Chapter 5 - THE WOMAN WHO SIGNED HER AWAY
“Caroline Voss told me there was nothing left from my parents.”
Maya's voice was flat.
That frightened Thomas more than shouting would have.
She stared at the signature on the yellow card.
Caroline Voss.
The woman who had visited foster homes carrying a black leather folder.
The woman who always smelled faintly of peppermint.
The woman who had once told Maya, “Try not to get too attached to things. Your next placement may not have room.”
Maya remembered every word.
Especially because Caroline had said it while taking away her old keyboard.
Thomas studied the card.
“Maybe she signed for the belongings and passed them on.”
Maya shook her head.
“She said everything had been disposed of.”
Claire looked concerned.
“When?”
“After my grandmother died.”
Margaret sat beside her.
“Your grandmother may have intended for someone to hold the materials until you were old enough.”
Maya pressed her palms against her knees.
“I was old enough to know what belonged to me.”
Nobody contradicted her.
By morning, Claire had obtained contact information for the county agency where Caroline had worked.
Caroline was retired.
She lived outside Richmond, approximately twenty minutes away.
Maya insisted on visiting alone.
Thomas objected.
“You shouldn't have to do this without support.”
“I don't want anyone speaking for me.”
Claire handed Maya a prepaid transportation card.
“Then we'll stay nearby.”
Maya accepted it after a moment.
She was learning that assistance and control did not have to mean the same thing.
Caroline Voss lived in a neat brick house with flowerpots beneath the windows.
When Maya arrived, the older woman was watering her porch plants.
Caroline looked up.
For a moment, she appeared not to recognize her.
Then her watering can slipped from her hand.
“Maya?”
Maya stopped at the bottom of the porch.
“Hello, Ms. Voss.”
Caroline pressed one hand against her chest.
“My goodness. Look at you.”
Maya didn't smile.
“I need to ask about my mother's belongings.”
The older woman's expression changed.
“Perhaps you'd like to come inside.”
“No. I want to know what happened to them.”
Caroline glanced toward the street.
“Please. This is complicated.”
“It was always complicated when I asked about my parents.”
Caroline winced.
Maya hadn't come to be cruel.
But she refused to make the conversation comfortable.
After a long pause, Caroline stepped aside.
They sat at a kitchen table covered with a faded floral cloth.
Photographs of grandchildren stood beside the refrigerator.
A wall clock ticked loudly.
Maya placed the yellow archive card on the table.
“Your signature.”
Caroline looked at it.
Then closed her eyes.
“I hoped this wouldn't happen this way.”
“What way?”
“Someone bringing you pieces of an old story before I could explain.”
Maya's hands tightened.
“You had seven years.”
Caroline looked down.
“You're right.”
The simple admission caught Maya off guard.
Caroline reached for a folder in a drawer.
“I kept copies of some records after I retired.”
“Why?”
“Because there were things about your case that never sat right with me.”
Maya stared.
“Then why didn't you fix them?”
Caroline's eyes filled.
“I should have tried harder.”
She opened the folder.
Inside were placement summaries, school reports, and correspondence.
Maya saw her own name repeated across the pages.
A life reduced to forms.
Caroline removed an inventory sheet.
“Your grandmother received most of your parents' possessions. When her health declined, some items were placed in temporary storage.”
“What happened afterward?”
“The storage fees became a problem.”
Maya remembered her grandmother worrying about money.
“She was sick.”
“I know.”
“So what did you do?”
“We arranged a transfer through a community assistance program.”
“Who received the boxes?”
Caroline hesitated.
“Your last long-term foster family.”
Maya went still.
“The Millers?”
“Yes.”
Maya remembered Daniel and Susan Miller.
They lived in a small house outside Petersburg.
They had taken her in when she was fifteen.
They weren't unkind.
But music irritated Daniel.
He worked night shifts and needed sleep.
Her keyboard practice became a constant argument.
Eventually, they asked for a different placement.
Maya had left at sixteen after a final dispute about school and work.
She hadn't spoken to them since.
“They told me my belongings were gone,” Maya said.
Caroline swallowed.
“They told the agency you had taken everything when you left.”
“I had one backpack.”
Caroline nodded.
“I believed them.”
Maya's eyes burned.
“You believed them because it was easier.”
Caroline accepted the accusation.
Then she turned another page.
“There was also a funding request.”
“What funding?”
“A small educational account created after your parents died. Some insurance proceeds and private donations were reserved for lessons and school expenses.”
Maya stared.
“No one ever told me.”
Caroline looked miserable.
“The account was administered through a nonprofit scholarship fund.”
“Whose nonprofit?”
Caroline slid a document across the table.
