The Life Intended (12 page)

“Is the sky blue?” Patrick asks with a chuckle, saving me from having to explain.

“Just kidding,” I reply weakly as he strides out of the room. I hurry to throw on a plush blue robe I don’t recognize but that I know I love.

I can hear the sink running in the bathroom, and someone rummaging through the hall closet. “My family,” I murmur aloud, and all at once, I know I have to stop wondering whether
I belong here. If I keep acting as if I might lose my place in this world at any moment, I will.

In the kitchen, I grab a skillet from the cabinet just to the left of the stove, turn the burner on, and slice a few pats of butter into the pan.
This is real,
I tell myself. I mix flour, sugar, baking powder, vegetable oil, salt, milk, and an egg together in a bowl, then I stir in a half cup of peanut butter.
I’m really here.
I ladle spoonfuls of batter onto the skillet, and finally, I dot frozen blueberries onto each of the pancakes as they begin to sizzle and bubble.

I belong in this life,
I tell myself as the scent of butter and frying pancakes fills the kitchen.
I have to
.

Hannah pads into the kitchen wearing a cute floral dress and purple Converse sneakers just as I’m sliding the first batch of pancakes onto a baking sheet to warm in the oven. “Morning,” she says, and as I turn to greet her, my heart fluttering with happiness, I notice for the first time that there’s a small, oblong node on the side of her head, just behind her right ear, mostly hidden by her hair. It’s where her bun was the last time I saw her, which explains why I didn’t see it. She looks away for a moment, and I see an identical headpiece on her left side.

“Cochlear implants,” I say softly, and although Hannah gives me a weird look, the room doesn’t fade, and suddenly, the details flood in. Teaching her sign language when she was a toddler and encouraging her to read lips and to try to verbalize. Deciding with Patrick just before Hannah was two and a half that cochlear implantation was the best thing for her. The maternal panic I felt when she went in for surgery; the relief I felt in the weeks afterward when I knew my daughter was beginning to hear. The knowledge that because she learned to sign before she learned to speak, and the fact that we encouraged her to keep up ASL so she’d always have a tie to the Deaf community, she often switches
back and forth between the two forms of language when she’s talking to Patrick and me.

“Mom?” she asks aloud, and I notice she’s peering at me with concern, probably because I’m standing there, spatula in hand, staring at her.

I gather myself, smile at her, and sign,
Good morning,
one of the phrases I taught myself online.

She looks relieved, and she signs back,
You are acting weird again,
but she’s smiling. I’m struck by how well I can understand her here, which reminds me that this can’t possibly be real. But then again, calling it a dream seems crazy too, because it’s obviously so much more than that.

I try to remember the signs Andrew taught me for the phrase,
I’m sorry I’ve been a little bit weird.
I point to myself, rub my right hand over my heart with a closed fist, point to myself again, flick my thumb against my index finger two times, and then position my hand like a claw and move it right to left while wiggling my middle finger, my ring finger and my index finger in front of my face.

Hannah looks at me for a moment, and I’m afraid I’ve said something wrong. But then she says aloud, “You’re always weird, Mom,” and laughs. Then she signs,
Are the pancakes ready?

“Just a few more minutes,” I tell her. I melt a bit more butter in the pan, spoon five dollops of batter in, and add blueberries. I turn to find Hannah pulling three plates out of the cabinet and three forks out of the silverware drawer.

She catches me watching her again and rolls her eyes. “What now, Mom?” she asks aloud.

I shake my head quickly and look away. “Nothing,” I say, then I add in sign language,
I love you.

She rolls her eyes again. “I love you too, dork,” she says aloud. “You don’t have to keep signing, you know. I promise, I’m keeping up with practicing ASL, okay?”

Duh,
I sign back with a weak smile, using Andrew’s pun, and she makes a face at me, but she’s smiling.

As I slide another round of pancakes into the oven and prepare the frying pan for a third batch, Hannah sidles up beside me and begins a rapid conversation about someone named Meggie. I know in a flash that Meggie is Hannah’s best friend at school and that I’ve always liked her. Then she transitions right into a long, signed monologue about a girl named Jessica who she sat with yesterday at day camp.
Jessica met One Direction last year!
she signs excitedly, her eyes wide.
So cool!

