by Sarah Willis
I ask for Larissa’s social worker when I check in, but it’s Yolanda who comes to the waiting room to get me. She’s smiling.
“They haven’t transferred me off the case yet,” she says. “Not till tomorrow.”
“So you did this?” I ask. “Like some last-minute presidential reprieve?”
“No,” she says with a laugh, leading me down the hallway. “It was a group decision, and Larissa’s guardian was all for it.”
“You’re kidding?”
“I think the letter from the mayor persuaded him.” She looks at me with amusement. “Determined, weren’t you?”
We turn into a large area with cubicles. Each cubicle has a computer and a small desk piled high with papers. Yolanda waves me to a chair. For half an hour, it’s all business. I fill out forms and sign my name at the X a few dozen times. Yolanda makes copies of everything that I brought with me and gives me pamphlets, names of people who will help me, and a pink copy of everything I sign. I don’t chat or ask her any unnecessary questions. I don’t even allow myself to get excited; I’m sure there will be some bump in the road. Some paperwork I’ve forgotten. Then Yolanda says, “That’s it.”
When it sinks in, I say, “Thank you,” on a breath of held-in air.
Yolanda nods in acceptance. She’s done so much to help me, but she doesn’t seem to need me to tell her that. Every time I see her, I like her more. “Larissa will need to go to Metzenbaum at least once a week to visit her mother. You’ll need to make sure she’s available at those times.” She looks at me carefully, letting me know that even though she’s all for me getting Larissa, I still have to pay strict attention to the rules.
I nod. “What is her mother’s name?” I don’t mention our encounter on the street corner.
“Michelle.”
“Will she know I have Larissa? Will she know where I live?”
“Not unless you tell her. I wouldn’t suggest her coming to your house until we know she’s following her case plan. And remember, she was verbally abusive to me. Be careful.”
“Okay.”
“Listen, Alice. The best advice I can give you is to have patience. Keep going to the foster parenting classes. Call us if you have problems. If Larissa starts talking and wants to call Mom, set up definite times for phone communication, set time limits, but let her have those calls. I’m going to stress this again. The goal is reunification.”
I nod solemnly. I understand—but my heart doesn’t. Then I think of something. “I’m going to my parents’ in Columbus for Labor Day weekend. My nephews will be there. Can I take her? Should I?”
“You have to let us know, but you can take her.”
“But should I?”
“I don’t know. Are they good people?”
“Yes,” I say. “They’re good people.”
“Then you should. But see how she’s doing first.”
“All right. I will.” I pause. “So, they’re bringing her tomorrow?”
“Around one, after lunch.”
“I’m scared,” I say.
Yolanda looks up at me from something she was typing. “You’ll do fine. Just give her plenty of love.” She clicks the mouse and the computer screen brings up her wallpaper: a deep blue ocean and a sandy beach. A dolphin arches across the water. It must be a place she wants to go, away from these cubicles, these unending tragedies. And yet, I am exactly where I want to be, sitting here, being told it’s all official. Larissa is coming to stay with me.
“Oh,” I say. “I will.”
As soon as I get back home, I phone Elaine at the Hearing and Speech Center and tell her I’m not available until next Wednesday. That will give Larissa and me six days together before she starts school. Then I call Ed on my TTY. I tell him that I can’t do any night classes, and why. He’s very sweet and says he will find another time for his philosophy class. I get teary, and thank him profusely.
In a week, I’ll be sending a first-grader off to school.
I throw away the meat and the milk that had been left in the hot kitchen for hours, and rush back out to the grocery store to buy peanut butter, jelly, white bread, and everything a little girl might like. No pop, but I get six different kinds of fruit juice. I tell the checkout girl Laura that I’m foster parenting a little girl. She smiles widely. “Oh, that’s wonderful!” she says, and I want to hug her.
Back home again, I call my parents. “Mom,” I say, “I might be bringing someone with me.” My left hand spells Larissa.
“Oh?” Her tone means: Is he nice? Am I in love? Do I think I should be bringing him along already? All that in her oh.
“No, Mother,” I say to her unasked questions, “It’s a little girl. Her name is Larissa and I’m going to be her foster mother for a while.”
