The Sound of Us

by Sarah Willis

  “Get the door,” Officer Shelley orders, and Yolanda Walker does, balancing her clipboard and the canvas bag in one hand. I haven’t moved since Larissa started screaming, but now I force myself to follow them. Mrs. Walker closes the apartment door behind us, turning to tape something on the outside of the door. Larissa’s screams echo loudly, the acoustics of the stairwell trapping the sound and amplifying it. Her cries are making it hard for me to breathe. I stumble, stepping on something soft. It’s Lucy, the bunny. Larissa has dropped Lucy—or did Officer Shelley tear it from her hands in retribution for Larissa breaking her eardrums? I pick up Lucy and continue down, holding on to the banister as if at any moment I might fall.

  At the bottom of the stairwell we get blocked inside by an elderly man trying to open the door from the other side of the foyer. Officer Shelley stands at the bottom of the stairs next to Mrs. Walker, who is trying to tell the startled old man to back up, but he’s alarmed by Larissa’s screaming. Maybe he thinks we’re kidnapping her. He probably can’t see the police officer’s uniform through the frosted door with Yolanda Walker standing there.

  Just as Yolanda pushes the door open, causing the old man to back up while shouting, “Stop that, leave that girl alone,” I reach out to hand Larissa back her bunny. She twists, turns, and throws herself into my arms. Suddenly I’m holding Larissa and her bunny. Officer Shelley must have lost her grip in the confusion. As we walk out of the apartment I am carrying Larissa, who now sobs against my shoulder.

  Tears run down my cheeks but I can’t wipe them off. I’ve never held anyone so tightly in my arms before. As we walk toward the street, I wonder which is Yolanda Walker’s car, and if Larissa and I can get one seatbelt around the both of us.

  My car has a ticket.

  I leave the car there. I don’t even mention to anyone that it’s my car. They can tow it if they want. It’s just a car.

  The wait at the hospital is forever. There are so many people that we’re lucky to find two chairs together. Larissa falls asleep in my arms, and as uncomfortable as I am in this too-small, molded plastic chair, there’s a physical and mental warmth from holding Larissa that feels so good, I don’t ever want it to stop.

  “If the police can’t find her mother,” I whisper to Mrs. Walker over the top of Larissa’s head, “what will happen to her?”

  “She’ll be placed in a foster home,” she whispers back. “As a matter of fact, she’ll probably be placed in a foster home in the next few hours.”

  “Then what? What if they do find her mother?”

  She leans her head toward mine. She wears some kind of perfume. I haven’t worn perfume since I was in my early twenties, so I don’t know what kind it is, but her perfume, the hospital odors, and the warm smell of a child in my arms disorient me. Is it really me sitting here?

  “It goes like this,” Yolanda Walker says. “As soon as we took her from her home, temporary emergency custody went into effect. In the next seventy-two hours we’ll have to go to court, ask the judge to agree to put her into emergency custody, which he will unless Larissa’s mother has been found and has a damn good excuse for abandoning her, such as she’s in the hospital comatose, or was kidnapped.” Her tone is not sympathetic. It sounds as if Yolanda Walker doesn’t think Larissa’s mother will turn up with a damn good excuse.

  “After that,” she continues, “Larissa will be appointed a guardian ad litem—a lawyer who will act only in the child’s best interests—and in about three weeks, there’s a hearing with the magistrate, the GAL, the assistant prosecutor from CFS, me, and Mom, if she’s found. Mom can also have her own lawyer. Then the magistrate will proceed with the case. Amendments can be made, legal custody can be awarded, whatever needs to be done at that time. It’s possible even if Mom is found that she won’t come to the hearing. It happens more than you’d think.” All this is said flatly, as if she’s been over this a thousand times.

  “What will her mother have to do to get her back?”

  “Parenting classes, counseling, a drug abuse program, whatever the judge decides she has to do to prove to the county she’s a fit mother. It could take six months to a year. If she doesn’t comply, in a year there’s another hearing, and Larissa could go up for adoption.”

  “She has an aunt,” I say. “Maybe she’ll take her?”

  “She could. A child always goes to a relative first, before another party, unless there’s some reason not to.”

