Chapter 10 - The House That Could Be Loud
Eleven months after the afternoon on the villa rug, Maya turned four and asked for a birthday party with no photographer and two kinds of cake.
She wanted strawberry because it was her favorite and chocolate because Oliver from preschool claimed strawberry cake was not a real cake.
Malcolm explained that both kinds counted, and she said the extra one would help Oliver learn.
We held the party in my little house, moving the kitchen table against the wall to make room for paper streamers, folding chairs, and a few parents who had become our friends.
I wore the navy cotton dress I had worn on the day Malcolm came home, although the hem had been mended and I had replaced the button that tore when I fell.
There was still a faint mark on my hand, and my ribs sometimes reminded me of their healing when I reached too far across the cupboard.
I did not wear the dress to reclaim it in some grand symbolic way.
I wore it because it was comfortable, because I liked the way its pockets held tissues and birthday candles, and because one afternoon should not be allowed to own a piece of clothing forever.
Maya had picked a pink dress with little yellow buttons for herself, and her dark hair was twisted into the same small bun she preferred when she wanted to run without hair in her eyes.
She inspected the cakes and asked whether people would be allowed to laugh when she blew out the candles.
"Of course," I said.
"People laugh at happy things all the time."
She thought about that and then asked whether she could laugh if the candles would not go out on the first try.
I said there was no proper number of tries for a birthday wish, and she seemed satisfied with the answer.
The past year had not turned into a neat story with the hard parts filed away behind one decisive court order.
Malcolm still attended meetings about Maya's wellbeing and the conditions of her mother's contact, and he kept his communication with Sloane clear and limited to what mattered for their child.
The clinicians had reported some progress in Sloane's treatment, but visits continued under safeguards chosen for Maya's needs rather than anyone else's hope for a quick reconciliation.
I saw Lillian occasionally at the library and learned that she was volunteering with a parent-support group without using her granddaughter's story as an example.
She and I had become careful acquaintances, connected by love for the same small child and by a shared understanding that love did not give us permission to force her feelings.
Sometimes Maya asked about her mother, and sometimes she went weeks without saying her name.
We answered what she asked in simple, truthful language and left room for questions we could not yet answer.
Her therapist helped us understand that children could feel attachment, fear, anger, curiosity, and longing in combinations adults often wanted to simplify.
I had stopped trying to guess which feeling meant she was healing correctly.
At preschool she had begun choosing her own games and telling other children when she needed space.
Once she refused to share a toy because she was using it, then decided a minute later that she wanted to take turns.
Her teacher was pleased not because Maya had behaved perfectly, but because she had been able to make a choice and change it without panic.
Malcolm was proud of that small report in a way I had once seen him proud of a promotion or a new contract.
He had rented a modest house a few streets from mine, with a small garden and a kitchen where Maya could reach her own plate without climbing on a chair.
The move had given them space while keeping me close enough for school pickups and afternoon biscuits.
Sometimes I missed hearing her footsteps every morning, but I knew that a grandmother could be a safe place without becoming the center of a child's whole life.
On party day Malcolm arrived early with supplies and carried the red drum out of his car, still scuffed along one side where the toy box had split open against the marble.
He had asked Maya whether she wanted to keep it, and she had announced that it belonged at Grandma's house because Grandma made the best dancing songs.
I had not considered myself a dancer since my forties, when my knees began protesting at every family wedding.
Maya disagreed, and I had learned there was no point arguing with a four-year-old who believed knees could be talked into cooperation.
After the guests ate cake, she carried the drum into the living room and asked whether everyone wanted a concert.
A year earlier she would have waited for Sloane to choose her expression, place her hands, and tell her which side of the camera showed her best.
Now she passed one mallet to Malcolm and kept the other for herself, announcing that they would play together and everyone else could clap if they wanted.
Malcolm struck the drum too hard, and the deep uneven sound made her burst out laughing.
She tapped a quick answer, then stopped to tell him he was supposed to follow her rhythm rather than invent his own.
He apologized with exaggerated seriousness and tried again.
Soon the room was noisy with clapping, singing, and Oliver's running commentary on the number of cakes he had eaten.
I stood beside the sofa with my hand against its worn fabric, feeling the vibrations travel through the floor and into my shoes.
For a fleeting moment the noise took me back to the other living room, where a child's cry had become a reason for an adult to grow angry.
Then Maya struck the drum again, louder this time, and the memory passed without taking the room away from me.
After the last guest left, we opened the windows to clear the smell of frosting and paper candles from the warm air.
Malcolm folded the chairs while Maya played with the ribbon from a gift, tying it around her rabbit's waist like a superhero belt.
She walked over to me and asked for a hug, then changed her mind halfway there and asked for a high five instead.
I gave her the high five without teasing her about the change.
She smiled and reached for my hand, leading me to the doorway where she had placed the drum beneath the coat hooks.
"Grandma, tomorrow can we make a bigger noise?" she asked.
I looked at the little instrument, at my son's tired but peaceful face, and at the front door that opened whenever someone needed to leave or come home safely.
"We can make whatever music you like," I told her.
May you like
The bus at the corner hissed to a stop, somebody laughed in the kitchen, and Maya lifted her mallets as if she had been waiting all her life for permission to begin.
I stayed beside her while she played, not to shield her from the sound, but to make certain no one ever taught her to be afraid of it again.
