Page 28 of Quiet Beautiful Things

“The brown dog is running,” I say and sign as instructed.

It’s interesting how a lot of signs are quite intuitive, making them easy to recall. The sign for dog, for example, is patting your flat hand against your leg as if beckoning a dog. What’s harder to get used to, however, is the order of words. In English, you say ‘the brown dog is running,’ but in ASL, it’s signed as ‘dog brown run’ because the subject comes before the verb or adjective. Additionally, as ASL is a visual language, there are no signs for ‘and,’ ‘or,’ ‘the,’ ‘of,’ and ‘is.’ Many of those words are just implied, and others are conveyed through movements of the shoulders, pauses, or other non-manual signals.

Then there’s PSE. Pidgin Signed English. It’s not a true language, but contains a mixture of ASL rules and English grammar. The signs are from ASL, but they’re used in a more normal English pattern. It’s used as a way to bridge the gap between native ASL speakers and native English speakers.

With English being my first language, it might make sense that I would gravitate toward PSE. But I have to let Maisy guide the way.

Another noise comes from the hallway and then Maisy appears from around the corner. She sees me and her eyes fill with fear. She runs to the front door, and, before I can stop her, she opens it and darts out.

“Maisy!” I stupidly call after her as I topple the barstool over in my haste to chase her.

A flash of her clothing catches my eye as she crosses the front yard barefoot.Oh, Jesus. Headlights bounce off her white pajamas as I race forward, praying I’ll make it to her before the car does.

Screeching tires mingle with my pointless screams as I reach her and scoop her into my arms just as she reaches the street.

My heart pounds wildly as she squirms in my arms. Why is she trying to break free?

“Is she alright?” a woman asks from the passenger seat of the stopped vehicle.

I nod, unable to speak over the horrific scene playing out in my head of my kid sprawled on the pavement, bloodied and mangled.

Surprised my shaking legs have the ability to walk us back inside, I wish I was capable of asking her why she did it. Did she have a bad dream? Was there a bug crawling in her bed? Is she a sleepwalker?

Defeat squeezes my gut. I have no means of asking those questions, and even if I did, she doesn’t have the tools to communicate the answers.

I carry her back to her bedroom and set her down. She glances at her bed, the terrified look still on her face.

It’s now that I feel the wetness soaking through my shirt. I look down at her legs and see the discoloration of her pajamas. Then I stride to the bed, put my hand on the damp sheets, and I immediately know why she did what she did.

I close my eyes, guilt oozing from my every pore. I fucked up. I didn’t make her use the bathroom before I put her to bed. This is my fault. And even if it wasn’t my fault, she shouldn’t feel bad. She’s four. And in a new place with virtual strangers. It’s understandable. Expected even.

She runs into the closet.

What the hell am I supposed to do now? She ran out of the goddamn house. Does she think I’m mad? That I’ll punish her.Fuck, did Lucinda?

My God. What if I hadn’t seen her run out? What if I’d been asleep?

I stomp out of her room and into mine, feeling like an idiot for not thinking of it before. I open the keypad to the security system and set it to chime when an outer door or window is opened. I turned the feature off when I got the house because it was annoying. Now, there are so many things I need to rethink. I should get deadbolts or chains installed that are out of her reach.

But I can’t think of any of that right now. I can only think of the scared little girl cowering in her closet.

Grabbing the spare set of sheets from the hall closet, I go back to Maisy’s room and turn on the light in the closet so she can see me. “It’s okay,” I say and sign. I’ve used this sign a lot over the past few days and I hope she’s beginning to know the meaning.

She doesn’t move.

I get her stuffed cat off the bed and hand her the peace offering with a smile on my face. “It’s okay,” I say again.

Still smiling, I show her the fresh sheets in my hand and point to the bed. It feels awkward to smile so big at this situation, but it’s the only way I can let her know I’m not mad. “Come on.” I wave a hand toward the bed as I back out of the closet, hoping she’ll follow.

She doesn’t.

I strip the wet sheets off the bed—silently thanking my mother, who had the good sense to put a plastic mattress cover under them—and make it up fresh. After tossing the soiled linens into the hallway, I flick the room light off and on several times to get her attention. Soon, her curls appear in the closet doorway. She peeks out and looks at me hesitantly.

I hold out a fresh pair of pajamas and underwear in one hand, and a book about a cat—I think it’s one of her favorites—in the other. Then I sit on her bed and pat the space beside me. My face hurts as I uphold the smile that must look stupid as shit by now. “It’s okay,” I say.

She fully emerges from the closet, dragging her cat with her, takes the change of clothes, and disappears into the bathroom for a few minutes. When she comes back out, she timidly crawls up onto the bed, leaving space between us.

It makes me sad, the space. Will there always be space between us? Not just physically, but emotionally? Can we ever connect in a way other fathers and daughters do?

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