The Life Intended by Kristin Harmel Page A

I say, snapping my laptop closed.
    “Is that sign language?” He nods to my hands. “Were you signing?”
    “Well . . . yeah.”
    “Why?”
    “For a client I’m working with.” As I hear myself lie, I know it’s too late to take it back.
    He laughs. “You’re a music therapist,” he says. “Why would you work with a deaf kid?”
    I resist the annoyance that washes over me. After all, there’s no reason to expect someone outside my field to know that people who are deaf can still experience sound though vibrationand visual cues. “Music therapy with deaf kids actually isn’t that uncommon,” I tell him. “And hard-of-hearing kids can usually hear some residual sounds anyhow.”
    He chuckles. “Next you’re going to tell me you’re setting up stargazing trips for the blind.”
    “I’m sure there’s a way to do that too,” I tell him. “Braille constellations or something. People shouldn’t miss out on something just because they have a disability.”
    “But music? For deaf kids? C’mon, Kate.”
    “Music isn’t just about hearing with your ears.”
    “Now you sound like one of those nutty new-age people.”
    I exhale slowly through my nose. “No. I just sound like a music therapist trying something new.” But I realize as I say it that I don’t know much about music therapy for deaf and hard-of-hearing kids at all.
    I make a mental note to look into it further when I have time. Then again, maybe that’s foolish. What am I going to do, comb through the journals for information on music therapy for deaf children just so that I can pick out a few songs on the guitar if I ever dream about Patrick and Hannah again? It sounds crazy even to me.

Eight
    T he entrance to St. Paula’s, the Catholic church on the corner of Seventieth and Madison, is lit by two torches that illuminate the shadow-cloaked stairs, and as I push open one of the heavy wooden doors, the faint scent of frankincense lingers in the air, triggering a handful of memories. I’d gone to church almost every Sunday with Patrick, but after he’d died, I’d had trouble understanding how God could have taken my husband like that. As a result, I’d simply stopped attending, and now I feel guilty as I look up at the cross. “I’m sorry,” I murmur.
    “Looking for the sign language class?” asks a deep voice behind me. I whirl around, startled, to see a man with glasses, a square jaw, and sandy hair sprinkled with gray standing a few feet away, near an open door to the left of the front entrance. When I nod, he smiles. “You can continue your conversation with God if you want, but when you’re ready, we’re down in the basement. Welcome.”
    He doesn’t wait for a reply before disappearing down the stairs. I glance once more at the crucifix, feeling foolish, and hurry after him.
    In the small church basement, I find three women and a man sitting on folding chairs in the center of the room, facing a big easel on which the sandy-haired man from upstairs is currently writing. One of the women, who looks about my age, with dark, pin-straight hair, nods at me as I enter, and the man at the easel turns as I sit down in a squeaky chair.
    “You must be Katherine Waithman,” he says.
    “Kate,” I tell him.
    “Well, welcome to class, Kate,” he says. He sets down the marker he was using, and I see he’s written several phrases on the easel. “I’m Andrew Henson, the instructor from GothamLearn. These folks started with me last week, but if you want to stay a few minutes after class, I’d be happy to catch you up. Sound good?”
    “That’s nice of you. Sorry I wasn’t here for the first class.”
    “Hey, what matters is you’re here now.” He turns to the others in the class and says, “We’re just waiting for Vivian, then we’ll get started, guys.”
    He turns back around and continues adding phrases to the list on the easel. I see I love you , New York City, My name is ____, and Have a nice day . He’s just adding,