  “A reason? Like what?”

  She presses two fingers to her temple. “Lots of reasons. If her aunt has a history of child abuse, endangering, a drug or alcohol problem. Or something beyond her control. A high-rise where the lease specifies no children. Something like that.”

  All around us are mothers with their children, waiting for the doctor. I’ve been here before, interpreting. I always came down with a cold the next day. “Let’s say the aunt can’t take her. Can I? Can I be her foster parent, while her mother takes those courses?”

  She almost smiles. Just the corner of her mouth turns up. Adjusting herself in her seat, she says, “You could apply to be an interested individual. If the aunt can’t take her, they might let you, seeing she has a connection to you already. They’d have to do a background check and take your fingerprints. You’d have to take foster parenting classes.”

  “I could actually do this?”

  She nods.

  “I want to do that, then. That interested individual thing. If her aunt doesn’t take her.” I pause, feeling the weight of Larissa in my lap. She breathes with her mouth open, her thumb nearby. “I hope her aunt can take her, or that her mother shows up with a damn good excuse, for Larissa’s sake. But if not, if she has to go to a foster home, I want to be it. I want to apply.”

  “When you get home, call and they’ll get you started.”

  “And you’ll be her social worker?”

  “For about the first thirty days. I can try to keep her under my care for a bit longer than that, but not much.”

  “She won’t get lost in the system?”

  She starts to say something, then stops. “No. That won’t happen.” I nod, taking her answer for what it’s worth.

  Finally they call Larissa’s name. Mrs. Walker stands up and holds out her arms. I am to hand Larissa over, and wait here. As the social worker carries her away, Larissa wakes and begins to struggle again. “No! No! No! Let me go!” I’m glad I’m not the one carrying her in for her exam, to some strange doctor undressing her, nurses holding her down. By the time they come back, more than a half hour later, Larissa is as limp as her stuffed bunny. She’s wearing a pair of white tennis shoes. Mrs. Walker must have put them on Larissa in the exam room, when she finally quit struggling.

  She hands Larissa back to me. Larissa doesn’t protest. Her face is wet with tears, her cheeks flushed. My hands are occupied, holding Larissa, or I would wipe away her tears. I need three hands. Not the first time I’ve thought that.

  Larissa seems lighter now, so slight. As I place her in the backseat and buckle her up, she looks dazed and withdrawn. Is this the same little girl who said Fuck you to a cop? I sit next to her, but I doubt she even notices.

  We drive off to Children and Family Services.

  Chapter Seven

  Children and Family Services is a long, low building with three floors of flesh-colored bricks and unbroken rows of dark glass windows. Those windows don’t seem to let anything in, or out. The overall impression is so stark. Couldn’t they put some smiley-face stickers on those windows? Balloons? Bunny faces? “You won’t be able to stay long,” Yolanda says, as we walk to the building from her car. “But while you’re here, you’ll need a name tag.”

  Larissa holds my hand. I don’t think she knows whose hand she’s holding. The street is busy. She holds someone’s hand. It just happens to be mine.

  The sign-in desk and waiting area are in a large, open atrium, sunlight streaming through the upper windows. A red carpet leads up to the sign-in desk, which seems
a bit much. This is not a red carpet event. To the right of the desk is a bronze life-size statue of a woman holding a large bat, which on a closer look turns out to be a sheaf of rolled paper. Larissa doesn’t even glance that way. For the best, I think.

  Yolanda Walker signs me in and hands me a badge with my name on it. “I need to place Larissa in child care while I find her a temporary foster home. It’s just down the hall. You can walk with us.”

  “Can I sit with her, just a little, try talking to her?”

  “Not in child care,” Yolanda says, looking down the hall. She holds herself so straight; she looks like someone who walked around with a book on her head, like someone who wanted to be Miss America. “The waiting room. For a few minutes.”

  The chairs in the waiting room have cushioned seats and backs with the look of red leather. I suppose they don’t want upset parents fidgeting around in uncomfortable plastic chairs. I sit down and tug gently on Larissa’s hand. She sits down next to me.

