Page 20 of Quiet Beautiful Things

“Give me an example.”

She chews on her lip as she thinks, then she starts typing.

Ellie: Use facial expressions. Raise your eyebrows when asking yes/no questions. Furrow them when asking a question that requires more of an answer. Widen your eyes for emphasis. SHOW your level of excitement. Talking should be a whole-body experience. Use your hands, posture, face, and eyes.

Ellie: Earlier, when I accused you of being a bad parent, I could tell how vehemently you thought I was wrong. You looked not only angry (you were obviously shouting, and your nostrils flared), but you looked hurt as well, helpless almost. Hannah was interpreting, but had she not been, I still would have picked up most of it. Passion tends to come through in body language. It was the moment I knew I had gotten you all wrong. I’m not one to pull punches, Blake. I’ve had to throw plenty of them to get where I am. But I also recognize determination when I see it. You’ve got it. And if I haven’t said it before now, Maisy is lucky to have you.

“Wow.” I look up. “NowI’mthe one blushing.”

She laughs silently.

Maisy pounds on the table and we both look at her. I assume pounding is her way of getting our attention.

I want to ask her what she wants, but I have no idea how to do it. I expect Ellie to do it, but she just stares at Maisy with lifted brows.

Maisy pounds on the table again—harder this time. Is she frustrated? I look at her half-eaten food. Does she not like it?

Ellie doesn’t seem as concerned as I am over Maisy’s outburst. She texts me.

Ellie: Maisy needs to learn to ask for what she wants. Even if she can’t properly sign yet. As soon as she can communicate her needs, the tantrums will stop.

Maisy pounds so hard, a bead of applesauce pops out of the cup and onto the table. Instead of wiping it up, Ellie surprises me by handing Maisy a napkin.

I touch Ellie’s arm so she’ll look at me. “That’s kind of mean, isn’t it?”

She shakes her head and goes back to staring at Maisy. Finally, Ellie points to the stack of flashcards she left on the table. Maisy looks pissed, as if she expects us to know what she wants without her having to tell us. Almost in defeat, she picks up the flashcards, goes through them, then holds one up. It’s a milk carton with a glass of milk next to it.

Shit.I didn’t give her a drink with her food. I jump up and stride to the fridge, feeling guilty once again at how I’m failing at this.

When I come back with the glass and set it in front of Maisy, she happily drinks it.

Ellie shows me the back of the card and teaches me the sign for milk. I must do it incorrectly because she reaches over, taking my hand in hers to fix the handshape of the sign. Yeah, okay, I just got a half-chub right here in front of my daughter.Soooo inappropriate.But damn her hands are soft. When shepulls them away and waits for me, I completely forget what I was supposed to be signing.

I can tell she’s trying not to laugh.

Maisy does the sign for milk, and I’m stunned. “She’s signing. That’s incredible.”

Ellie’s face cracks into a wide smile, she lifts an eyebrow, almost in challenge, and sorts through the deck of flashcards. She holds up one of a cat and shows Maisy. Maisy wipes milk off her lip and then runs fingers across fake whiskers. Ellie turns the card around and shows me the sign. The same sign Maisy did.

Ellie then shows Maisy a house. Again, Maisy does the sign as it appears on the back. This happens several more times. Boy. Girl. Ball. Book. Eat.

The whole time, my heart is in my throat. Maisy can communicate. After less than an hour with Ellie, she can talk. Well, sort of.

I touch Ellie’s arm and find it impossible not to let my fingers linger. “It’s a miracle.” I point at her with my other hand. “You’re amazing.”

She smiles. At my words? My touch?

It’s almost like she doesn’t want to pull away to text me. She likes my hand on her as much as I do. Eventually, when it becomes awkward, she retreats.

Ellie: I told you, kids are sponges. She’s going to learn quickly.

My stomach growls and I check the time. It’s nearly time for dinner. I get up, go to the pantry then the refrigerator, and bring back a few things. I stand in front of Ellie with a box of macaroni and cheese in one hand and two steaks in the other. I raise my brow. Actually, I over-raise it.

She smiles just for a second, but it’s gone in an instant. I have to put the food down to read her text.

Ellie: I appreciate the invite. But it’s best I not eat meals here. It would give Maisy the wrong information. She needs to know this is your house. This is her house. This is not my house. I’m her advocate. Her mentor. If I eat here, she may come to believe I’m her stepmother or her father’s girlfriend.

I swallow what feels like a shard of glass and ask, “Does she know I’m her father?”

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