Chapter Four
“Did you hear yet?” Lucas asks as soon as I answer his call.
I stop jogging, something I’ve been doing a lot more of this week after seeing she likes to do it, and I roll my eyes. He’s called me twice a day for a week. I’m beginning to regret even telling him. I swore him and the rest of my family to secrecy. But I needed to tell them. We’re all very close. Or we used to be, until Dallas lost his family and took off to a remote cabin upstate where he’s been for the past two years.
“No, dickwad, I haven’t heard. Don’t you think I’d call if I had?”
“Either that, or maybe you’d drown yourself in the creek.”
“I’m not going to kill myself if the kid is mine.”
“Do you know how fucked up that would be if you had a four-year-old kid? What kind of woman keeps that information from a guy?”
“I suppose one who was so slutty she doesn’t know who the father is.”
“Have you thought about what you’ll do if she’s yours?”
“I suppose I’ll write a big check every month and try to get to know her.”
“If the slut allows it.”
“You can bet your ass if I’m supporting the kid I’ll be in her life. Even if I have to go to court.”
“You know she’s just looking for a meal ticket. Slap the name Montana on the kid and she’ll be set for life. This Lucinda chick must know that.”
“I told you, I have no idea what’s going on. The private investigator said Lucinda wasn’t the one driving this.”
“Right.”
I see someone walking ahead, a spark of recognition twinging in my gut. “Gotta go finish my run.”
“Call me la—”
I hang up and jog ahead, plucking my AirPods out of my ears. “Hey!” I call out. It’s her. I know it’s her. That hair. That body. It’s the dream girl I’ve been thinking about for six days. I’ve been running the trail in the park and jogging by the apartments every day after work hoping to find her.
She’s far away so I pick up the pace. “Hey! Hello!”
I get close, but she doesn’t turn. She approaches her building, punches a code on the keypad, and walks inside. Ten seconds later I’m pounding on the outer door, looking like an idiot as I shout after her. “Hey!”
I see her through the glass, but she still doesn’t turn. Damn it. She must be wearing AirPods. Everyone wears them these days. Better luck next time.
At least now I know what building she lives in even if it does make me feel like a stalker.
My phone vibrates with an incoming email. I swallow barbed wire when I see who it’s from. Trish, the private investigator, told me the paternity results would be emailed to me.
This is it.
Oh God.
I tap the email to open it. There’s a lot of information I don’t understand. Until I get to the very bottom where it clearly reads: The alleged father is not excluded as the biological father of the tested child.
While that might not be crystal clear, there’s one thing that is.
The next line reads: Probability of Paternity: 99.9998%
Holy shit.
I lose my breath as swiftly as if I’d been kicked in the stomach. Tumbling onto the grass, I bend my knees and put my head between my legs.
Holy shit.
My heart races. I almost hyperventilate. Closing my eyes, I try to picture my life. The life that just got turned upside down with one swab of the cheek. One reckless night. One single email.
I’m a fucking dad.
~ ~ ~
Two hours later, Lucas, Allie, Mom, Dad, and I are sitting around my table with Ms. Duffey from New York Child Protective Services. I knew they’d be coming. Trish called and told me.
“Let me get this straight,” Dad asks on my behalf. Probably because I’m still too stunned to speak. “This Lucinda is in drug rehab, the grandparents want to dump their grandchild on my son so they can sail the world on a cruise ship, and if my son refuses custody, the girl will go into foster care?”
“That sums it up,” Mrs. Duffey says.
“Can we please stop referring to the child as ‘the girl’,” Mom says. “She must have a name. And do you have a picture?”
“Her name is Maisy.” A picture is pulled from a folder and slid across the table.
Mom gasps. “My Lord. She looks just like you did at that age.”
I study the picture. The girl is beautiful despite her unkempt curly blonde hair. And there is a definite sadness in her eyes. I raise a brow at Mom.
“I mean her face, Blake. Not her hair. She has your eyes. Your nose. The shape of your jaw. And I’m willing to bet, if she were smiling, she’d even have your dimples.” A hand covers Mom’s heart. “Maisy Montana. It has a nice ring.”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Mrs. Duffey says. “Legally, her name is Wilcox.”
