Chapter Six
What the heck just happened?I never go off on parents like that. Not to mention how unprofessional he must think I am. Why did I react so strongly?
I convince myself it’s because of our ‘moments.’ It’s because I had this image of him being a perfect guy in the perfect town, and that image was instantly shattered when I saw the messy house and the way Maisy reacted to him. Some PhD I am. Oh, God, did I really call him a terrible father?
I feel even worse when he explains how CPS showed up yesterday and handed over a child he didn’t even know about. He’s been thrown into the deep end, and he has no idea how to swim. I try to imagine what it must be like for him, finding out not only that he has a daughter, but a deaf one with whom he has no means to communicate.
This guy—this handsome, compassionate guy—is actually quite amazing. He may not be able to swim, yet he jumped in with both feet. He’s trying to show her this is her home. He’s not upset with her. Yes, he’s frustrated with the situation, but it seems he genuinely wants to help Maisy.
“Again, I’m really sorry about before,” I sign. I thumb to the hallway. “Mind if I go back alone?”
“Be my guest.”
Though Hannah is here to interpret, I still focus on his lips. His full, manly, inviting lips. On average, deaf lip readers pick up less than half of what people are saying. I’ve taken numerous advanced courses and worked with countless professionals to become proficient at it. Still, even with my extensive training, I only get about seventy to eighty percent. With Blake, however, it seems to be more. Maybe it’s his mouth. Or the way he enunciates. Or the shape of his lips. I look away, heat crossing my face as I realize I’m still staring at those lips.
I gather up blank pieces of paper and some crayons and head out on a quest to find Maisy.
Blake’s house is nice. Especially for a bachelor pad. He must be even more well-off than all those empty, expensive-looking boxes indicate. I recognize a famous piece of artwork in the room that must be his office. I step in and run my hand across a wine rack that’s holding well over a hundred bottles. I remove one and read the label. My eyebrows shoot up when I read Montana Winery across the bottom. His name is Blake Montana. Oh my gosh, I have a few bottles of his wine back at my apartment. This guy is a millionaire.
Not that it impresses me. In my experience, most millionaires are jerks, my own family notwithstanding. My dad inherited millions from his grandparents. Beth and I are pretty much set for life. Growing up, we wanted for nothing. Yet our parents instilled in us a good work ethic and a sense of philanthropy. It makes me wonder if Blake’s parents did the same thing, or if he’s just another trust fund kid.
I put the bottle back where I found it and leave the room. The next room I come to is obviously Maisy’s. And now I’m thoroughly impressed. The guy just found out yesterday that he’s a father, and yet this room is decorated as if Maisy has grown up here. Stuffed animals are piled in a hammock strung in one corner. Toy bins line one entire wall and are filled with Barbie dolls, books, miniature ponies, and a hundred other brand-new toys. A white, wooden-frame bed covered with a pink quilt is unmade. I can still see the indentation of Maisy’s head on the pink pillow.
I look under the bed, a place some kids like to hide. But it’s empty.
A flash of platinum blonde ringlets comes from the closet. She was peeking out at me. I sit at the small table in the corner and start to draw. It takes a few minutes, but Maisy’s curiosity gets the better of her and she slowly exits the closet and looks at what I’m drawing.
Her eyes are glued to the paper as I do my best to depict a house. This house. I even draw a bed with a pink duvet cover on it. To the side, I draw two figures. A little girl with yellow ringlets in her hair holding a cat. And a man. I become acutely aware of a warmth spreading from my fingers to the rest of my body as I draw him.
Done with my masterpiece—I did take three semesters of art as an undergrad—I put down the crayon. I point to the house in the picture and gesture at our surroundings. I point at the bed in the picture and then over at her bed. I point to the little girl and then to her. Then I point to the man and gesture to the open door.
She follows all of my hand movements as if she understands.
I pick the crayon up and connect the man’s hand to the child’s hand. Maisy simply stares and hugs her stuffed cat.
My heart hurts. This precious little girl has virtually no means of communicating. I’ve seen children in the past who didn’t know ASL, but at least they could read and write. There was always some form of communication, even if it was rudimentary.
I can’t even tell Maisy what’s happening to her. She must be so scared.
She picks up a black crayon and draws a stick figure. I’m quite impressed at her drawing skills. Then again, if she can’t communicate in other ways, maybe this is how she’s done it, which explains why she’s better at it than most four-year-olds.
