Life Intended (9781476754178)

by Kristin Harmel

  Her face lights up for a second, and then her smile falls just as quickly, and I’m surprised to see her glaring at me. She glances at Andrew and signs something to him.

  “No, Molly,” he says gently as he signs back to her. “We’re not going to abandon you now. Kate is going to come back next week. Right, Kate?”

  I nod vigorously.

  Molly studies me suspiciously for a minute. Then she signs something else to Andrew.

  “She wants to know if you’ll bring your maracas back,” he tells me with a slight smile.

  “Yes, absolutely.” I nod again, and Andrew signs to Molly that I’ll be back with all my instruments. She looks at me for a moment, and then she smiles tentatively.

  “Okay,” she says aloud. “Bye.”

  “Good-bye, Molly,” Andrew says. He makes a sign that’s similar to a wave. I do the same thing. Molly nods solemnly and turns away as we leave her room.

  “I’m sorry,” I say as soon as we’re alone in the hallway.

  “What?” Andrew looks startled. “Why are you sorry?”

  “It probably doesn’t look like we made much progress. But with kids, it’s better to start off slow, get them to trust you.”

  “Kate, that was the most I’ve seen Molly interact with a stranger—ever. Whatever you’re doing . . .” He pauses and concludes, “Let’s just say I think you have a real gift. I’m hoping you’ll be able to get Riajah to open up too.”

  “What’s her story?”

  “She was born with only five percent residual hearing,” Andrew explains. “Her mom died of breast cancer when Riajah was just two, and her dad gave her up after that. He just walked into ACS one day and said he didn’t want to raise a kid on his own. We tried to find a relative who would take her, because she has a huge extended family, but only one aunt stepped forward, and that only lasted a year. She gave Riajah up entirely when she was just four. Apparently, there was some incident at Riajah’s birthday party that year, and the aunt wound up yelling at her that she was stupid and would never be normal. She brought her back the next day, like a store return.”

  “That’s horrible,” I murmur.

  Andrew nods. “And that’s the kind of thing that stays with a kid for a very long time. Riajah’s had a few placements in the six years she’s been with us. Two years ago, we were able to get her cochlear implants, but it’s been slow going. She can hear and speak perfectly well, but she still uses sign language a lot too.”

  “Because that’s what she’s more comfortable with?”

  “I’m not sure,” Andrew says. “I’m pretty positive it’s more of a defense mechanism. Like she can keep most people out by refusing to communicate in a language they can understand.”

  “Poor kid,” I say.

  “Nah, try to think of it this way: Now she’s a lucky kid, because she gets to work with you.” He turns away before I can reply, and I feel myself blushing.

  Andrew goes into Riajah’s darkened room first and has a quick signed conversation with her before ushering me in. “I told her about you,” he says. “She says she’s not going to talk to you, but that you can play your music if you want.” He shrugs an apology.

  “No problem,” I tell him. I follow him into the room and find Riajah, a stout African American girl with long hair in little braids, sitting on the floor. She looks older than ten, or maybe that’s just because she’s scowling at me with the world-weary expression of someone who’s seen it all.

  “Hello, Riajah,” I say aloud, smiling as I greet her with a wave and a careful fingerspelling of her name. She cocks an eyebrow, looks at Andrew, and signs something rapidly. He sighs and signs back.

  “What did she say?” I ask.

  “She wants to know if you have mental problems,” he says. “Apparently you’re not signing fast enough for her.”

  I look at Riajah, who’s smirking at me now. I make the letter A with my right hand and move it in a circle around the center of my chest, the ASL way to say, I’m sorry. Then I follow with the sign for learning, by making a motion from my upturned left palm to my forehead, as if I’m extracting knowledge from a book and transporting it to my brain.

  Riajah scowls at me for a moment before looking away.

  I take a deep breath, and without waiting for her to turn around, I set a tambourine on the floor beside her, hand Andrew a triangle, and begin strumming my guitar. I don’t think about what to play, but what comes out is the Beatles’ “Yellow Submarine,” one of my favorite songs to play with kids.

