Life Intended (9781476754178)

by Kristin Harmel

  She shakes her head, stands up, and walks out of the room before I can say another word.

  I work with Molly for a half hour too, playing “If You’re Happy and You Know It,” and a One Direction song I downloaded while thinking about Hannah. Molly is less sullen than Riajah, but there’s still a gulf of distrust between us, a feeling that I have to jump through hoops to climb over the wall she’s on the other side of. I know all about taking baby steps with clients, and I know we’re moving forward. Still, I’m frustrated, and I’m feeling the first tinglings of doubt that I may be out of my league, especially with Molly, who doesn’t have implants and has very little residual hearing. But, I remind myself, she can feel the vibrations. And being moved by the rhythm of a song is a huge part of being touched by it.

  After her session, I sign good-bye to the girls and decide to look at it as a small victory when Molly signs back thank you, then I shake hands with Sheila and tell her I’ll see them all next week. Andrew and I walk them to the door of the building, and when they’re gone into the balmy night, he beckons for me to follow him down the front steps.

  “You got Riajah to sing,” he says flatly, “and Molly to interact again.”

  “I wish I could have done more . . .”

  “Kate,” he says, shaking his head, “you’ve got to give yourself a little credit here. This was always going to be an uphill climb. Fortunately, you seem to have brought your climbing gear.” He winks at me and checks his watch. “We’re right on time for our other appointment. You ready to head out?”

  I sling my bag over my shoulder and nod.

  “You’re going to really like this girl, Kate,” Andrew says. “The two of you are sort of kindred spirits. She’s an enormously gifted musician; we all call her Beethoven around here. She’s just having a tough time right now, and none of us seem to be able to get through to her. I thought you might be able to.”

  “What instrument does she play?”

  “Piano,” Andrew says, and my heart leaps to my throat. A twelve-year-old prodigy who likes Beethoven? “But we only have a crummy old keyboard to lend her, poor kid,” he continues. “And no budget for piano lessons.”

  “What’s—what’s her name?” I croak. I know it’s impossible, but what if he says Hannah? What if the dreams were leading here all along? What if she’s real?

  “Allie,” Andrew replies.

  “Oh,” I say, surprised by how disappointed I feel. Stop being so dumb, I chide myself. Hannah doesn’t exist any more than Patrick does.

  “Shall we head over?” Andrew asks, apparently oblivious to the pangs of disappointment shooting through me.

  “Lead the way,” I manage.

  Eighteen

  As we walk up Thirty-Fifth Street and turn left on Thirty-First Avenue, Andrew fills me in on Allie’s history. She’s in seventh grade and has been in the system on and off for the last two years. Her dad’s not in the picture, and her mom has been arrested a handful of times on minor drug charges. The mother got out of a drug rehab program recently and is visiting Allie twice a week in compliance with ACS reunification guidelines.

  “So Allie will go back to her mom soon?” I ask.

  “That’s the general plan if everything goes right, although it may take a while.” Andrew sighs and shoves his hands in his pockets. “I think that a lot of the time, it is better for the kid to go back to the parents, you know? If the parent is decent, the sense of stability is usually helpful for the child. But I don’t know Allie’s mom yet, and I don’t have a good sense of the situation. I worry about Allie.”

  “You worry about all of them,” I say softly.

  He cocks his head to the side and looks at me. “It’s probably not too good for me, because there’s only so much I can fix. But yeah. I worry. A lot. And Allie’s one of the ones I worry about the most right now.”

  “You say she’s been difficult lately? Behavioral problems?”

  Andrew nods.

  “Do you think it’s because she’s worried about going back to her mom?”

  “Maybe,” Andrew says. “Although that’s hard to unravel. Is she worried because there’s some sort of problem in the home we need to be aware of? Or is she worried her mom will lose custody of her again? Does she want to go back, or doesn’t she? It’s hard to get these kids to open up sometimes, but Allie’s grades have been slipping; she’s gotten into three fights in the last two months; and she refuses to talk with any of us about any of it. I’m hoping she’ll respond differently to you.”