The figure is as big as the man I drew. She gets a yellow crayon and draws long hair. She joins the hands of the stick figure she drew and the little girl I drew. She looks up, points to me and then the stick figure.
I shake my head and she gets sad. She thinks I’m somehow part of the picture, and I fear she might bond with me more than her father. I’m here to facilitate their bond, not steal it. I’m going to have to tread carefully.
I lean over, get a bucket of blocks from the toy bin, and spread them on the table. Grabbing a fresh piece of paper, I draw a red square. I point to the square and then to the blocks. In short order, Maisy picks out four red blocks and builds a square.
I smile and sign, “Yes.” Then I wave my hands at the wrists, the ASL sign for clapping. Some people call it jazz hands.
Next, I draw a large green rectangle. Again, she sorts through the pile, picks out six green blocks, and lines them up perfectly to replicate the shape. She looks up with expectant eyes.
I do jazz hands.
She smiles and does jazz hands back.
My heart lurches.
We play this game for a few more minutes, then I switch to something more difficult. I get a large pack of flashcards from my messenger bag. The cards have pictures of common objects on them. House. Shirt. Dog. Pencil. On the back of each card is the ASL sign for the object. I sift through and find the picture of a cat. I hold it out for her to see and point to her stuffed cat. Then I do the sign for “cat,” using my thumbs and forefingers near my cheeks in an outward motion symbolizing whiskers.
I do this several more times, pointing to the picture and her stuffed animal.
I think she understands that the sign means cat, but she doesn’t get that I want her to do it. I carefully reach out and touch her hands, put them to her cheeks, then release them and do the sign again.
Finally, she does it.
“Yes,” I sign then do jazz hands.
I find the flash card with the house. I point to it, then to my house drawing, then I gesture around. Then I sign, “house,” by outlining the simple shape of a house with my hands starting with a roof and then the walls. I do this over and over, then motion to her hands. She does the sign.
I do the same with “book,” opening my hands as one would open a book. Then I point to a book. I only have to do this one once before she repeats the sign.
My smile is huge. So is hers. Her mouth opens, and I think she makes a noise. A happy one I hope.
We go through other flashcards, ones with the simplest signs that correspond to things I find around her room. The more we do, the more excited she gets.
We’re going back over the signs when she stands and cups a hand over her crotch.
I motion to the bathroom, and sign, “bathroom.” Then I take her to the toilet.
She doesn’t need any help. But when she’s done, she heads right back out into her bedroom. I tap her on the shoulder. When she turns, I point to the sink and rub my hands together. She stares blankly, looking at me as if she has no idea what I’m asking. Lord, has she never been taught to wash after using the toilet?
I stand at the sink and wash my hands. Then I point to her and rub my hands together. She washes her hands for two seconds, barely rinsing the soap from them before she’s turning back to her bedroom. Before she can pull away, I grab her hands and help her rub them together for ten more seconds. Once done, I catch her gaze in the mirror and smile.
She dries her hands and runs back out to the table. I’m delighted she’s eager for more.
Fifteen minutes later, the room lights flash off and on. I turn to see Hannah in the doorway. She tells me she has another appointment to get to—I swear they always overbook interpreters—but she also looks concerned as she gestures down the hallway.
“It’s fine,” I sign in slight irritation. “Blake and I can text. You go.”
She waves and leaves.
Another fifteen minutes pass. Then another. When I teach her the sign for bed, she does the previous sign instead. Food. And when she does it over and over, it sinks in that she must be hungry.
I stand up and turn, then stop. Blake is standing in the doorway. How long has he been there?
He looks stunned. “Wow,” he says as I look at his lips—far longer than necessary.
I shrug as I feel heat cross my face. We’re staring at each other again. And butterflies dance in my tummy.
“She’s hungry,” I sign. I don’t expect him to understand the sign for hungry, so I point to Maisy and then rub circles on my stomach.
He nods, indicating he understands, and says, “She’s hungry,” before he motions to the kitchen.
We follow him down the hall, and when Maisy pops up onto a barstool and looks at us expectantly, I pull out my phone and open the notepad app.
It’s best to give her choices, I type. Do you have two things to offer?
He nods, opens the refrigerator, and pulls something out. Then he disappears into the panty for a moment. Walking over to Maisy, he holds up a box of macaroni and cheese in one hand and one of those Lunchables in another. He does a great job with his facial expressions as he looks from one to the other and then back at her, eyebrows raised.
