As they talk, I try to focus on what they’re saying, but my mother’s words keep ringing in my ears.
You have to be absolutely sure.
And it occurs to me that there’s almost nothing in my life that I’m sure about right now.
We catch up over a long lunch—crab capellini in tomato cream sauce for my mom, a quinoa salad for Susan, and a grilled chicken sandwich for me—then I check my watch and realize it’s nearly three. I’d intended to stop by my apartment to grab my guitar before meeting Andrew in Queens, and if I don’t leave now, I won’t make it.
“This was great,” I say abruptly, interrupting the stream of their conversation as I pull a couple of twenties from my purse and lay them on the table, “but I have to get back to work.”
“I thought you took the day off,” Susan says with a frown.
I shake my head. “I have an appointment late this afternoon. Sorry.”
My mother firmly pushes my money back toward me and insists that lunch is her treat. “Come on, honey,” she adds. “I’ll walk you out.”
I hug Susan good-bye, and as she digs back into her salad, my mom stands and follows me out into the lobby.
“Listen, honey, I have dinner with Susan and the kids tonight, then a spa treatment tomorrow morning and lunch with a few old friends at one. But how about dinner with you and Dan tomorrow? Will that work?”
“Sure, Mom.”
My mom puts her hands on my shoulders and pulls back to look me in the eye. “Kate,” she says softly, “whatever decision you make will be the right one, as long as you follow your heart.”
“Thanks,” I murmur.
“The thing is,” she adds, “you have to listen hard to what your heart’s saying before you know what you’re supposed to do.”
I
spend the ride out to Queens thinking about what my mother said, but I ultimately realize I can’t hear my heart, because it’s wrapped in a thousand layers of defenses. I’ve been so busy trying to do the things I should do, to get back on the “right path,” as my mother and sister would say, that I’ve forgotten how to read my internal compass.
It’s a few minutes past four by the time I hurry up the front walkway of St. Anne’s. “Sorry I’m late,” I say.
Like last time, Andrew is in front of the building, sitting on the steps. Today, he’s in a faded heather gray T-shirt with an equally faded outline of a smiley face on it, paired with jeans.
“Three minutes doesn’t count as late,” he tells me, “and by the way, you look great today.”
“I do?” I look down at myself doubtfully. I’m in a faded button-down chambray shirt and skinny black jeans, which I quickly threw on when I stopped by the apartment after our late lunch.
“Much better than when you wear a suit,” he says. “Purely from a clinical standpoint, of course.”
I can feel myself smiling. “So we’re off to see Molly and Riajah?”
“Actually, I have a little surprise for you.” He scratches his head and looks suddenly worried. “Wait, I’m just now realizing that I should have called you. I can’t just spring an appointment on you without telling you, can I?”
“An appointment with whom?”
“Well, I didn’t want to interfere with your schedule tomorrow, especially with your mom in town,” he says. “You’re already
being so nice by volunteering with us. So I made some calls this afternoon, moved some things around, and arranged for Molly and Riajah to be brought here. That way, you can meet with them now, then we’ll head over to see the other girl I told you about. If that’s okay.”
“Sure. That sounds great.”
“Okay, good.” He looks relieved. “In the future, I’ll give you more notice, I promise. I just don’t want you to have to waste too much of your time on us.”
“Andrew, it’s not a waste at all.” I’m surprised by how deeply I mean the words.
Andrew beckons for me to follow him. Inside, the building is homier looking than I thought it would be; framed children’s drawings and splotchy finger paintings line the wall of the long front hallway, and as we pass by open doorways, I glance inside and see dozens of offices filled with photographs and bright colors. Many of the rooms look pleasantly cluttered, which surprises me; I had somehow expected something more sterile and bureaucratic.
“This looks like a nice place to work,” I say as we turn a corner and Andrew opens a door for me.
“Well, the hours are long, and I won’t be buying a yacht anytime soon,” he says with a smile, “but I can’t imagine a job where I’d feel more rewarded.”
Andrew leads me into a conference room littered with toys. Molly and Riajah are at opposite corners of a large table, ignoring each other. Molly is playing with a couple of Barbie dolls, and Riajah is hunched over a notepad, sketching something with colored pencils. For a second, my heart lurches as I think about Hannah and her drawings, but I blink and push the thought away. These kids need me now; I can’t be lost in a world of my own making.