  “In the town where I was born . . .” I sing, and Andrew hits the triangle right on cue, twice after town and twice after born. As I get to the chorus, and Andrew enthusiastically dings his triangle, she finally turns around.

  It takes three times through the refrain before she finally picks up the tambourine and, watching my fingers on the strings closely, begins beating it against her hand, tentatively at first and then with a bit more confidence. She’s not quite in rhythm, but she’s participating, and that’s more than I’d dared hope for on a first visit. I keep repeating the chorus again and again, and Andrew gamely continues chiming the triangle. I can even see a smile tugging at the corner of Riajah’s lips.

  On the fourth time through, though, she looks up and locks eyes with me for a moment. Then her expression darkens, and she slams the tambourine down and stalks out of the room without looking back.

  Andrew and I stop playing and look at each other.

  “I’m sorry,” I say helplessly. “I don’t know what happened. I thought we were making some headway.”

  I expect him to look disappointed, but instead, he smiles at me. “You did make headway,” he says.

  I look at him uncertainly. “Really?”

  We walk out to see Sheila in the kitchen, and as Andrew gives her a recap of the two brief sessions and discusses what day of the week would work best for future sessions, I gaze around at our surroundings. Sheila’s house is filled with family photos, many of which include Molly and Riajah and some of which look older and feature other kids. I’m guessing Sheila has been fostering kids for a while. I don’t see a husband in any of the pictures, and I’m struck by the strength it must take to do this kind of parenting alone.

  Sheila hugs me good-bye, and on the way out, Andrew tells me he has one more child he’d like me to see, a twelve-year-old, but she got in trouble at school this week and is grounded, so perhaps we could drop by her house next week.

  “Sure,” I tell him. “I really liked working with Molly and Riajah today.”

  “You were seriously great.” He glances at me. “Do you think you’d consider making this a regular thing? I think the kids could really benefit.”

  “Definitely,” I say. “Let me check my schedule, but I think Thursday evenings should be fine most weeks.”

  “Kate, that would be amazing. And we can be as flexible on our end as you need us to be. We’re just grateful for your time. And I promise, we’ll try to find some money for this in next year’s budget.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” I murmur. I’m typically annoyed when people assume music therapists won’t mind working for free—it’s like they’re saying our work is worthless—but in this case, it’s different. I’d rather have Andrew spend money directly on the children, and if he’s using funds to provide cochlear implants for kids in the system, I’d like him to keep doing that.

  We walk in silence toward the subway station on Broadway and Thirty-First, and after a moment, he nudges me and says, “So do you and your fiancé have any kids?”

  He glances at my ring finger before looking up to meet my gaze.

  I think of Hannah, but that’s foolish. “Not yet,” I reply.

  “Well, watching you with Molly and Riajah today,” he says, smiling warmly, “maybe it’s a silly thing to say, but I think you’ll make a really good mom someday, if th
at’s something you want.”

  “Thanks,” I whisper. The silence between us as we walk feels awkward, so I hurry to change the subject. “Your brother, the one you mentioned, does he live here in New York too?”

  The smile falls from his face. “Kevin? It’s a long story.”

  “I’ve got time.”

  I know right away from the expression on his face that time isn’t the issue. I’ve hit a nerve.

  “I’m sorry,” I say quickly. “If you don’t want to tell me—”

  “He died,” he interrupts. He looks away as he mumbles, “We were kids. We were playing soccer in the front yard, just kicking the ball back and forth, the two of us. The girl I liked rode her bike by, so I stopped to talk to her. I turned my back for a second, and Kevin chased the ball right into the street. He—he didn’t hear the car honking at him.”

  “Oh, Andrew,” I say, my eyes filling with tears.

  “I was twelve. He was nine,” he says with a practiced shrug. “It was a long time ago. But it’s the kind of thing you just never get over, you know?”