“Surely we can get that changed,” Dad says.
“It all depends. While we’re issuing Blake emergency temporary guardianship so he can care for her, there are still a lot of unknowns here. Such as what will happen when Miss Wilcox is released from rehab.”
“And how long will that be?”
“Miss Wilcox is in a ninety-day inpatient program, after which she may have an extended stay in a sober living residential facility. I fully expect her to get visitation privileges after the inpatient program.”
Finally, I speak. “As in, I’m babysitting for three months and then Lucinda gets to come back and do whatever she wants?”
She shakes her head. “You have rights as the father. She also has rights. But given the circumstances under which Maisy was taken away, the courts may rule in your favor should it come to that.”
“What exactly are these circumstances?” Mom asks, lines of worry etching near her eyes.
“Neglect, mostly.”
There is a burning inside me as I look at the picture. There is such sadness in her eyes. My kid—my daughter—has been raised and neglected by a drug addict. Surprise overcomes me as I realize how protective I’m being over someone I’ve never met. “Was she beaten?” I ask with a tight jaw.
“Maisy shows no signs of physical abuse. But sometimes neglect can have the same outcomes. She’s shy. Reserved. And she doesn’t communicate outside of pointing and drawing.”
Mom gasps again. “She doesn’t communicate? What do you mean?”
“Well, ma’am”—Mrs. Duffey looks at me—“it appears Maisy may be deaf.”
A hand flies to Mom’s mouth, covering her surprise. “Oh my gosh.”
“What do you mean ‘it appears’?” I ask angrily. “She’s four. How can you not know?”
“That’s where the neglect comes in. There are no medical records to show she’s ever been tested. Yet she’s virtually unresponsive to verbal commands. I’d suggest the first thing you do is take her to an audiologist.”
Dad pulls out his phone. “Roger Dullis is an audiologist and a good friend. I’ll text him now.”
My stomach heaves. I have a daughter. Possibly a deaf one. Definitely a neglected one. I feel utterly sick. “When can I meet her?”
Mrs. Duffey thumbs out the window. “I have a fellow social worker waiting with her in the car. Lucinda’s parents packed her belongings.”
I stand and go to the window. “She’s here? And you want me to take her? Now?”
“Like I explained when I first showed up, Mr. and Mrs. Wilcox are leaving the country. Maisy was set to enter the foster care system and would have if your paternity test had come back differently. We had a judge issue the emergency temporary guardianship. It’ll take time to get your name on the birth certificate, and, even then, there may be a custody battle ahead. But, yes, Mr. Montana, we’d like you to take her today. Right now.”
I look around. “I don’t have anything. I don’t even know where I’d start.”
Mom touches my shoulder. “I’ll take care of it. Sweetie, there’s a little girl out there who needs you.”
Dad looks up from his phone. “Roger said he can come over and meet her. He’ll be able to give you some preliminary information.”
I nod. “Okay.” My insides are shaking. “I guess… let’s meet my daughter.”
“I’ll bring her inside,” Mrs. Duffey says and heads for the door.
Dad clasps my shoulder as I take several deep breaths. “We’re all here for you, Blake.”
I nod.
Tension is building inside me, getting stronger every second, like a percolating pot of coffee.
What if she hates me?
What if I don’t know how to help her?
What if I can’t be a father?
It seems like forever before Mrs. Duffey comes back inside. When she does, she drags a large suitcase behind her, and her other hand holds onto a very scared-looking little girl.
My heart lurches into my throat. Everything the social worker said about Maisy’s situation hits me like a punch to the gut. How could anyone treat such a fragile little girl like that? The lump in my throat makes it almost impossible to speak. Because, despite her disheveled appearance, this creature is the most beautiful sight I’ve ever seen. In one instant, one single heartbeat, I get it. I get what happened to Dallas when DJ was born. The immediate love, knowing she’s a part of me. The intense need to be a protector, a provider, an emotional rock for her. To be all things for this small human.
Two hours ago, I was a bachelor without a care in the world.
But now, now there’s Maisy. And suddenly my life has new meaning.