“Oh?” This time she means, Oh, that’s interesting, and, Oh, that might be trouble, do you really want to do this?, and Oh, why am I just now hearing this?
“It’ll be fine, Mother. It’s a long story, and I’ll tell you the whole thing when I get there. Don’t we have that cot? Could you set it up in my old room for her? She’s not allowed to sleep in a bed with me. She’s six.” I almost add that she’s black, but I don’t want another oh right now.
“We have the cot,” my mother says slowly. “A little girl?”
“Yes, Mother, and she’s a bit traumatized. She may not speak much, but I want you to meet her.”
“All right. We’ll, this is all very interesting. I look forward to meeting her and hearing your story.”
“Thanks. See you soon.”
It isn’t the phone call that I wanted; I wanted the same reaction as Laura the grocery store clerk gave me: happiness for me, no questions.
I stay up late, playing the 1812 Overture and fixing up the room for Larissa, filling it with the things I bought: a Mickey Mouse lamp, the ceramic unicorns, a music box, Beanie Babies, posters, a pink quilt. Then I check the whole house for hidden dangers that the home study guy might have missed. I could fail here, big-time. I need to be careful.
Somewhere around three in the morning, I sit on the couch with Sampson in my lap. I tell him that Larissa will be coming tomorrow. I warn him that we can love her, but we can’t keep her.
You’re going to try to, though, Vince says.
Her mother abandoned her, I say.
She’s not a kitten.
And you’re not really here. I’m just talking to myself.
Sounds to me like you were talking to a cat.
Don’t you ever sleep up there? I ask.
You’re the one up at three in the morning.
I’m getting a foster child tomorrow, I tell him. And I can feel his smile. I can feel his hand on mine.
Go to bed, he says, or I say. Tomorrow will be a big day.
I don’t fall asleep for a long time.
Chapter Fourteen
A stranger brings Larissa to me. She’s Larissa’s new social worker, Crystal somebody, and she’s carrying that damn canvas bag. I sign some papers, and in fifteen minutes she’s gone. Larissa stands in the center of my living room as if my furniture might attack her, the canvas bag by her feet. Her thumb is in her mouth, Lucy in her arms.
She’s wearing jean shorts, a red T-shirt, and white tennis shoes. Her knees are rougher and darker than the rest of her skin, and her arms and legs are ropy, muscular for such a little girl. I can imagine her running away from Mr. Klewer at the school, running with all her might toward home. She stands up straight, almost leaning backward; the stance of someone feigning indifference. Her curly hair hangs down in her face and I want to tie it back so she can see better, so I can see her better. How long will it be before I feel comfortable touching her, doing her hair?
Larissa looks around the room with her eyes, but doesn’t move her head. I said hello to her at the door, but she didn’t answer me. My hands are sweaty and I rub them against my pants.
Instinct drives me. I sign Hi, Larissa, keeping my mouth closed and my face blank. When signing
to a deaf person I use facial expressions, but I think that might be a bit too much for her right now. Larissa isn’t deaf; she has just decided not to talk. I’ll go along with the program for the time being, in my own way.
She doesn’t move, but her eyes are listening, interested in what I might do next. I’m not like other adults because I talk with my hands, and not being like other adults is a big plus right now. I sign Hi, Lucy, looking at her bunny, and she looks down at Lucy, then back up at me. I point to the couch and sign couch. Point to the TV and sign TV. Point to the table and sign table. I don’t say a word. Then I sign Follow me, the way anyone would. She follows, probably because she doesn’t want to be left alone standing in a strange room. In the kitchen, Sampson hops down from his napping spot on my kitchen chair, and I sign cat and spell his name. The sign for cat is somewhat iconic so she knows what I mean, and Larissa smiles a tiny, quickly withdrawn smile. Once again, I begin counting smiles.
Back in the living room, I pick up her bag and head upstairs, signing Follow me again. There’s no music playing, no TV, just the sound of our footsteps. I show her the room that I prepared for her. I sign your room, and put the canvas bag down next to the dresser. I point to the bed and sign bed. Point to the pillow and sign pillow. Then sign yours.