At the top was a familiar name.
BELLAMY ARTS FOUNDATION.
Maya's throat tightened.
Richard Bellamy.
Again.
“Why would he be involved?”
“I don't know,” Caroline admitted. “The foundation offered to sponsor your music education.”
“Did they?”
Caroline hesitated.
“Payments were approved for instruction and equipment.”
“I never received lessons from them.”
Caroline looked down.
“I know that now.”
Maya stood so quickly her chair scraped the floor.
“You knew money was being spent in my name?”
“I saw annual reports.”
“And nobody checked?”
Caroline's voice cracked.
“We had too many cases and too few people.”
Maya looked at the pictures of Caroline's grandchildren.
Children who had bicycles.
School portraits.
Birthday parties.
Adults who remembered what belonged to them.
“I was one child,” Maya whispered.
Caroline began crying.
“I know.”
Maya wanted to hate her.
That would have been easier.
But Caroline wasn't defending herself.
She was sitting beneath family photographs, looking like a woman who had spent years knowing she had failed someone.
“Do you still have the complete file?” Maya asked.
Caroline nodded.
“Copies.”
“I want them.”
“You should have them.”
Caroline placed the folder into Maya's hands.
Then she said something unexpected.
“Your grandmother tried to reach you.”
Maya froze.
“What?”
“Before she died, she left several messages asking whether your new foster family had given you the piano materials.”
Maya could hardly breathe.
“You told me Grandma had stopped recognizing people.”
“Her memory was inconsistent. But she remembered you.”
The room seemed to tilt.
Maya had spent years believing her grandmother forgot her near the end.
She had carried that pain silently.
“Why didn't you tell me?”
Caroline wiped her face.
“Because I was afraid it would make your grief worse.”
Maya stared at her.
“You don't get to decide which truth hurts less.”
Caroline nodded.
“No. I don't.”
Maya left with the folder.
Outside, she sat on the curb and opened the papers.
Among the records was a carbon copy of an undelivered letter.
Her grandmother's handwriting was uneven.
My sweet Maya,
The piano things are for you. Don't let anyone say your mother stopped believing in you. The music is still yours, even if the piano isn't.
Maya covered her mouth.
For seven years, she'd believed her grandmother's last memories had slipped away.
Now she knew she'd been remembered.
Loved.
And searched for.
She cried until she couldn't read the page.
When Thomas arrived twenty minutes later, he didn't interrupt.
He sat beside her on the curb.
After a while, Maya handed him the scholarship papers.
Thomas read them.
His expression hardened.
“Richard's foundation was supposed to fund your education?”
“Yes.”
“How much?”
“More than thirty thousand dollars over several years.”
Thomas stared.
“And you received none of it?”
“Not that I know of.”
Thomas looked away.
“Maya, this isn't only about stolen music anymore.”
“I know.”
They drove to the Millers' house that afternoon.
Susan Miller answered the door.
Her hair had gone mostly gray.
When she saw Maya, she pressed a hand against her mouth.
“Oh, honey.”
Maya remained on the porch.
“I came for my mother's belongings.”
Susan looked over her shoulder.
“Daniel isn't home.”
“I didn't come for Daniel.”
Susan hesitated.
Then opened the door.
Inside, the house looked exactly as Maya remembered.
Same green couch.
Same framed landscape above the television.
Same narrow hallway where she'd once stood holding her keyboard while Daniel complained about the noise.
Susan led her to the garage.
Cardboard boxes were stacked beneath shelves of holiday decorations.
“I never threw them away,” Susan whispered.
Maya stared.
“You told me they were gone.”
“Daniel wanted the space. I said I'd take care of everything.”
“But you didn't give them back.”
Susan looked ashamed.
“I didn't know where you were.”
Maya almost laughed.
“You could have asked.”
Susan lowered her head.
“I know.”
Together, they opened the first box.
School certificates.
Old clothes.
Photographs.
A cracked picture frame.
Then Maya saw it.
A small silver metronome.
She lifted it with both hands.
It was heavier than she remembered.
Her father's initials were scratched beneath the base.
M.S.
Maya turned the key.
The mechanism clicked twice.
Then stopped.
Susan watched her.
“Your mother must have loved that little thing.”
Maya nodded.
“She did.”
As she examined the underside, a loose panel shifted.
Maya removed it.
Inside was a folded strip of paper and a tiny brass key.
The paper contained only one sentence.
In her mother's handwriting.
The recording isn't in the piano.
Beneath it was a second line.
It's where Maya learned to listen.
Maya stared at the key.
Then she remembered the church basement.
May you like
The place where her mother had first taught her to recognize music by ear.
And the locked cabinet beside the children's choir room.