I vow, right here and now, to do anything and everything I have to do to make her childhood as happy as mine was. And to make up for anything she’s been lacking.
I fall to my knees, trying to keep emotions at bay. I am, after all, a twenty-six-year-old man. Not knowing what to do, I simply smile and wave. “Hi, Maisy.”
She looks from me up to Mrs. Duffey.
Mrs. Duffey gives her a nod, releases the suitcase, and gestures to the chair to my right. Maisy shuffles over as if she’s been instructed to take a seat a million times before. She sits, removes her backpack, and pulls out a stuffed cat.
“What do I do?” I ask everyone.
Mom walks over to Maisy and points to the cat. “What a lovely kitten.”
Maisy doesn’t respond. She’s not even looking at Mom. She’s just holding the stuffed toy, her blue eyes sunken and distant. Every so often, I catch her sneaking side-glances at everyone in the room, as if she’s somehow monitoring each of us to figure out who the biggest threat might be. And she keeps looking at the door. Perhaps she thinks it’s her escape route if things go bad.
“This is all of her things,” Mrs. Duffey says.
I tear my eyes from Maisy and regard the sole suitcase. “That’s all of her things? How can that be?”
She shrugs. “I guess her mother only got her the essentials. Listen, I hate to drop her and run, but I have three other clients to see today.”
I turn abruptly. “You’re leaving?”
“Mr. Montana, Maisy doesn’t know me any better than she knows you at this point. We’ll check back with you in a few days. And we’ll keep in touch about the progress of your guardianship. My advice is to hire a lawyer as soon as possible to get things moving along with regards to both the birth certificate and the future custody arrangements.”
“Okay, well, I guess… thanks.”
She offers a sad smile. “It’s a lot, I know. But from what I can see”—she gestures to my family—“you have an amazing support system. That tells me this is the best place for her. You have my card. Good luck, Mr. Montana.”
And with that, she’s gone.
I turn to Maisy. “Maisy, can you hear me?”
She doesn’t look up.
I crouch down and make sure she can see me. “Maisy, can you hear me?” I say louder.
She just pets her cat.
I reach out gently, hover my hand over the stuffed cat and ask permission with my eyes before I pet it. When she doesn’t object, I run my hand along the animal’s back. Then I smile and do it again. Maisy doesn’t do anything. She just watches me pet her stuffed animal.
“This just won’t do,” Mom says behind me.
I look over my shoulder. She’s got the suitcase open and is pulling out clothes.
“Allie,” Mom says, snapping her fingers. “Be a dear and grab me a pad and pen. I’m going to make a list of necessities. You and Lucas will go shopping. I’ll stay here with your father and Blake. Then I’ll make a call to Janice Masterson over at the furniture store and see if she can arrange a quick delivery.”
Allie hands her a pad and Mom starts scribbling. I notice Maisy watching Mom. “Mom, make sure you add crayons and paper to your list.”
Mom looks up and smiles at me as her eyes get teary. “Look at you, Blake, you’re already thinking like a father.” She goes back to her list, mumbling, “She’ll need clothes. Size 4T or extra small. And underpants.” She rummages through everything. “I don’t see diapers or pull-ups, so she must be fully toilet trained. That’s good. Get socks. A few size ten shoes.” She looks over at Allie. “Little kids ten, not women’s ten. Tennis shoes, sandals, and Mary Janes maybe. She’ll need toiletries. Gentle soap. Kids’ toothpaste. Lots of snacks, but make sure some are healthy—applesauce and yogurt. Oh, I hope she doesn’t have any food allergies.” She scribbles more. The list is already a few pages long. “I’ll get her a twin bed, so get sheets. She seems to like pink based on everything in her suitcase. And get one of those bed rails so she won’t roll off.” She chews on the pen and thinks. “Get her some toys. Just look at the age on the boxes. Barbies. A baby doll. Things like that. And a kick ball. And whatever else you can think of.”
Mom hands the list to Allie along with a credit card. “Get going. This will take you hours. Target should have everything you need.” They’re almost out the door when Mom yells, “Get a car seat for a four-year-old!”
“Got it, Mom. Chill!” Lucas calls.