Shyly, Maisy looks over at me then points to the Lunchable as if asking my permission, not Blake’s.
He sets her choice down on the bar and peels back the cellophane. Then, he puts the box of mac and cheese away and grabs a cup of applesauce and a spoon, setting those down in front of her too.
I type into my app, It would be better if we could text. I open my contacts and hand him my phone. He promptly enters his name and number and hands it back. I tap out a text.
Me: Maisy is quite intelligent and very eager to learn.
He reads it on his phone and looks up in surprise.
Me: Don’t look so surprised. Deaf are just as intelligent as the hearing. Some of us have even tested at the genius level.
His face cracks into a sexy half smile.
Blake: I figured as much. I mean you are a doctor. Where did you go to medical school?
Me: I’m not that kind of doctor. I have my PhD in Critical Studies in the Education of Deaf Learners.
Blake: Ahh. That explains the long acronym on your business card that I didn’t understand.
I laugh silently.
Blake: How can you tell she’s intelligent after spending so little time with her?
Me: You don’t have to text me if you don’t want to. I read lips very well. I’ll tell you if I need help deciphering your words. Maisy has already begun to understand a few signs. We started with simple objects. House. Cat. Book. Things like that.
I pull out my flashcards and show them to him.
Me: This will be a great teaching tool for both of you as you’ll be learning together. I’ll warn you now not to feel too inadequate if she picks it up faster than you do. Children are sponges.
He laughs.
There are very few times when I wish I could hear sound. It’s a silly thing to wish for, and I stopped long ago, but when I see his eyes sparkle, his chest shake up and down, and his mouth open—this is definitely one of those times.
“Tell me - - -” Blake says, speaking too slowly. “I want to help her learn. I want to learn - - -”
I didn’t pick up everything he said. He’s over-enunciating, something everyone tends to do at first.
Me: Please don’t speak too slowly or over-enunciate. Just look directly at me and speak in your regular manner.
“I said I want to learn everything.”
I raise my brows and send a text.
Me: You want to learn ASL?
He looks at me like I asked a silly question. “Of course, why wouldn’t I?”
Me: Over 70% of hearing parents of deaf children don’t learn how to sign. They pin their hopes on hearing-assisted technology. It works for some, but I’m glad you want to learn. Those devices don’t always work out as planned and kids may miss out on a lot of communication which in turn may result in insufficient language input.
His jaw drops. “Seventy percent? That’s insane. Why would they not want to communicate with their children?”
Me: It’s not that they don’t want to communicate. They just assume it’s more beneficial for children to adapt to the hearing world.
An irritated head shake confirms he isn’t one of those parents.
“So,” he asks. “What do we do first?”
I roll my eyes, because where do I even start?
Me: Blake, this will be a long and arduous process. It will come with a lot of frustration. You have to be patient with her. And with yourself. First off, here’s a preliminary list of things NOT to do.
I fetch a preprinted list from my bag. It’s something I give all hearing parents of deaf children. It reads:
Don’t shout. It’s pointless, and it will make you seem angry.
Do not speak slowly or over-enunciate.
Do not look at the interpreter while they are interpreting. They are not who you are having a conversation with.
Don’t call your child disabled. They need to understand deafness is more an obstacle than a disability.
Focus on the myriad things your child CAN do rather than the few they can’t.
Don’t turn down the lights. Deaf need to clearly see other people unless they are sleeping.
Don’t wear shirts with busy patterns, they are distracting when signing.
Don’t speak as if your child isn’t intelligent. Your child simply speaks a different language than you do, same as if they were speaking Italian or French and you weren’t.
Don’t ask a deaf person to read lips for you in an attempt to eavesdrop.
And the most important thing… don’t pity your child. Deafness isn’t the terrible thing most hearing people assume it is. It’s a culture, and a beautiful one.
Blake looks dejected as his eyes meet the floor. Guilt oozes from his expression. He speaks, but he’s not looking at me.
I touch his arm, and I swear electricity jolts through me. His arm is strong. Muscular. Soft. His eyes snap to mine making me wonder if he felt the same jolt.
“Sorry,” he says. “I said I’ve already broken so many of those rules.”
Me: Well, you didn’t know them. You get a pass. Now, I have an important question to ask you.
“Okay.”
I show him the sign for ‘okay’ as I silently mouth the word. He does it back and I smile. Our eyes lock again, and I swallow at the squishy feeling I get inside.