The Things We Cannot Say(123)

No matter what that reunion looked like.

Babcia fire Tomasz.

I close my eyes, because I finally understand.

“Wade?”

“Yes, honey?” he whispers.

Babcia fire Tomasz. Finally, I get it. “Fire” doesn’t represent passion—it doesn’t even represent love. It represents literal fire.

“Babcia wants me to bring her ashes home. She wants me to lay her to rest with Tomasz.”

Wade’s gaze softens.

“Well, my love...then that is what we will do.”

I’m unbelievably excited to see my family, and for the whole flight home, I’m picturing them waiting at the arrivals gate. I imagine running to them and embracing the kids, and everyone is smiling and excited to have me home. I know I’m kidding myself, because with Eddie’s disability, an arrivals gate is a challenging place to navigate. The endless sounds and scents and the surging crowd make for a perfect storm of sensory overload, which, combined with the emotional impact of my return, is almost guaranteed to result in a meltdown.

Reality hits when the plane touches down and I turn my phone on—but it’s the very best kind of reality.

Honey. I’m not sure how Eddie would go in the busy arrivals lounge, so I’ve found a place to park and we’ll wait for you at the car. I hope you aren’t too disappointed.
“Disappointed” is not the word I’d use to describe my feelings as I read that text message. “Proud” and “incredulous” are probably closer to the truth—because Wade has understood and predicted Eddie’s reaction, and he’s found his own workaround, without a shred of intervention from me.

And I get my moment of overjoyed reunion, because I see the car just as Callie sees me. She’s standing by her door, but the minute we make eye contact, she runs at me and starts a stream of high-pitched, excited chatter. This means I get a moment or two alone with her before I even see Eddie, who’s still strapped into his seat in the car. Wade is sitting in the front seat. They’re both looking at their mobile devices with the same glazed happiness on their faces—Eddie watching train videos, Wade reading what looks suspiciously like a mommy blog. I laugh weakly as I approach the car.

“Hello, you two. Are you even a little bit excited to see me?”

Eddie looks up, and he squeals with delight, then he bursts into tears—completely overwhelmed in an instant. I rush to throw open his door and cradle him against me.

“It’s okay, baby, Mommy’s home,” I murmur against his hair. I breathe in the scent of my son—my beautiful, complicated son—the kid who makes aspects of my life so difficult, but who also is a kind of sunshine and joy I’d never expected. And those difficulties and struggles and that sunshine and joy? I have always wanted to share them with my husband—and maybe, just maybe we’re getting at least closer to that.

“Eddie, I love you Eddie,” Eddie is echoing against my chest, and what else can I do, but to echo it right back.

We go straight to the hospital. Eddie is apparently proud to show his father that he knows how to navigate the way to Babcia’s room, so he insists on walking right at the front, holding Wade’s hand the whole way. Callie and I walk in the back, as I quietly explain to her what I discovered on my trip.

Then we’re at the room, and Babcia and Mom and Dad are all there. Babcia is resting peacefully, Mom is sitting stiffly by her bed, Dad stands behind Mom, his hand on her shoulder.

“Hi, loves,” Dad says, and there are hugs all round, until his gaze narrows in on me and he grips my shoulders and he says with mock seriousness, “Tell me you’ve got that vodka, child.”

“I have the vodka,” I laugh softly.

“Babcia’s been sleeping on and off all day,” Mom tells us stiffly. “Yesterday took a lot out of her...she can barely keep her eyes open today.”

Eddie climbs up onto the bed regardless, and squeezes in beside her. Even in her sleep, Babcia winds her arm around his shoulders. They lie like that for a while, as the rest of us discuss the trip, Dad’s “spontaneous” return, Mom’s work schedule, Wade’s plastics program and Callie’s schooling. When Babcia wakes a little while later, she kisses the top of Eddie’s head, reaches for Callie’s hand, nods toward Wade, and then her eyes finally land on me.

I walk toward her, and she thanks me a thousand times a second as she stares at me through her tears. Then she’s searching around the place with her gaze, until it lands on Mom’s iPad, so I shift the kids out of the way so we can “talk.”

Thank you. Thank you, Alice.

Babcia happy. Babcia proud.

Alice home now. Alice sleep.

Thank you. Thank you, Alice.

We kiss her cheek and say our farewells, then turn toward the door. As I’m about to leave, the iPad sounds.

Babcia fire Tomasz.

I turn, and Babcia is looking at me with a desperate hope in her eyes. I return to the bed and take the tablet, and my hands are shaking as I type my reply into Google Translate.

Yes. I promise you Babcia. I will take your ashes back and lay them to rest with Tomasz.

When I convert the words to Polish, Babcia’s tears spill over, and she fumbles for my hand again.

My grandmother is a ninety-five-year-old woman with a brain injury, trapped in a hospital bed, unlikely to ever leave. But as I look at her in this moment, I don’t see the elderly hospital patient—I see a beautiful young woman, madly in love with her fiancé, desperate only to find herself home with him once more.