Mom gives him the stink eye. “We’ll text you if we think of anything else.” She gets her phone out of her purse and places a call. “Janice, thank God. I have a bit of an emergency.” She walks into the other room, chatting away.
Dad and I look at each other, then at Maisy.
“I have no idea what I should be doing,” I say.
He nods to the open suitcase. There are mostly clothes in it, but a few picture books. “Maybe try to engage her with one of those.”
I pick out a book about a cat and sit on the chair next to Maisy. I point to the cat in the book and then to the stuffed cat in her lap. Again, she’s unresponsive.
“I really hope your friend gets here soon,” I tell Dad. “Maybe he’ll have an idea on how to communicate with her.”
“Well, son. If she really is deaf, I imagine you’ll have to learn sign language.”
I scoff, exasperated. “And until then? What do I do until then?”
He touches my shoulder. “We’ll figure it out, Blake.”
“What if she’s hungry or thirsty? Or what if she needs to use the bathroom?”
“Why not give her a tour of the house?”
“Dad, I’m not even sure she understands that she’ll be staying here.”
“I’m not sure either. Maybe once the furniture is delivered, she’ll understand.”
“Maybe.” I stand and tap Maisy’s shoulder. She looks up and I gesture for her to follow me. “Come on,” I say.
She hugs her animal tightly.
“You can bring him,” I say. I point to the cat and gesture for her to follow me again.
She must understand, because she gets up off the chair. When we walk into the kitchen her eyes go wide. Maybe this kitchen is bigger than the one she’s used to. I don’t know anything about where she grew up and what she had. But based on her lack of possessions, I’d say it was no place as nice as this. Opening the refrigerator, I point inside and shrug. She shakes her head. Okay, not hungry then.
I step out of the kitchen and wave her toward me. We walk down the hall and stop in front of the guest bathroom. I point to the toilet and hold my hand out, asking if she needs to use it. Again, she shakes her head. At least I think she might be understanding. Either that or she’s shaking her head because she doesn’t.
I show her the second, third and fourth bedrooms which are not really bedrooms but a home office, a workout room, and a spare room I use mostly for storing winery stuff. I figure the last one will be the easiest to clear out for her since it only has a futon and some boxes. The final stop is my bedroom. I point to myself and to the bed. She stares blankly.
She follows me to the dining room and through to the family room, where she walks over to the large picture window overlooking my back yard. She stands and stares. I watch her and wonder what she’s thinking. She’s been taken from her mother. Neglectful or not, Lucinda may be the only person who’s been a constant presence in her life. And she may be the only person she communicated with. Then again, why is she not trying to use sign language?
Mrs. Duffey said her only communication is pointing and drawing. Has Maisy never been taught any signs? Maybe they have it all wrong. Maybe Maisy isn’t deaf at all. She could be autistic. Hell, she could just be scared. But at this point, there’s only one person who can say for sure. Hurry the fuck up, Roger.
“The furniture will be delivered by six.” Mom rounds the corner and stops when she sees Maisy looking outside. “I’ll order a swing set tomorrow. Every child should have one.”
“Mom, we don’t know how long she’ll even be here.”
“Nonsense. You heard what CPS said. She’s been neglected. She needs you, Blake.”
“A lot of good I can do. I don’t even know how to ask her if she’s hungry.”
“You’ll learn. I have faith in you.”
“My job.” I look over my shoulder at Dad, who’s standing in the doorway. “I’ve only been COO for a month.”
Dad laughs. “It’s not as if I can’t run the company without you, Blake. You’ll work when you can. Maisy is your primary concern now.”
The doorbell rings and I pray it’s the audiologist. I look at Maisy. She’s still staring out at the back yard, petting her stuffed cat. She didn’t even turn when the doorbell rang. My heart takes a tumble.
A minute later, Dad introduces me to Roger.
“Your father told me what happened. Looks like you’ve been thrown right into the deep end.”
“Feels that way, Dr. Dullis.”
“It’s Roger. Now let’s have a look at this precious girl.” He goes over to Maisy and taps her on the shoulder. “Hello, Maisy,” he says. “How are you?”
As he speaks to her, he uses ASL, which I don’t understand in the least. He turns to me. “I’m not proficient at signing, but I know enough to communicate with my patients.”