I make sure Hannah’s looking at me, then I ask, “So you’ll hang out with Jessica at camp today?”

She shakes her head.
Only if Meggie doesn’t come,
she signs.
Meggie doesn’t like Jessica.

Patrick strides into the kitchen, freshly shaven and smelling of soap. He’s dressed for work in a button-down shirt, chinos, and loafers. “Mmm, pancakes!” he exclaims, patting his belly and then coming around behind me to tickle me, like he always did when we were in the kitchen together. He nuzzles my neck, and I sigh contentedly.

Gross, Mom and Dad,
Hannah signs, and we both laugh.

We eat in companionable silence, and I’m surprised to realize that Hannah’s blueberry–peanut butter combination is sort of ingenious; the tart berries balance out the salty peanut butter perfectly.

After breakfast, Patrick and I walk Hannah outside, where a woman in a minivan pulls up curbside a few minutes later with a teenage boy in the passenger seat.

I hug Hannah good-bye so tightly and for so long that she has to wriggle away from me, muttering, “Geez, Mom, clingy much?” She waves from the backseat as the van pulls away, and I stare after her long after they’ve disappeared around the corner.

“You okay?” Patrick asks, putting his hand on my shoulder and squeezing gently.

What I’m thinking is,
No, I’m not; I’m terrified I’ll never get to see her again.
“I just miss her already,” I murmur.

“She’ll be back,” Patrick says, looking at me oddly before heading back toward the front door. “You’ll hardly even know she was gone.”

Inside, I find him putting a tie on in the bedroom, facing the window. I stare for a moment, my breath stolen by the familiarity of it all. Then, before I can second-guess myself, I cross the room and put a hand on his shoulder. He turns slowly and murmurs, “Katielee.”

The word sends shivers through me, and slowly, deliberately, I loosen his tie and begin to unbutton his shirt. He stares at me for a minute, as if trying to decide something. “Katielee,” he murmurs again, but I can see something powerful flickering in his eyes.

“Please,” I murmur, shorthand to a thousand unspoken words as I gaze up at the husband I thought I’d never see again.

He only hesitates another second before pulling me into his arms—the strong arms I love and remember so well—and holding me against his chest. I can hear his heart pounding the way it never will again, and then his hands are on me, and we’re on the bed.

His body feels different than it used to, more solid, less lithe, and there’s a confidence to the way he moves that wasn’t there before. It’s like he’s known my body for years instead of just the precious twenty months we had together. Then I push away all my thoughts, all my endless analysis, and make love to my husband, slowly, tenderly, with every cell on fire.

Afterward, I collapse on Patrick’s bare chest, tears streaming down my cheeks.

“That was amazing,” Patrick murmurs.

“I love you so much,” I reply. But then I think of Dan, and I’m flooded with shame.

I look up at Patrick, into his perfect green eyes, the ones I miss so much. I can’t stop crying, even when he takes my chin in his hand and gently tilts it up. “What’s wrong, Katielee?” he asks gently. “I’m right here.”

“Yes,” I murmur, the pain of my words shooting through my heart like a million little daggers. “You’re right here.”

Twelve

I
n the morning, a tremendous tidal wave of guilt crashes over me when I roll over and see Dan fast asleep beside me. The way my stomach lurches uneasily upon seeing him isn’t normal, and it makes me feel even worse about everything.

As we get ready for work, Dan’s kindness is almost torture; I’d almost rather he be distant and removed so that I don’t have to think about how in a way, I cheated on him last night. But is it really a betrayal if I imagined everything?

Imaginary or not, as I brush my teeth, I can still feel Patrick’s touch on my skin. As I wash my face, I can still smell his musky cologne on me. As I walk to the kitchen, trying to block out all thoughts of him, I can still hear him whispering in my ear. I just can’t understand how the dreams feel so painfully real.

“Baby, I want to apologize again for last night,” Dan tells me as he brings me a steaming mug of coffee fixed just the way I like it, with hazelnut creamer and a packet of Splenda.

“Last night?” I ask blankly. All I can think is that last night, I made love to my husband.

“Those things I said. About the kids you want to work with. I was wrong. And I’m sorry.”

“Oh,” I manage to say.

