, and he looks instantly embarrassed.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “That sounded dumb.”
“No,” I say softly. “Not at all. I was just thinking that I hope I can continue to be a part of these kids’ lives too.”
Andrew looks surprised, but he nods. “Anyhow, enough mushy stuff. Let’s have you meet Riajah and Molly.” He rings the doorbell, and after a moment, a woman with gray-streaked dark hair answers the door. There are bags under her eyes, but she’s smiling. She dusts her hands off on her apron and reaches out to shake Andrew’s hand.
“Sorry,” she says. “I was just baking some cookies. Come on in.”
Andrew steps over the threshold and gestures for me to follow. “Sheila,” he says, “this is Kate Waithman, the music therapist I was telling you about. Kate, this is Sheila Migliavada, baker of cookies and changer of lives.”
“Nice to meet you, Kate,” Sheila says as she laughs and shuts the door behind us. Inside, the house smells like vanilla. “I’ll find the girls for you, then I’ll go check on those cookies before they burn.”
“Actually, Kate’s going to visit with the girls separately,” Andrew says. “In fact, we’re just here for a few minutes today to assess them. Mind if we head on down to Molly’s room?”
“Not at all. Last door on your right.” She points down a narrow hallway and turns back toward the kitchen.
“Sheila’s one of the good ones,” Andrew explains quietly as we head down the hall. “She’s got Molly, who’s seven, and Riajah, who’s ten. They’ve been with her for about a year. They’re nice girls. They should be okay for you.”
He looks nervous, and I realize that he’s trying to start me off easy. “We’re talking to Molly first?” I ask.
He nods. “She lost most of her hearing when she was four after a bad ear infection went untreated. She’d been living with her mother, but there was an abuse situation at home with the mother’s boyfriend. She was removed until the state could verify that he’s no longer in the picture. She doesn’t interact with other kids much, and she’s very behind academically, because she won’t participate at school. She’s repeating kindergarten this fall, so she’ll be in with kids who are a year or two younger than her. She’s one of the ones I’m concerned about.”
“And you said she doesn’t have cochlear implants?”
“Because of the nature of her hearing loss, she isn’t a candidate for them,” he explains. “So she communicates largely by signing. But I also try to work with her on lip reading and verbal skills. I think it just helps for social development, in general. I thought maybe you could work with her on speech, if you think she’s a fit.”
The door’s open a crack, so Andrew steps in first and stands in front of Molly, a pale, tiny girl with straight, straw-colored hair. He waves, and I watch her face go from suspicious to happy to guarded all in a single second. I understand right away that she has her defenses up but trusts Andrew.
“Hello, Molly,” Andrew says aloud as he signs to her. “This is my friend Kate. She’s a music therapist. She’s here to visit with you today.”
Molly’s expression darkens. “No!” she says sharply, but the word doesn’t sound right; the o sounds more like a long u. She signs something to Andrew that I don’t understand, and he shakes his head.
“I know you don’t like therapists, Molly,” he says aloud, still signing to her. “But Kate is a different kind of therapist. She plays music.”
Molly looks me up and down suspiciously, then signs something to Andrew.
He turns his head toward me. “She says she doesn’t believe me.”
I nod and dig into my bag. The music therapy itself will be to assist Molly with her ability to communicate, but first, I have to get her to trust me. “I guess I’ll have to play my instruments alone, then,” I say casually. “Or get Andrew to play with me.”
He quickly translates what I’ve said into sign language, then I give him a handheld xylophone and mallet. I pull my guitar out of the soft case on my back and pluck the first few notes of “Mary Had a Little Lamb.” To my surprise and relief, Andrew enthusiastically hammers the next several notes out on the xylophone.
“Piano lessons when I was a kid,” he says with a grin, in response to my questioning look. “Although this is about the extent of my repertoire.”
I laugh, then we both look at Molly as we continue pla
ying. She’s staring at us with her mouth slightly open. It only takes her a moment to reach out and say aloud, “Me!” When I don’t respond, she stomps her foot and signs something to Andrew.
“I’m sure Kate would be happy to let you use an instrument,” Andrew says aloud as he signs back. “But you’ll have to ask her politely.”
She signs something to me, and Andrew says softly, “She’s asking for an instrument.”
Molly looks back and forth between us and adds, “Please,” aloud.
“Good job, Molly,” Andrew says with an approving nod. “Kate?”
I smile at the little girl and hand her a pair of maracas, which she accepts almost reverently. She shakes them a couple of times and then turns one upside down and inspects it, like she’s trying to figure out where the sound and vibration are coming from. Then, with a solemn expression on her face, she says to Andrew, “Ready.” The word sounds more like “Red-uh,” and I’m getting an idea of what kind of work we’ll have ahead of us.
I start strumming “Mary Had a Little Lamb” again on the guitar, very slowly, and Andrew joins in on the xylophone. Molly watches us for a minute, then she does something that surprises me; she gently sets down one of the maracas and walks over to me. I continue playing as I watch her closely. First, she gives the maraca she’s still holding in her right hand a tentative shake. Then she reaches out with her left hand to touch the strings on the neck of the guitar. Her eyes widen, and I know she’s felt the vibration. Her fingers on the strings change the notes I’m playing, but I don’t mind; I want her to feel that too.
After a minute, she begins tentatively to shake her maraca. She’s playing exactly along with the beat of the song, which fills me with relief; the fact that she has an intrinsic sense of rhythm will make it that much easier to help her get comfortable with communicating verbally.
When we finally stop playing—after repeating the chorus an additional dozen times—Molly looks at me tentatively. I set the guitar down and carefully sign to her, Good job, which I taught myself to say during my lunch break today.
Life Intended (9781476754178) Page 10