“Maisy, are you hungry?” He points to her then draws his hands toward himself. With his right hand, he puts all his fingers together with his thumb and pulls them toward his mouth. “Do you want food?”
She doesn’t respond. He points to her stuffed animal. “Is this your cat?” he says, using his thumbs and forefingers alongside his face to indicate whiskers.
He turns to me. “It doesn’t seem she’s been taught any signs at all.”
She looks back out the window.
“This is a bit rudimentary,” Roger says, “but bear with me.” He stands behind her and snaps his fingers. Then he claps his hands. Then he says her name forcefully. She doesn’t turn. He pulls something out of his messenger bag and shakes it right behind her head. It sounds like a tin can full of marbles. It’s a horrible sound that could wake the dead.
Maisy doesn’t flinch. Oh, God.
He pulls out a small cup and a ping pong ball. Then he taps Maisy on the shoulder. She faces him. “Can you throw the ball into the cup?” he says very slowly as he signs.
She looks at the ping pong ball then pets her cat.
“Maisy.” He waves to get her attention. “Can you throw the ball into the cup?” This time, as he talks, he shows her what he wants her to do, tossing the ball into the cup. Then he gets it out and points to her and then the ball.
She takes the ball from his open palm and throws it into the cup. Well, she tries to, but misses.
Roger claps and smiles. “Yes,” he says while moving his fist in a nodding motion. “Very good.” He signs something that I assume means good.
“Maisy, are you hungry?” This time, he doesn’t use the same ASL motions he did before. He points to her then to his mouth, then rubs his stomach.
She nods emphatically. It’s the most emotion she’s displayed since setting foot in the door.
He gestures for us all to follow him into the kitchen. “Do you have something for her to eat?”
I open my pantry. It’s large—a room in itself. I invite Maisy inside. She wanders in, eyes wide as if she’s walked into Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory. Her gaze settles on a package of MMs. I go over and pick them up, pointing to her then the candy. She nods and makes a nasally ‘ungh’ sound. I turn to Roger to see if he heard. He did. I go to the kitchen table, open the package, and dump out a handful. Then I pour her a cup of water.
She puts her cat on the table, eats an MM and then ‘feeds’ one to the stuffed animal.
I notice Roger stepping from the room to make a phone call. He returns a few minutes later.
“She’s inattentive,” Roger says. “She can’t understand simple signs. She doesn’t respond to her name. And she doesn’t startle at loud sounds. She’s also nonverbal. All of this points to profound deafness. But before making an official diagnosis, I’d like you to bring her in for an audiometry exam. It will test her ability to hear sounds based on intensity and tone.”
“But you just said she isn’t responding to loud noises.”
“That’s correct. It’s possible she still has some residual hearing. Testing her in my office will let us know just how much, if any.” He hands me his card. “Call my office first thing tomorrow. Tell them I’ve agreed to squeeze you in. It seems Maisy has gone over four years without any meaningful way to communicate. It’s imperative you get started right away.”
He hands me a second card with a name and number scribbled on the back. “I’ve arranged for you to meet with a mentor from the Deaf and Blind school. A person who will help come up with a learning plan, help you both learn ASL, guide you through daily life with a deaf child, and become an advocate for Maisy in her educational needs. A Dr. Stone has been assigned as Maisy’s mentor. A home visit is scheduled for tomorrow afternoon.”
“Tomorrow?” I run a hand through my hair, still trying to process everything. “All of this is happening so quickly.”
“Time is of the essence,” Roger says. “The best time to cram as much exposure to language as possible is from birth to age five. Maisy has missed out on almost all that time. By age seven, children lose the opportunity for grasping language and thought processing. Every day you wait is one less day of learning. I’m not going to lie and say it will be easy. It’s going to be a long road. For both of you. The good news is that she has you. She has all of you. That’s more than she had last month, last year, or even this morning.”
I nod and thank him, then Dad walks him out.
“It’ll be okay, honey,” Mom says.
“Will it?” My heart sinks as I watch Maisy feed her stuffed cat and then herself.
“Yes it will. Sit with her. I’ll make us all dinner.”