He sits down across the kitchen table from me and rakes a hand through his hair. “I had no right to question you. Honestly? I was jealous. And I know that’s a completely unattractive trait, and I’m trying hard not to feel that way. It’s an uphill climb. You know my history, but that’s no excuse.”

I nod. Dan was married in his early thirties to a woman named Siobhan. They were together for three years, and it had ended when she cheated on him with her boss. He’d told me on our very first date that he was a little commitment-phobic because of that, and that he had some trust issues but that he was working on them. I’d told him that my husband dying had made me a commitment-phobe too, and he’d smiled and said we’d just found the first thing we had in common.

“I’m not Siobhan, you know,” I remind him.

“I know. I know without a doubt that you would never be unfaithful.”

“Never,” I mumble into my coffee, but I can still feel Patrick’s lips grazing my collarbone, his hands on my breasts, his body pressed against mine.

“Kate?” Dan’s concerned voice brings me back to earth. “You okay? You zoned out there for a minute.”

I look up in surprise. “Sorry. I just haven’t been sleeping well.”

He looks concerned. “Anything I can do? If you need me to take anything off your plate . . .”

“That’s really nice of you. But I’m fine.”

“Hey, about the foster kids and that Andrew guy.” He clears his throat. “If it’s really that important to you . . .”

“Dan—” I begin.

“No, I just wanted to say I’m glad,” he says quickly. “I think you’ll really be able to help them.”

O
n Tuesday, after an appointment with Max, I head to Queens to meet Andrew at the main offices of St. Anne’s Services. As promised, he has expedited my paperwork and I’ve been approved to work with the kids; he just needs a few signatures before I see my first client.

As the subway rumbles along and I flip through an ASL dictionary I’ve downloaded to my iPad, I feel a surge of excitement. I’ve spent the last few days poring over journal articles about advances in music therapy for deaf and hard-of-hearing children, and I’m fascinated by it all. What sounds impossible on the surface makes complete sense once you take the time to understand the power of vibration, rhythm, and pitch. I’m a firm believer that music is a huge gift in life; it has the power to connect people to each other in a way that words just can’t. If I can share that gift with a handful of kids, I’ll have done a good thing.

I find Andrew waiting for me outside St. Anne’s, which is housed in a converted midcentury church on a busy street corner in Astoria. He’s sitting on the front steps, and he stands when he sees me approaching.

“You found the place,” he says, brushing the dirt off his faded jeans and grinning at me as he comes down the front walkway. We shake hands, which feels too formal, then he gives me an awkward hug.

I smile. “I guess I’m overdressed, huh?” He’s in a vintage-looking Batman T-shirt, while I’m still wearing a silk blouse, pencil skirt, and kitten heels from a day at the office.

“Not at all,” he says. “This is just comfortable, for when I need to get down and play with the kids—or fix stuff around the foster houses. I’m known far and wide as the man who can work magic with a screwdriver and a drill.”

“And here I’m just the woman who thinks she can change lives with a guitar and a pair of maracas,” I say with a wink, tipping my big canvas bag so that he can see the small collection of instruments I have inside.

“Well, I guess we make a pretty good pair then,” he says. He takes my bag off my shoulder, and when I start to protest, he just gives me a look. “I may be dressed like a five-year-old, but I’m still a gentleman. I’m carrying your bag for you.”

“Just don’t try to take my guitar, or I’ll have to hurt you,” I shoot back with a smile.

“Ooh, a fictional violent streak. Edgy.”

I make a face at him and look up at the St. Anne’s building. “So do the kids I’ll be working with live here?”

He shakes his head. “This is just an admin office and a place where the kids can meet with some of our workers. Most of our kids are placed in private homes, and the ones we don’t have homes for live in a group home run by the city, but we try to make sure those stays are as brief as possible. Actually, if you don’t mind, I’ve brought your paperwork out here—there are just two things to sign—then we’ll walk a few blocks to the foster home where two of the kids I’d like you to meet—Molly and Riajah—live. Okay by you?”

“Sure.”

He hands me a couple of pieces of paper on a clipboard—a declaration that all the information I provided previously is true, and an official statement that I’ve never been convicted of a crime—and after I’ve signed them and handed then back, we begin walking.