Opening the drawers in the dresser, I show her that they’re empty, for her clothes. I don’t know if she understands, but it doesn’t matter right now. We’ll unpack her bag later.
Next I show her my office with the computer, fax, and TTY, holding my hand up and shaking my head, meaning she should stay out of that room. I don’t want to be rude, but I can’t have her fussing around in there. The bathroom’s next to it, then my bedroom. Her eyes widen slightly when I sign my bed. She saw me sign bed before. The sign for my seems just as obvious as the word cat. She understood what I said. I allow myself one small smile.
I want her to think it’s just a game right now. She’s had enough reality for a while.
I sign You bed? meaning Are you tired?, knowing she will understand the sign for bed. She stares at me then shakes her head no, her thumb still in her mouth. I sign You me eat?, putting my fingers to my mouth as if about to eat something. She shrugs. I decide a shrug isn’t a no, and if we eat, she’ll at least have to take her thumb out of her mouth. I wave for her to follow me.
In the kitchen, I take out the bread, the peanut butter, the jelly, a box of raisins, baby carrots, apple juice, potato chips, and a cut-up cantaloupe, and put it all on the kitchen table. I hand her a carrot and point to Lucy, then pull out a chair for her. It has two pillows on it. A pink one and an orange one. No mere phone books for this place. I have enough pillows from my mother to cover all the chairs, and then some. There’s no way for me to explain in sign how my mother made all these pillows, but I want to. I want to tell her everything, but instead I make peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. As I open the bag of chips, we both notice the loud crinkling of the chip bag and our eyes meet for a moment. I pour her a glass of grape juice, and we listen to the slosh of liquid. I sign Eat, and she waits a minute, then picks up the half of a sandwich, and I hear myself take a breath of relief. What if she wouldn’t eat? Would I have to call someone and let them know?
What should we do next? Take a walk, show her around the neighborhood? There are so many reasons I might need to speak outside. People might say hello. We should stay inside. And do what? I can’t read her a book if I’m not speaking. What could we do without talking? Then I know.
I clean up the food and she sits at the table, taking in everything with her eyes, thumb back in her mouth. Finally I sign Follow me and go into the living room. I point to the couch and sign Sit, please. She may not know what I’m signing, but pointing to the couch seems to do it. She sits down on the far end. I turn on the TV and immediately hit MUTE. Then I find a cartoon station and sit down on the other end of the couch. Larissa looks at the TV, crosses her legs underneath her, and settles in.
We watch TV, and just as I knew would happen, Sampson comes in and sits on my lap. Even without the sound of the TV, he assumes I’m sitting down for a while. I look at Larissa and sign Silly fat cat. The corners of her mouth turn up.
I know that if I move Sampson over to Larissa’s lap, he’ll lie there until she gets up. I point to Sampson, then to her lap. She nods. I put Sampson in her lap and he seems to melt, his whole body adjusting to her small shape by sagging off the sides of her legs. Larissa touches his head, and he begins to purr. She smiles. Three!
A half hour later, Larissa’s eyes close and her head leans sideways against the couch. I don’t move. I breathe slowly, noticing that my heart, which has been beating hard since the doorbell rang, has slowed down. I watch Larissa sleep, my cat in her lap. She has a small scar near her chin, like a tiny crescent moon.
I sat on a couch while she slept once before, and I try not to think about that night in her apartment. I try not to think what I’ve taken her from. It’s not my fault, I tell myself. I’m the good guy.
I’m reading one of Ed’s philosophy books when I notice movement out of the corner of my eye. Larissa is waking up, and I turn just in time to catch an expression on her face that says, Where am I?, then one of understanding. I don’t see fear, or anger, just a look that is much too adult: resignation.
I wish I could ask her if she loves her mother, if she’s forgiven her so easily. I wish I could speak and say Do you like me at all?
I stick to the plan: Let her speak first.
Using a lot of pantomime mixed in with sign, we play Chutes and Ladders sitting on the rug on the floor. The rug is a good one, one of those gifts I bought myself, wool with colorful stripes to match my southwestern theme. Now I wish it were soft, plush. Maybe she’s allergic to wool.