Three hours later, twenty bags are scattered across my living room. They’re full of clothes, toys, and a bunch of other stuff I didn’t even know I’d need. Bedroom furniture is being set up in my fourth bedroom—the one with a private bath. As soon as the delivery guys leave and Mom makes the bed, I gesture for Maisy to follow me. When she enters the room that was once my storage area, she looks up at me, confused.
I point to her, then to the bed, then I put my hands up by my head like I’m sleeping.
She looks around the room. There’s a dresser along one wall, toys in the corner, and new clothes hanging in the closet. She eyes it all and points to herself.
I nod. “Yes. This is your room now.”
I’m not sure if she understands a damn thing I’m saying, but she understands enough to take her cat over to the bed and sit on it.
I smile at her and nod. Because for now, this will have to do. It may be a baby step. But it’s a start.
“She needs a bath,” Mom says, standing in the doorway.
“I, uh…”
Mom rummages through a bag and pulls out pajamas. “I’ll do it this time. But only this time. Okay?”
“Okay,” I say, more than a little relieved.
She shows the pink-flower-covered pajamas to Maisy, then points to the bathroom. Maisy puts down her cat and disappears with Mom.
I sit on her bed wondering how, in a matter of hours, this became my life.
Allie appears in the doorway. “I’ll babysit anytime you need.” She moves her fingers around into random positions. “Look, I even googled how to sign Maisy.”
“Show me?”
She cracks a smile, sits next to me, and teaches me the five letters.
Twenty minutes later, Mom emerges with Maisy, whose hair spirals in wet blonde ringlets that fall to her shoulders.
“She has the most gorgeous hair,” Mom says. “You’ll have to learn how to manage it. You can’t just brush curly hair or it will frizz.”
“I think I have more important things to learn than how to do her hair.”
Allie scoffs. “Blake, you have to learn about her hair. Do not let her walk around with the rat’s nest she arrived with. Promise me. She’s so darn cute.”
“Fine, fine. Geez. I’ll add that to the five hundred other things I have to learn.”
Maisy yawns and Mom hands me a picture book. “Put your daughter to bed, Blake. Then come have a drink with us. You’ve earned it.”
I take the book, show it to Maisy, then point to the bed. She crawls up onto it, pulls her cat close and gets under the covers. She gets that she’s sleeping here. Thank goodness for small favors.
Not knowing what to do, I simply read her the book as if she can hear. I point to the pictures. I lean down and make funny faces. She doesn’t show much emotion. Maybe she thinks I’m crazy. Maybe she misses her mom. Maybe she has no idea who I am and what’s happening to her.
She falls asleep after the second read through. I start to tiptoe out of the room and then shake my head at myself. I turn off the light in her room, but leave on the hall light, remembering how I was scared of the dark as a kid.
I have that much-needed drink with Mom, Dad, Lucas, and Allie. All of us are in disbelief. None of us knows what the morning will bring. I’ve never been more scared in my life. And that includes the time Dallas and I got stuck upside down on a roller coaster a hundred feet high and had to wait nearly an hour to be rescued and lowered to the ground by firemen.
The four of them are getting ready to leave after I refused Mom’s tenth offer to stay the night.
Dad comes into the hallway just as I’m pulling the mattress from my futon near Maisy’s bedroom door.
“What are you doing?” he asks.
“I’m sleeping here. What if she wakes up, gets scared, and wanders out of the house?”
Dad smiles and puts a hand on my shoulder. “Your mom and I raised you right. And I’ve never been more proud.” Other than when Dallas’s family died, I’ve never seen my father cry. But right now, tears coat his lower lashes. “You’re already a great father, son.”
He turns to leave as I absorb his words. I’m a father. I’m her father.
Jesus.
Settling in, I become very aware of just how quiet the house is. Almost eerily so. I lean back and recline on the futon mattress. Is this what it’s like for Maisy all the time?
I hear the squeaking of a neighbor’s garage door. A dog barking in the distance. The sound my feet make when I move them. No—I fear it’s not what it’s like for her at all. And I wonder, despite what Dad seems to think, if I’m capable of being any kind of father at all.