Page 11 of Quiet Beautiful Things

She looks at the ping pong ball then pets her cat.

“Maisy.” He waves to get her attention. “Can you throw the ball into the cup?” This time, as he talks, he shows her what hewants her to do, tossing the ball into the cup. Then he gets it out and points to her and then the ball.

She takes the ball from his open palm and throws it into the cup. Well, she tries to, but misses.

Roger claps and smiles. “Yes,” he says while moving his fist in a nodding motion. “Very good.” He signs something that I assume meansgood.

“Maisy, are you hungry?” This time, he doesn’t use the same ASL motions he did before. He points to her then to his mouth, then rubs his stomach.

She nods emphatically. It’s the most emotion she’s displayed since setting foot in the door.

He gestures for us all to follow him into the kitchen. “Do you have something for her to eat?”

I open my pantry. It’s large—a room in itself. I invite Maisy inside. She wanders in, eyes wide as if she’s walked into Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory. Her gaze settles on a package of M&Ms. I go over and pick them up, pointing to her then the candy. She nods and makes a nasally ‘ungh’ sound. I turn to Roger to see if he heard. He did. I go to the kitchen table, open the package, and dump out a handful. Then I pour her a cup of water.

She puts her cat on the table, eats an M&M and then ‘feeds’ one to the stuffed animal.

I notice Roger stepping from the room to make a phone call. He returns a few minutes later.

“She’s inattentive,” Roger says. “She can’t understand simple signs. She doesn’t respond to her name. And she doesn’t startle at loud sounds. She’s also nonverbal. All of this points to profound deafness. But before making an official diagnosis, I’d like you to bring her in for an audiometry exam. It will test her ability to hear sounds based on intensity and tone.”

“But you just said she isn’t responding to loud noises.”

“That’s correct. It’s possible she still has some residual hearing. Testing her in my office will let us know just how much, if any.” He hands me his card. “Call my office first thing tomorrow. Tell them I’ve agreed to squeeze you in. It seems Maisy has gone over four years without any meaningful way to communicate. It’s imperative you get started right away.”

He hands me a second card with a name and number scribbled on the back. “I’ve arranged for you to meet with a mentor from the Deaf and Blind school. A person who will help come up with a learning plan, help you both learn ASL, guide you through daily life with a deaf child, and become an advocate for Maisy in her educational needs. A Dr. Stone has been assigned as Maisy’s mentor. A home visit is scheduled for tomorrow afternoon.”

“Tomorrow?” I run a hand through my hair, still trying to process everything. “All of this is happening so quickly.”

“Time is of the essence,” Roger says. “The best time to cram as much exposure to language as possible is from birth to age five. Maisy has missed out on almost all that time. By age seven, children lose the opportunity for grasping language and thought processing. Every day you wait is one less day of learning. I’m not going to lie and say it will be easy. It’s going to be a long road. For both of you. The good news is that she has you. She has all of you. That’s more than she had last month, last year, or even this morning.”

I nod and thank him, then Dad walks him out.

“It’ll be okay, honey,” Mom says.

“Will it?” My heart sinks as I watch Maisy feed her stuffed cat and then herself.

“Yes it will. Sit with her. I’ll make us all dinner.”

Three hours later, twenty bags are scattered across my living room. They’re full of clothes, toys, and a bunch of other stuff I didn’t even know I’d need. Bedroom furniture is being set upin my fourth bedroom—the one with a private bath. As soon as the delivery guys leave and Mom makes the bed, I gesture for Maisy to follow me. When she enters the room that was once my storage area, she looks up at me, confused.

I point to her, then to the bed, then I put my hands up by my head like I’m sleeping.

She looks around the room. There’s a dresser along one wall, toys in the corner, and new clothes hanging in the closet. She eyes it all and points to herself.

I nod. “Yes. This is your room now.”

I’m not sure if she understands a damn thing I’m saying, but she understands enough to take her cat over to the bed and sit on it.

I smile at her and nod. Because for now, this will have to do. It may be a baby step. But it’s a start.

“She needs a bath,” Mom says, standing in the doorway.

“I, uh…”

Mom rummages through a bag and pulls out pajamas. “I’ll do it this time. But only this time. Okay?”

“Okay,” I say, more than a little relieved.

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