  “Why?”

  Andrew smiles. “Because you’re the one who speaks her language.”

  We arrive a few minutes later at a modest-looking apartment building on Forty-Second Street. Allie’s foster family lives in a third-floor walk-up, and as we scale the stairs, Andrew pats me on the back and says, “Good luck.” The words hang as ominously as a storm cloud as Andrew raises a fist and knocks on the door to unit 304.

  A man with red hair, a thick mustache, and a goatee answers the door and smiles when he sees Andrew. “Man, you’re right on time,” he says. “Come on in.”

  Andrew introduces him as Rodney Greghor, Allie’s temporary foster father. We shake hands, and Rodney explains that he and his wife, Salma, take many of the St. Anne’s kids who are likely to be reunited with their biological parents.

  “Our goal is usually to place kids in foster situations that have the possibility of becoming permanent,” Andrew says. “But Rodney and Salma only do temporary situations, which has become a godsend for us. They love these kids, but everyone goes into the situation knowing it’ll be temporary, so we don’t run into the kind of problem where there’s an expectation of adoption.”

  “We just want these kids to have a good home for however long they’re with us,” Rodney adds as he leads us into the kitchen. “Salma’s out right now, but you can meet her next time. You ready to meet Allie, Kate? I can take you back.”

  “I’m ready,” I say.

  Rodney hesitates, and I get the sense he’s evaluating me. He nods to himself after a moment and gestures for us to follow him down a narrow hall. “Come on,” he says over his shoulder.

  The door to the room at the far end of the hall is open, but Rodney knocks lightly anyhow and motions for me to follow him. I feel the breath knocked out of me as I gaze around at a darkened room that reminds me a lot of Hannah’s; the walls are covered in posters, including the same One Direction one I saw in Hannah’s room. And where Hannah’s walls were covered in taped-up sketches, Allie’s are blanketed in handwritten notes. I lean closer to read the one closest to the door.

  In here, the world is dark,

  hope is stark,

  but yet

  I embark.

  Make your mark,

  they say.

  Make your mark.

  “She writes poetry,” Rodney says, following my gaze. “I don’t know much, but I think some of it’s good.”

  “This one’s sad,” I murmur.

  “I can hear you, you know,” comes a voice from the shadowy back right corner, and I jump, startled. With all the shades drawn and the lights out, I hadn’t noticed there was someone sitting there, but as my eyes adjust and she turns, I can just make out the shape of a girl.

  “Kate,” Andrew says, “this is Allie. Allie, this is Kate Waithman, the music therapist I told you about.”

  “Hi, Allie,” I say as the girl stands and steps forward into the pale slice of light from the hallway.

  We study each other for a moment. Allie’s a beautiful girl, with wide brown eyes, straight brown hair that falls just past her shoulders, and small, delicate features that remind me of a bird.

  “Music therapist?” she asks, and her words have the same kind of rough edge to them that Hannah’s did in my dream, but her cadence and the rise and fall of her speech pattern are off. I wonder how new h
er cochlear implants are. “You?”

  “Yes,” I tell her. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.”

  Her eyes immediately narrow, then she cackles, a surprisingly harsh sound. “Liar,” she says simply, then she turns away and retreats back to her dark corner. My eyes have adjusted to the dim light enough now that I can see her, her arms crossed over her chest, her back ramrod straight as she stares at the wall. I glance at Andrew, who just shakes his head.

  “Allie—” Andrew begins, and she whirls around angrily, her eyes blazing. She signs something rapid to him that I don’t understand. He signs back, and she makes a huffing sound and rolls her eyes.

  “What did she say?” I ask, which earns me another snort of derision.

  “She said she doesn’t need a psychiatrist,” he says. “I explained that that’s not what you are. You’re here to work on speech with her. She doesn’t seem to believe me.”

  I turn my attention back to the girl. “Allie,” I say, “I’m just here to play music with you.”

  “I’m not talking about my feelings,” she says, glaring at me.

