Chapter Eleven
Walking up to Blake’s house, I instantly notice the changes. There is a large swing set in the back yard, and I’m fairly sure his yard wasn’t fenced when I came the other day. How does one get an entire fence erected in just a few days?
The lengths he’s gone for her are truly astounding. My heart misses a beat and I scold myself. You cannot fall for this guy, Ellie.
I knock, and moments later, he answers, balancing an armful of laundry in one hand and a stack of stuffed animals in the other. “Come in,” he says. “Make yourself at home. I’ll be right back.”
Following him inside, I look around his living room that was an utter disaster the last time I was here. On his way through, he leans down and picks up a pair of shoes, then disappears around the corner.
I take the opportunity to peek into the kitchen and family room. Both are far more organized. I wonder if he hired a cleaning service. One glance at the dining room table has me smiling. It’s littered with drawings. Upon closer look, the drawings have been made by not only Maisy, but Blake. They’re communicating through art. It’s fascinating.
I inhale deeply. Heart—stop it.
The light flickers overhead and I turn, having a hard time not smiling. He’s already getting the hang of things.
But then… then he does something truly astounding. He speaks with his hands.
“Ellie,” he fingerspells then smiles.
I nod and do jazz hands.
“It’s nice to see you,” he signs. “Please come in.”
I’m speechless. He learned those signs in just a few days. And he did them perfectly.
Trying to look unaffected by his impressive display, I look around, mildly confused by his words since I’m already inside. At the same time, I’m bowled over at the ease in which he signed. I’ve never seen someone pick it up so quickly.
I pull out my phone and text him.
Me: I’m already in.
He laughs.
Blake: I know. I practiced signing it all morning and then my hands were full when I answered the door. But they were the only phrases I learned and I was determined to use them. Oh, and I learned the alphabet.
He looks up proudly and starts signing ABCs.
God, that makes him even more alluring than before. Is there anything sexier than a man, a single father, who would do anything for his child?
Single father. Is he? I don’t know the whole story there. He didn’t know about Maisy until earlier this week. Was the child kept from him intentionally? Did the mother pass? He said CPS was called. Is she still in the picture? Will Maisy be the center of a custody battle?
A million questions burn inside my head. But I’m not here as a psychotherapist. And I really have no right to ask about his past.
Me: Well, nice job. You’re picking it up quickly. How have things been going? Where is Maisy?
“She’s getting ready. I told her you were coming.”
My brows dip. He told her?
He takes my elbow and leads me to the far end of the table. The thoughts I’m having about his hand on my skin are not very professional. His large, firm hand that just spelled my name. He lets go and our eyes meet. He swallows and briefly looks at my neckline. Okay, so I’m pretty sure he felt it too—the electricity between us.
He rummages through the dozens of pictures on the table and hands me one. It’s like some of the others: this house with Blake and Maisy inside; the back yard with them on the swings; the kitchen with them at the table. But this one has me in it. I know it’s me because he drew me in just like Maisy drew me in the other day.
He taps my shoulder to get my attention and says, “All day yesterday, I drew pictures of just Maisy and me. But twenty minutes ago, I drew this. She seemed excited. I pointed to you in the drawing and then to the couch, hoping she’d understand. She must have, because she ran to her room and started going through her closet.” He laughs. “You’d think she was a teenager getting ready for a date. She picked out several outfits. She must really like you, Ellie.”
I’m fascinated by how much I pick up from reading his lips.
He told her I’m coming. Him. A man with zero experience with deaf children. Someone who, before Tuesday, didn’t even know about her. And she understood.
She understood.
Amazing.
This time, my heart doesn’t just skip one beat, it skips all of them.
He motions behind me, and I turn. Maisy is in the doorway wearing a pink dress with a white bow on the front. Soft blonde spirals frame her innocent face, and her expression doesn’t look quite as distant as it did a few days ago. Her blue eyes are bright and her full lips curve into a smile. And I melt.
She races over and hugs me, and my eyes close of their own volition when her small body wraps around me. I force them open and look over at Blake. He’s smiling too, but it’s full of both happiness and sadness.
Maisy should be hugging him, not me.
I pull back, not wanting to steal all Blake’s thunder. After all, he’s the hero here. He’s worked so hard.
My goal today was to try and teach Maisy her name. But now my goal has shifted. She needs to understand that Blake is her father.
I take Maisy to the table and gather the drawings showing her and Blake in the house. Then I get some things from my bag. A book I found about a single father to a little girl. Flashcards with men, men and children, and men holding babies.
I show her the book. On the cover is a man holding the hand of a little girl. Then I show her the flashcards. Then I point to the drawings. I put my finger on the flashcard of the man holding the baby, being sure she knows I’m pointing to the man. I do the sign for father. I point to the man on the cover of the book and do it again. Then I point to the drawing and the likeness of Blake and do it a third time. Then I point to Blake and do it again.
Maisy repeats the sign.
In my periphery, I see Blake trying to control his emotions. He pulls out his phone.
Blake: Do you think she understands? Or does she think ‘father’ is just the name for ‘man?’ Or maybe she thinks ‘father’ is my name.
It amazes me that he asked the question. It shows just how much he’s invested in his situation. More than likely, Maisy does think the sign for father is the sign for man, but we have to start somewhere. Who knows, though. I taught her the sign for ‘boy’ the last time I was here. Perhaps she understands the difference.
Me:It’s possible she thinks that. With repetition, she’ll come to understand. But she’s signing. Let’s celebrate the small victories.