  “I know what it feels like to lose someone,” I say, although I don’t mention Patrick. It’s not the same. “But you can’t blame yourself.”

  He shakes his head. “But that’s just the thing. Of course I can. I’m the one who turned my back. I was supposed to be looking out for him. And now he’s gone, and I get to keep on living, and that’s not very fair, is it?”

  I open my mouth to reply, but he cuts me off. “I shouldn’t have told you all that and made myself sound like some sort of martyr. I’m fine. I was in therapy for a while. I’ve worked through it. But it’ll always be a part of me.”

  “I know.”

  “You’re easy to talk to, Kate. Thanks for listening.” I realize we’ve reached the stairs to the subway station. We pause awkwardly for a moment, and then Andrew points up the street and says, “I live that way about ten minutes. You okay getting home?”

  “Sure.”

  “Great. Thanks again, Kate.” He reaches out to shake my right hand. “See you in class tomorrow.”

  He gives me a half smile and walks away before I can reply.

  Thirteen

  My dreams of Patrick and Hannah don’t return that week, which leaves me disappointed and missing them. Going to sign language class on Wednesday makes me feel a little closer to them, though. Or maybe it’s just that Andrew’s warm smiles and the speed at which I’m picking up new words and phrases make me feel pretty good.

  I try to catch him after class to continue our conversation about his brother, but he seems to be in a rush and leaves without a word while Amy talks my ear off about some dating advice a friend gave her. I have the feeling the point of her story is to not so subtly let me know that she’s after Andrew, and I should back off. She seems to think there’s something going on between us. “You already have a fiancé,” she concludes tightly. “So there’s really no point in you hanging out with Andrew outside of class.”

  “Amy, it’s just work related,” I tell her with a sigh, but she makes a face and launches back into a monologue about dating in New York.

  By the time I extricate myself from Amy and make it upstairs, Andrew is long gone, and the church is silent.

  Before I leave, I glance back at Jesus above the altar and murmur, “Thank you for letting me see Patrick again. But maybe, I don’t know, maybe it’s not that good for me. Maybe I just need to focus on my real life. Thank you anyhow.” I cross myself and hurry out into the warm evening, feeling unsettled.

  On Saturday morning, I’m getting dressed to go wedding dress shopping with Gina and Susan when Dan comes up and kisses me.

  “You look beautiful,” he says, turning me around and pushing my hair behind my ear. “My gorgeous bride-to-be. Looking forward to shopping for a dress? I hear that’s supposed to be a big deal for you ladies.”

  I smile. “Gina and Susan seem even more excited than I am.” I hear how the words sound, and I quickly shake my head. “Not that I’m not excited. I just mean that the two of them act like they’ve been waiting forever to see me in a white dress.”

  Dan’s smile falters. “Since Patrick died.”

  “I didn’t mean it that way.”

  “I know.” Dan studies me for a moment and nods. “Is everything okay?”

  “Of course,” I say instantly. “Why wouldn’t it be?” But when he still looks skeptical, I add, “Work stuff. That’s all.”

  He rubs my back comfortingly, his hand moving in small circles. “So you’ll never believe what happened to Stephen.”

  “He fell off another keg?” I guess, only half kidding. Dan’s best friend is a recently divorced forty-five-year-old who seems to think he’s two decades younger than he actually is. “Or he dropped two hundred grand on a sports car he can’t afford? Or did he talk another college coed with daddy issues into going home with him?”

  Dan chuckles. “Good to know you hold him in such high esteem. But you’re not too far off base.”

  I laugh. “Oh, this should be good.”

  “He got a girl pregnant,” Dan continues. “Some girl he only went out with twice. Can you believe it?”

  I can feel the smile fall from my face. “What’s he going to do?”

  “He offered to pay for the abortion.”

  Something twists inside of me. “She’s having an abortion?”

  “No, that’s the thing,” Dan goes on. “She’s refusing to get one. She’s only twenty-five, but she says she’s been dying to have a baby. So she’s going ahead with the pregnancy. Stephen is panicking.”