“Kate!” Sheila stands from her seat at the middle of the table to cross the room and give me a warm hug. “It’s so nice to see you again. I know the girls are looking forward to meeting with you.”
I glance at them. Molly is still ignoring me entirely, and Riajah is studying me with a pensive look on her face. After a few seconds, she returns her gaze to the notepad in front of her and goes back to drawing.
“I’m looking forward to meeting with them too,” I tell Sheila. “Thanks so much for bringing them by the office.”
“Oh, it’s no problem at all,” she says, waving her hand dismissively. “It’s nice to get out of the house, you know?”
“Let’s see how this works out today,” Andrew says, “and if the girls seem comfortable, maybe we can make this a regular appointment.”
“I think they got a lot out of the session last week,” Sheila says. “I’m happy to keep bringing them back.”
Andrew touches my arm. “How about we start with Riajah, if that works for you. I’ve got a spare office set up down the hall for us. Shall we?”
I hesitate. “You know, I think it might be better if it’s just me and Riajah this time,” I tell him. “Besides, I learned some new ASL phrases on my own this week.”
He looks surprised. “But understanding her will still be tough if she decides to speak to you only in sign language.”
I shake my head. “That’s kind of the point. I want her to
have
to communicate through spoken words or through music. Besides, if this is going to work, I’m going to have to get her to trust me, which means some one-on-one time.”
Andrew looks skeptical, but after a moment, he nods. “Okay. That makes sense.” He pauses. “You said you learned some new phrases? On your own?” He turns to Sheila and adds, “Kate’s my star pupil.”
I can feel myself blushing, which I know is silly. “I learned to say this.” I take a deep breath and slowly sign,
I know you want to act like I’m stupid because I’m not good at ASL. And that’s okay. But today, we aren’t going to use words. Today, we’re only going to use music. You have to speak my language.
Andrew looks at me in surprise. “You learned all that just to work with Riajah?”
“Yeah. Did I say it okay?”
“Kate, that was perfect. When have you been finding the time to practice?”
“In my sleep,” I say with a faint smile, and he laughs, clearly believing I’m joking.
“Okay, then,” he says. “Let’s get started.” He crosses over to Riajah and kneels down in front of her, then he signs something so rapid I can’t keep up. I watch his hands, and then hers, as they have a fluidly signed conversation back and forth. My hand signs are still choppy and uncertain, whereas Andrew’s and Riajah’s look like visual music. They’re smooth, delicate, deliberate, and completely beautiful.
Riajah seems to be arguing, but eventually, she rolls her eyes and stands up. Andrew winks and beckons for me to follow as Riajah strides out of the room.
As promised, Andrew has set up a spare, unfurnished office for us to use. It’s devoid of any furniture except for two chairs, and the room looks stark and sparse when Andrew flips the light on. I tap the wooden floor lightly with the toe of my right foot, and I smile when it vibrates a little in response. It’ll be perfect for us.
A closet?
Riajah signs with a smirk, and I recognize the word from reading over the ASL dictionary last night.
“No, a music theater,” I say before Andrew has the chance to reply, and his eyebrows shoot up in surprise. Riajah simply snorts, sits down in one of the chairs, and turns away.
“Well,” Andrew says to me, glancing at Riajah uncertainly. “I guess I’ll leave the two of you alone, if you’re sure you’re okay.”
“I’m sure.” I say. “Oh, and one more thing: it may get loud in here for a few minutes. Is that okay?”
“Sure. I’ll let my coworkers know.” He looks from me to Riajah and back. But he makes no movement toward the door. “You’re positive you don’t need my help?”
“Andrew,” I say with a smile, “let me do what I do.”
My words must project more confidence than I feel, because he finally nods and heads for the hallway. “Have fun, you two,” he says before shutting the door behind him.
When he’s gone, I turn to look at Riajah, who is still studiously ignoring me. I say her name a few times, but she’s clearly set on pretending I’m not there. I walk around her, until I’m standing in front of her, and she glances at me then turns away, her movement deliberate.
It’s what I’d expected, based on our last interaction, but this time I’ve come prepared. From my big bag, I pull my iPhone and two small but powerful Bluetooth speakers.