He nods. And I think he sniffs because I see his nostrils flare. His patience and empathy seem to know no bounds. I’ve met a lot of hearing parents of deaf children before. But never one as driven as this man. I wish I could bottle that resolve and give it to all my clients.
I spend the next hour trying to teach Maisy her name. It’s a long, arduous, and in the end, a futile process. I need her to understand that she’s a girl and I’m a girl, but while we are both girls, we have different names. For all Maisy knows, people don’t have names. Proper names may be something she doesn’t comprehend.
We take a break and offer Maisy a snack. While she’s eating, Blake turns on the TV for her and tunes it to a cartoon.
I turn it off, grab her new iPad, and pull up a more appropriate video.
Me: Mainstream cartoons are difficult for the deaf. We can’t read lips of animated characters. Best not to confuse her further. I’m sure she’s spent the last four years watching them. Everything she watches now should be educational. There are plenty of fun videos that will also teach. Are you still okay with her starting Pre-K on Monday?
He nods.
Me: There are some things I should prepare you for when it comes to introducing her into the world of Deaf education. Everyone has opinions. Doctors. Teachers. Administrators. Passion over something can be bad if they throw in judgment or superiority. Some will believe one way of communicating is better than others. Well-meaning friends and professionals will give opinions and may become upset with your decisions. And they’ll all look to you to make choices. What you need to know going in is that there isn’t one way that’s better. And you need to understand that whatever method you choose may not be the method Maisy adopts. Or she may be successful with one method now but choose a different one later. What you need is someone to guide you without bias, and that’s why I’m here.
I watch him as he reads. His eyes seem to glaze over. He’s overwhelmed again. I’m information dumping, impatient because Maisy has missed out on so much already.
He looks up, and our gazes connect, and it’s like I can read everything behind those caring eyes. Despite the complete and utter upheaval of his life, there is a sheer determination in his expression I’ve never before witnessed. And it takes my breath away.
It’s hard to tear my eyes from his. It’s like a tractor beam is holding us hostage to each other. Flutters in my gut make me acutely aware of the intensity of the moment. But I have to remind myself the passion in his eyes has nothing to do with me and everything to do with his daughter. Knowing this, I break our connection and type out another text.
Me: Our ultimate goal is for Maisy to be able to communicate her thoughts and be understood. That could happen in a variety of ways. Through speech, cues, signing, or a combination. My point is, take time to gather information before making any decisions. Meet other families with deaf children. Connect with deaf adults and teens. Over time, as she gets older, your decisions may change. The path may twist and turn as she grows and is able to weigh in on those decisions.
Maisy tugs on my shirt and points at the swing set outside. I shrug my shoulders and gesture to Blake, letting her know it’s not my decision. She looks at him and he nods. He points to Maisy’s shoes.
I’m taken aback when she sits on the floor, puts them on, and… ties them. She’s four years old and she ties her shoes. It makes me both happy and sad at the same time. Happy because it’s another indication of how bright she is. Sad because, based on the little information I have about her past, she probably taught herself out of necessity. Surely a mother who didn’t even bother communicating with her child wouldn’t teach her to tie shoes.
Blake gets up and goes to the back door, unbolting a deadbolt that is much higher than where Maisy can reach. Is that new?
We move to where we can watch her. I tap his shoulder and sign, “She’s doing a great job.” Then I text it to him. I point to him. “You’re doing a great job.” I don’t bother with a text.
His head jerks quickly left then right. “I feel like a complete failure. Yes, I’m learning signs and stuff, but with her, I’m doing everything wrong. She almost got - - - last night. I can’t even keep her safe.”
I furrow my brows, sign, “Say again,” then text him the same two words.
“She was almost killed. She ran out of the house - - - and a car - - - I - - - her out of the way.”
He’s so frustrated that his words don’t form clearly, and I ask him to text. He tells me the whole story of it. How she wet the bed. How she thought he would be mad about it. How he handled it. How he turned on the chime and had extra locks installed.
Me: Blake, you’re doing everything right. Can’t you see that? I’ll petition the county for a road sign that will alert drivers there is a deaf child in the area.
Blake: See, you know all this shit. I didn’t even have the damn door chime on.
Me: But you do now. You’re learning just as she is. It’s a process. It’s not going to happen all at once. You’re doing everything you can. Tantrums and outbursts are to be expected until she can properly communicate. Even then, they might continue as she’s likely to feel isolated. One of the reasons deaf children act out is because people are always saying no to them. And no one is filling in the blanks. They are generally left to figure things out on their own. Remember the other day I said you should clue her in to things going on around her that only hearing people would know? The more you do that, the more included she’ll feel and the less she’ll act out.
Blake:It’s not enough. It needs to be more. She needs more. She needs a father. I need her to know who I am. God, I wish she could understand.
I touch his arm. He looks at my lips. I look at his. I wonder if he can hear the air crackle between us. It’s a sound I’ve read about in books, but I swear I can feel it at this very moment. Passion dances in his eyes. The same passion I feel in my heart. If passion makes a noise, I wonder what it sounds like. In my mind, it’s how people describe the subtle undertone of an ocean breeze.
Kiss me, my heart screams.
Someone walks in the room.
Our trance is broken.
“Mom,” he mouths, his eyes connecting with mine as if he’s as disappointed as I am that our moment was interrupted.
I’m introduced to Mrs. Montana, who I’m delighted to see has also learned some signs. Boy, did Maisy hit the jackpot with this family.