The Life Intended (13 page)

“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 playing. 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.

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.