  I shrug. “I never said I wanted you to.”

  Andrew looks like he’s about to say something else, but I don’t wait to see what it is or what Allie’s response will be. Instead, I walk over to her keyboard, which is set up on a rickety stand in the back left corner of the room. I turn it on, sit down in the small chair set up in front of it, and begin to play.

  I don’t think about what tune I’ll pick out, but almost of their own accord, my fingers move across the keys to the Fray’s “How to Save a Life.” I’m less than a verse in by the time I’ve elicited a reaction.

  “Hey!” Allie says loudly, stepping in front of the keyboard and glaring at me. “That’s mine!”

  I glance at her, but I keep on playing without missing a beat.

  That’s mine, she signs, her expression angry now. Mine! Then she switches back to spoken words and says again, “Mine!”

  “Okay, then play it,” I say without stopping. I dive into the chorus as she watches me, her jaw hanging slightly slack.

  “What?” she finally asks.

  I stop playing and look at her. “If it’s yours,” I say, “play it. Because if you won’t, I will. That’s what instruments are for.”

  “But I said it’s mine,” she says, her protest growing weaker as her expression grows confused.

  I shrug. “You can’t claim it as yours unless you play it. Musicians’ rules.”

  Allie glares at me, and for a moment, we’re locked in a silent staring contest. I’m starting to worry my bluff won’t work when Allie finally rolls her eyes, snaps, “Move,” and slides onto the seat I quickly vacate in front of the keyboard.

  She pauses, as if to collect herself, and a second later, the room explodes with sound: angry keystrokes, sullen chords, all laced with a beautifully smooth melody that somehow manages to tie together the choppiness. When she closes her eyes and slips into the music, Andrew and I exchange glances, and I look over to see Rodney staring at Allie in awe.

  A few minutes later, the song comes to an abrupt end and Allie turns to smirk at me. “See?” she says.

  I keep a straight face. “What was that song?”

  Her left eye twitches. “It’s called ‘Make Your Mark.’ ”

  I think of the poem on her wall, the one in her slanty, girly handwriting. “You wrote it,” I say.

  She stares at me for a long moment. “So?”

  “So,” I say, “you’re talented. And I look forward to working with you.”

  With that, without waiting for a reply, I turn and walk out of the room and back into the kitchen. After a moment, Andrew and Rodney join me. Rodney is scratching his head.

  “That was it?” he asks. “That’s the end of your session?”

  I nod and glance uncertainly at Andrew. I’m relieved to see him smiling. He looks at Rodney. “Kate got Allie to engage with her,” he says, and something changes in Rodney’s face as he looks at me with grudging respect.

  “You were right,” I tell Andrew. My whole body is buzzing with energy. “I just had to speak her language.”

  “Any chance you’d want to grab something to eat before I head home?” I hear myself ask Andrew as we head back toward St. Anne’s.

  He glances at me. “Your fiancé won’t mind?”

  “He’s out at a bar with his friend Stephen tonight. He’ll be home late.” Then, because I realize I sound a bit like I’m hitting on Andrew, I add quickly, “I just thought it might be nice to talk about the kids’ progress. That is, if you’re free.”

  The truth is, I know I can’t talk to Dan about Allie, Riajah and Molly, because he won’t understand how much the sessions with them meant to me. Andrew will. I’m not ready to leave my bubble of happiness yet.

  Andrew grins. “As long as you promise to let me order for you again.” I give him a look and he holds up his hands defensively. “Not because I’m some sort of chauvinist. It’s because I loved seeing the look on your face when you took your first bite of that burger a couple weeks ago. I want to do it again and I have just the place in mind.”

  “Another burger joint?” I ask, but I can’t help smiling, because that sounds delicious.

  “Give me some credit here, Kate,” he says. “I have a wide repertoire of culinary tricks up my sleeve. How do you feel about Caribbean food?”

  We wind up at a narrow, hole-in-the-wall Jamaican place ten blocks from Allie’s house. There are only a dozen tables in the restaurant, and the walls are painted black, green, and yellow.