  “Well, that’s her right,” I say. “To have the baby.”

  “Of course,” Dan says. “But Stephen’s pretty upset. He doesn’t want to be a father. Not with some girl he barely even knows.”

  “Then maybe he shouldn’t have slept with her. That’s how babies are generally made, you know.” I can’t keep the edge out of my voice. Suddenly, I’m irrationally furious. I’m technically pro-choice, because I feel like abortion should be an issue between a woman, her conscience, and her doctor, but the older I’ve gotten, the more I’ve realized just how valuable life is. Stephen’s eagerness to throw it so carelessly away makes me bristle, as does the blank expression Dan is giving me now.

  “You’re saying you think they should keep it?” Dan asks.

  “I’m saying I think it’s not my business,” I reply. “And I think that Stephen accidentally procreating isn’t really something I need to hear about right now.”

  Realization crosses Dan’s face. “Oh. So that’s what this is about.”

  I glare at him. “You say it like I’m being ridiculous.”

  “You can’t compare it to what you’re going through, Kate. It’s not the same thing.”

  I flinch at his choice of words. “What I’m going through?” I can feel my face getting hot.

  Dan looks confused for a second. “I meant what we’re going through,” he amends unconvincingly.

  “No, that’s not what you meant,” I mutter. I know this is a perfect opportunity for a talk—a real talk—about what we both want. But I can feel the heat of annoyance radiating through me, and I don’t want to fight. The truth is, I never want to fight. Unfortunately, Dan seems to subscribe to the same philosophy, so we never really discuss anything. Instead, we simply let potential disagreements go, but I’m beginning to suspect that the things we’ve swept under the carpet are the things wrapping themselves around me lately, making me feel like I can’t breathe.

  “Okay, what can I do to fix this?” Dan asks, his tone softening. He waits for me to look up. “I love you.”

  “Why?” I hear myself ask.

  “What?”

  “Why? Why do you love me?”

  He rakes a hand through his hair. “I just do, Kate. Jesus. Are you deliberately pushing my
buttons this morning?”

  “No.” In fact, I’m not sure what I’m doing, but I know it’s not fair. I know that my unsettled feeling is about Patrick, and I’m aware that my long-dead husband has no place in the middle of a conversation with Dan. But I can’t stop. “I think what I’m doing is saying we don’t communicate, Dan. And maybe we should be communicating better.”

  “Fine. So let’s communicate.” He looks at the clock on the wall. “But aren’t you going to be late for meeting the girls?”

  I check my watch and grimace. “Oh.”

  “Hey, I love you. We’ll talk later. Okay?”

  I nod. “Love you too.” I can feel his eyes on me as I walk out the front door. In the bright morning sunshine, the miniconfrontation feels ridiculous, but I can’t seem to untie the knots that have formed in my stomach.

  Elisabetta’s Bridal Studio looks like something out of a fairy tale, with Tiffany blue carpets, ornate oval mirrors, and rows and rows of lace, tulle, and satin in a spectrum of shades from white to cream.

  “Wow” is all I can muster when Susan, Gina, and I walk in and a guy in a tuxedo who looks barely older than eighteen materializes with a tray of champagne flutes. We each take one, and Susan grins at me.

  “I knew you would love this place,” she says. “The appointment was almost impossible to get, but I called in a few favors.”

  “Thanks,” I say, exchanging glances with Gina. I’m sure she’s thinking, as I am, that everything in this store is well out of my price range.

  But Susan, reading my expression, squeezes my arm gently and says, “Relax; it’s just to get an idea of what you like. I’m sure your style has changed in the last twelve years.”

  She whisks away to sign in for our appointment, and Gina smiles at me and shrugs. “Hey, we might as well enjoy it,” she says. “Besides, who knew today would come with free champagne?”

  Susan returns with a glamorous-looking woman dressed all in black, her dark hair pulled into a tight bun. “I am Veronica,” she says, her voice thick with an accent I think is Italian. “And you are the bride, Katherine?”