  There are a few groups of people, mostly women with young children. They look tired, as if it isn’t morning at all but the end of a long day.

  “Larissa,” I say, keeping my voice low. “I have to break my promise. I can’t stay with you until they find your mommy. I shouldn’t have promised you that. I’m sorry.”

  Nothing. Not a blink or a frown.

  “Mrs. Walker seems like a nice lady. She’s your social worker. She’ll take good care of you, I’m sure she will. It’s her job to take good care of little kids like you. And the police are looking for your mommy. You’re not alone anymore. There are big people trying to help you now. You should let them help you. Okay?”

  She doesn’t say anything, but I think she’s listening. When I said the word mommy, I saw her tense. She’s tired and stunned and she isn’t going to talk anymore. If she cries out for her mommy, her mommy’s not going to answer, so silence is better. In a class at Gallaudet we discussed the power of words, and of silence. Those in the Deaf culture refuse to even try to speak—it would lessen the authority of their own language, their own culture. I always came down on the wrong side. Why not try? I thought. Why draw lines in the sand?

  Someone up at the check-in desk shouts something. I can’t make out the words, only the tone: frustration and anger. A security guard approaches the desk. The words grow louder. Something about a brother and a stolen car. “Hey, it’s not my fault,” the angry woman shouts. “He was with her, not me!” Now another person approaches, and more words are said, calm words. The angry woman is ushered off somewhere. Larissa hasn’t looked up from her feet.

  “Larissa. This is the sign for mommy,” I say, making the sign for mother, an open hand, fingers spread, thumb tapping my chin. “It’s a way to say mommy, just to yourself, and no one will know but you.” She looks at me. I feel such relief in that slight movement of her head. “Like this,” I say, making the sign again.

  She takes her thumb out of her mouth and makes the sign, just a small motion of her hand, like a whisper. “Yes, that’s it,” I say with such pride, as if I’m Annie Sullivan and have just taught Helen Keller her first word. Pull yourself together, I tell myself.

  “Deaf people have special signs for their friends and the people they love. I’ll make a sign for you that only I know. You’ll be an L, to my chest, because I care for you.” I tap an L at my heart. She doesn’t nod or smile, but she watches me. “That’s my sign for you. And I can be an A, for Alice. It’s easy. You just make a fist, with your thumb stuck up, like this, remember?” I make an A.

  “You don’t have to put the A to your chest for me. An A down to your side can be your sign for me, because I’m going to be by your side. I’m going to help you. I’m going to try very hard to help you. Do you understand?”

  She just looks at me, waiting to hear what she needs to hear, not what I’m saying.

  “They won’t let me come into the child care room with you. It’s just for very special people and very special children, but Mrs. Walker’s going to help me stay in touch with you. I’ll be helping you as much as I can.” Polly is the assistant to the mayor, and if I have to, I’m going to use her connection. If I have to, I’ll write to the president.

  Yolanda Walker nods to me from across the room.

  “Larissa, Mrs. Walker needs you now. I’m really sorry about all this. I know it’s scary, but you’re a tough girl. You’re going to be fine. You have Lucy, and Mrs. Walker, and all the good, kind people here. And when you want, you can make the sign for mommy, and maybe that will help you too.”

  I don’t know what else to say. I look over at Yolanda. She crooks her finger, beckoning me. I get up and go over. Larissa stays in her seat. I don’t think she will refuse to get up; she just hasn’t been told to do so yet.

  “Thank you for giving us that time,” I say.

  “I have to tell you something.” She glances around as if she wants to make sure that no one can hear. She looks so official in her professional clothes. I must look a mess. I run my fingers through my hair.

  Yolanda Walker hands me a piece of paper. “I just want to tell you, I think you did a brave thing.”

  I look at her, surprised, ignoring the paper.

  “No one here would tell you that,” she continues, holding my gaze. “We follow the rules, and we still screw up. But I follow them. Every day, every child, for seven years now. Sometimes the only way to get through the day is just follow the rules.” She takes a breath, shakes her head.

  “Anyway,” she says. “I admire what you did. People give you flak for it, I just want you to know what I think. That’s the number to call, to start the process we spoke of. I’ll help you any way I can.”