  “It doesn’t look like much,” Andrew says, reading my mind, “but I promise, the food here is incredible. Trust me?”

  “I trust you.” I smile, because the words are surprisingly nice to say.

  “Good,” he says, nudging me, “because I know my food, woman.”

  Andrew orders ackee and saltfish—which he tells me is Jamaica’s national dish—as well as breadfruit and fried plantains.

  “Breadfruit?” I ask when our waitress walks away to get us a couple of Red Stripes.

  “It’s a fruit,” he says with a smile, “that feels and tastes like bread. In Jamaica, they traditionally roast the whole fruit and then slice it up. It’s a pretty common accompaniment to ackee and saltfish.”

  “I’m almost afraid to ask what ackee is.”

  He grins. “Ackee is this wacky fruit that looks kind of like yellow stone-crab claws when it grows. But when you boil it, it winds up looking just like scrambled eggs. The Jamaican tradition is to serve it with salt-packed cod and a bunch of vegetables and spices. It’s different, but it’s definitely an experience.”

  “Fruit that tastes like bread,” I repeat slowly, “and fruit that looks like eggs. Sure, that all sounds normal.”

  He laughs. “I thought you said you trust me.”

  Our waitress returns with our Red Stripes, and by the time the food comes, we’re talking and laughing like old friends. There’s something about being with Andrew that reminds me of being with Patrick, but the two men aren’t the same at all. In fact, they don’t have a lot in common. It’s just that I have the weird sense that I can be myself entirely with Andrew. If I say something stupid, I have the feeling he’d say something equally ridiculous in return, just to put me at ease.

  Our food arrives, and just like Andrew promised, the main dish looks just like scrambled eggs with tomatoes, peppers, and onions mixed in. I take a bite and scrunch my nose up as the flavors assault my taste buds. It’s salty and very fishy.

  “You hate it,” Andrew says, his face falling.

  “No.” I take another bite. “Actually, it tastes nothing like what I was expecting, but it’s pretty good.”

  He looks relieved. “And the breadfruit?”

  I try it and nod as I chew. “Definitely tastes lik
e bread. But really good bread.”

  “So I have your seal of approval?”

  “You’re two for two, Henson.”

  He pumps his fists in the air. “Victory!” he says dramatically, which makes me laugh. “So,” he says, after taking a bite of his meal, “would that fiancé of yours like this too?”

  I laugh. “He’d hate it. He won’t eat anything with high sodium content, as I’m guessing this has.”

  “He has high blood pressure?” he guesses.

  “Nope. Just an obsession with eating healthy.”

  Andrew looks confused. “But you said he would have loved that burger we had a few weeks ago. Which, by the way, is probably on the top ten list of the unhealthiest foods in the New York metro area.”

  I look down at my plate, my appetite gone. “No. I said my husband would have liked it.”

  “Your husband?” Andrew still looks perplexed, but there’s something in his eyes that tells me he knows exactly what I’m going to say. He’s lost someone too, and sometimes, you can just tell.

  “His name was Patrick,” I say.

  “Oh,” Andrew says softly.

  “He died twelve years ago,” I go on numbly. “Or it’ll be twelve years on September eighteenth. And Patrick would have loved this place. And that burger.”

  Andrew looks at me for a minute, and I wait for his pat words of sympathy, a variation on the same theme I get each time I tell someone I’m a widow. But instead, he reaches out and squeezes my hand. “So when you told me you understand how it feels to lose someone, you meant it.”

  “Yes,” I say.

  He’s silent for another minute. “He’s the one who gave you the advice? About following your dreams?”

  I smile. “He’s the one.”

  Andrew nods. “So he has great taste in food. And he gives awesome advice. What else? Tell me about this guy.”

  “Really?” I’m surprised. People just want to say they’re sorry for my loss and move on before the conversation gets awkward. But Andrew seems to genuinely want to know.

  “Like was he a Mets fan or a Yankees fan?” Andrew asks, nudging me.