When I sign Drink? she nods, and I get apple juice and ginger snaps, putting them on a tray, then the tray on the floor. We can hear each other chewing. After the third game, I take her outside into the backyard and show her the garden I’m digging and the gnome statue my parents gave me as a birthday present. I want to tell her I will buy her a swing set. Maybe it is for the best that we’re not speaking. What else might I promise her?
Back inside, Larissa points to my cat, then walks over to the couch and sits down. I put Sampson in her lap again, and she pets him, gently brushing her fingers along his head. He probably can’t believe his good luck. I point to the TV, and she shrugs, so I don’t turn it on. I sign that I’m going to make dinner, and she looks at me curiously, not quite understanding. Still, she looks content to sit and pet Sampson, so I leave her there and go into the kitchen. In the kitchen, I lean my back against the cool refrigerator door and close my eyes. Silence is exhausting me.
I make grilled cheese sandwiches and a salad, set the table, and put out a bowl of chips. Sampson comes into the kitchen when he hears me using the electric can opener to open a can of cling peaches. Larissa follows him in.
We sit at the kitchen table again. Larissa leaves the crusts of the grilled cheese sandwich, eats only the carrots out of the salad, finishes all the potato chips, and just glances at the bowl of cling peaches. I put one on her plate and she looks at me with one eye squinted. They good, I sign, and rub my stomach, closing my eyes and making my face look happy and satisfied. She just stares at the peach quarter. I cut it into little pieces for her. After a lot of thought, she picks up her fork and prods a piece of peach, then puts it in her mouth. She chews a moment, making a face that says she’s not quite sure, then shrugs. She doesn’t eat any more.
Dinner is over and it’s only six. What time should I put her to bed? Eight? How will we get through two more hours without talking? What if the phone rings? The idea of the phone ringing bothers me, and I take it off the hook. We play Chutes and Ladders two more times, crayon in a coloring book, do a small wooden puzzle that’s obviously too easy for her, then watch an Everybody Loves Raymond rerun with the sound turned off. In its own way, everything is going very well, I tell myself. My shoulders, though, are s
o tense I can hardly turn my neck.
Finally I point to her, then make the sign for bed. She shrugs and looks down at Sampson, who has happily made his home in her lap again. She points to him, then upstairs, and I nod. She smiles. I pick up Sampson and we all go upstairs.
Four.
In her bedroom, I point to the canvas bag and then to the dresser, and she just shrugs, so I put away her clothes without her help as she watches, leaving the pink pajamas on the bed. I think maybe I should smell them, see if they’re washed. I pick them up and carry them to the bathroom, and Larissa follows. I show her the new toothbrush I bought, and open the package for her. It’s a child-size toothbrush, thick-handled and bright purple with soft bristles. I stopped myself from buying more. One toothbrush at a time.
Pulling out the small step stool I found at a garage sale, I motion for her to climb up and brush her teeth. I point to the folded washcloth on the sink and sign yours, and leave the bathroom, closing the door behind me so she can have her privacy. Outside the door, I stand listening to every sound. My razor is on the high shelf. Certainly she can’t reach that.
Anything could happen, things I never considered in forty-eight years. How the hell am I ever going to sleep again?
Because of our silence, I can’t read her a bedtime story, so we look at a picture book about African wild animals and I sign the names of the animals. About three pages in I begin to worry that the pictures of tigers and lions might give her nightmares. What a dumb choice of bedtime books.
Finally I place Sampson on the middle of the bed, by her feet. She holds Lucy tight in her arms, just as she has done all day. The thumb has been in her mouth also, unless pulled out to move a Chutes and Ladders piece, or hold a crayon, or pet Sampson, and at these times her thumb looked like a puckered raisin. Did she wash her hands in the bathroom? Should I have told her to? I turn on the night light, cover her up, and sign Good night. She nods. I walk out, leaving the door halfway open. In my bedroom, I sit on the bed and put my head in my hands. Should I have brushed her hair? Given her a bath? Made her talk? Is all this signing going to make her never want to talk again? How am I ever going to give her a bath? Can I leave her alone in the bathtub? Might she get up in the middle of the night and walk out?