“Riajah, Andrew tells me you like to listen to music,” I say.
No reply.
“But have you ever
felt
music?”
Again, no answer.
I scan my phone for the short playlist I put together this afternoon, then I plug the speakers in, turn the volume to high, set everything on the floor, and say, “Because music isn’t just something you hear with your ears. It’s something you experience with all your senses.” I don’t wait for a reply; instead, I push Play.
The room explodes with the Philadelphia Orchestra’s recording of Tchaikovsky’s “1812 Overture.” I know I’m playing the song loudly enough that Andrew and his colleagues can hear it down the hall, but that doesn’t matter. What matters is that the
sound is strong enough to vibrate the floor Riajah’s chair is sitting on. I need her to feel the rhythm, to discover that hearing isn’t the only way to appreciate a song. I continue to stand behind her and smile as I see her body respond, involuntarily, to the rise and fall of the music. She twitches each time the piece reaches a crescendo, and by the end, I can see her chest rising and falling with the rhythm.
I wait for a moment—I’ve programmed silence between the songs—and as I’d hoped she’d do, Riajah turns to look at me.
The music,
she signs.
Where?
I don’t reply. I simply smile at her and wait for my iPhone to provide her with an answer. A second later, it does; Outkast’s “The Way You Move” begins to play, the bass line vibrating the floor. Riajah looks at me once more, her expression startled, and then she notices I’m mouthing the lyrics to the chorus. She blinks a few times then slowly rotates her chair until she’s watching me closely.
When the Outkast song ends, the playlist transitions into the Who’s “My Generation,” but Riajah holds up her hand and stands up. I push Pause, then she signs something rapid to me, and I recognize the words
what
and
singing.
“I like the way you move,” I reply.
She signs the words back to me, and I nod. Then I say repeat very deliberately, “I like the way you move.”
She stares at me and signs the words again.
I nod and say them aloud again, but this time, I say them in rhythm, stomping the floor hard enough for her to feel it.
She signs the words back to me, and in reply, I say them again, still stomping. When I’m done, I keep tapping my foot hard on the ground, waiting for her to jump in. She stares uncertainly at me, and then I have an idea. I bend down to my iPhone, go back to the beginning of the Outkast track, and stomp hard along with the cadence I know she can feel. When the song gets to the cho
rus, I sing, “I like the way you move,” with the vocals in the song. It takes us until the third repetition of the chorus before Riajah finally joins in.
Her voice is raspy and sweet and although very off-key, she’s completely in rhythm. She watches my lips and my tapping foot for a while, then I’m surprised to see her close her eyes as she waits for the next chorus. This time, she doesn’t look at me; she plunks herself down on the floor, touches it with both hands, and sings in perfect time with the lyrics.
When the song ends, I push Stop on my iPhone and wait for her to open her eyes.
“You sang,” I say.
She looks at me for a moment before smiling. “I sang,” she says clearly.
Not wanting to lose the momentum of the moment, I ask, “Do you have a favorite song?”
She nods and surprises me by naming “You’re Beautiful,” a guitar-driven James Blunt song from a decade or so ago. I scroll through my iPhone, and when I find it, I look up.
“Do you know all the lyrics?” I ask.
“Yes,” she says aloud. “I like it.”
“What do you like about it?”
She considers this. “It says someone can be thinking about you even if you can’t see them. Maybe they even love you and you don’t know.”
I nod, trying not to show her how elated I am by the interaction. “Do you think there’s someone out there thinking of you, even if you can’t see them right now?”
She shrugs.
“Like who?” I prod.
“Maybe someone who’s supposed to be my mom or something.”
I feel a lump in my throat. “Want to feel the rhythm of the song?”
She nods.
“But you have to sing with me or I turn it off,” I tell her. I push Play, and we stare at each other as the first few guitar chords fill the room with sound. Then, Blunt’s beautifully reedy voice pipes from the speakers, and I hide a smile of pride as Riajah loudly sings, “My life is brilliant,” along with him. Again, her rhythm is perfect, even if her pitch is off.
For the next three minutes, with James Blunt’s voice echoing off the walls, we sing together. I don’t know every word like Riajah does, but I know enough to keep up, and when the final note fades, she turns to look at me. “The end is kind of sad,” she says.