  I have to swallow first. “Thank you.”

  “Go and say good-bye,” she says. I nod and walk back over to Larissa.

  Kneeling down, I say, “Good-bye, Larissa,” tapping an L handshape at my heart. “I’ll see you again.” Yolanda Walker’s kind words make it actually seem possible.

  Larissa looks at me with half-lidded eyes, but I see in them a pleading that I can’t bear. I look down at the floor. Yolanda comes over and takes Larissa’s hand, gently pulling her to her feet. Larissa doesn’t say good-bye, or nod, or smile at me, but as they walk away, down the wide hall with a dozen closed doors on each side, I think I see her make an A with her hand. That, or she just has one hand in a fist.

  I walk out of the Children and Family Services building, thinking, Where did I park my car? Then it hits me. My car is in an illegal parking zone, miles away. I have no way home. And I don’t have my purse or my cell phone.

  I turn toward downtown and begin walking. Polly will be at work. It’s only thirty short blocks.

  I arrive at City Hall, and the guard calls up to Polly’s office.

  “Would you ask her to come down and meet me?” I ask, too tired to walk another step. He nods, pointing to a bench where I can wait. I almost fall asleep in the five minutes it takes Polly to come downstairs.

  “What is it?” she says, sitting down and putting one arm around my shoulder. She knows there’s something very wrong, or she would never do this. Her concern makes my eyes get hot and damp.

  I tell her everything in a long, confused gush of words. I keep missing parts of the story and going backward. I doubt I make much sense. She asks me several times if I’m kidding her.

  “I can’t believe it,” she says, finally believing it. “Are you okay? I mean . . . You don’t look so good.”

  I smile. “I’m okay. It’s Larissa I’m worried about. I have to do something.”

  Polly stares at me over the top of her half glasses. She’s the assistant to the mayor, but she has no sense of style; she wears clothes that always look as if she’s gotten the wrong size by mistake. “It looks like you did do something. Thanks to you, that girl isn’t all alone in some hot apartment. She could have gotten into all sorts of trouble. I could just kill her mother.”

  “She could be dead already,” I remind her. “Ma
ybe you could call the police? See what they know? Or I could call some hospitals. But I don’t even know her name. Could you find out her name?” I’m trying so hard to figure out what to do next. Maybe I should go back to Children and Family Services, apply right now for that interested individual thing?

  “Alice, you have to go home. Go to sleep.”

  “But maybe I should go back—”

  “No, go home. Sleep. Things happen really slowly with this stuff. Give them some time to find her mother first.”

  I nod. She’s right. I have to get some sleep. “Can you take me home?”

  Polly looks at her watch. “Oh, God, I’m sorry, I can’t. She has a meeting . . . I have to be there. I can’t get out of it, Alice. I’m sorry. I’ll give you money for a cab. Wait here, I’ve got to get my purse.”

  By the time she gets back, I’m asleep, my chin dropped down to my chest. When she says my name, I feel my head jerk, and open my eyes.

  “Here’s forty. Go home and go to sleep. Call me when you wake up. I’ll get off early. I’m coming straight to your house. I’ll bring pizza. You’re going to have to tell me this all over, in some kind of order. You’re really okay?”

  “I’m fine,” I say. “Nothing bad happened to me. You have to help me, though. I want to be her foster mother.”

  “Go home,” she says. “Get some sleep.”

  “Doesn’t Rachel leave tomorrow?”

  “I’ll be at your house at six. Period.”

  “Will you help me?”

  She nods. “Go home.”

  I leave, and find a taxi. I go home.

  In my own living room, I stop and look around, taking in the calm muted colors of the walls, the Mexican prints of horses, posters of buttes and desert landscapes, dozens of pieces of pottery I brought back from Arizona and placed in pleasing spots to tie it all together. And then there’s my collection of classical music: Vivaldi, Beethoven, and Mozart, music without words so I can sit still, relax my hands and my mind. I try to imagine Larissa sitting on my couch, watching TV. Even in my own imagination she looks uncomfortable and out of place, her hands folded in her lap. This is a house that belongs only to me.