The Things We Cannot Say(23)

Eddie won’t get used to the label. I don’t know how we’re going to manage that yet, but the fact that Wade thinks it’s that easy is a blatant reminder of how little he understands.

“Thanks.”

I expect Wade to pass me the bags, kiss me politely and spin on his heel, but instead, he sets the bags on the floor and pulls me into an embrace. I’m surprised by this, and even more surprised when he places a gentle kiss on the side of my hair.

“Sorry, Ally. Honestly, I’m really sorry. I know you’re under a lot of pressure at the moment and I’m not much help.”

I sigh and lean into him, then wind my arms around his torso and accept comfort from the warmth of his embrace. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Rare glimpses of the man I know my husband to be have sustained our marriage. In these sporadic moments, I catch a hint of hope on the horizon. All I need to keep working and fighting and trying is a glimmer of that, just every now and again. This one comes right when I need it.

“I’m kind of on a short fuse emotionally,” I whisper. “I’m really sorry too...about before.”

“Would it help if I stay this afternoon?”

He doesn’t offer to take Eddie home, but this is as close as I’m going to get and I appreciate the offer.

“Actually,” I say, “Callie has ballet at four. If you could go pick her up from school, take her to ballet, then go home and cook some dinner...”

“Absolutely,” Wade says, with enthusiasm, or maybe it’s relief. “Absolutely, I can do that. Anything you need.” He brushes his lips against mine, then glances at the bed again. “How are you doing, Babcia?”

“She can’t understand you,” I remind him. “She’s been using the AAC—if you want to talk to her you’ll have to use that.”

Wade stiffens, then waves vaguely at the bed and glances at his watch.

“I might head back to the office and tell them I’m going to take off early. I’ll see you at home tonight. Let me know if you need anything else?”

“Okay,” I say.

Lunch, Eddie’s iPad says, then, Lunch lunch lunch lunch lunch lunch...

“Okay, okay,” I sigh, and I bend and fetch a pack of yogurt. He’s so excited that he sits up and his hands start flapping all over the place.

Six tubes of yogurt later, Eddie is settled on the bed watching YouTube videos of trains again. But then Mom flies back into the room with an archive box in her hand, and Babcia brightens until she’s the one impatiently flapping her hands.



CHAPTER 7

Alice


Mom slides the box onto the tray table while I shift Eddie to the chair beside the bed. Babcia grows impatient and she pushes herself into a sitting position without our assistance, so then we have to hasten to adjust the angle of her bed and fix her pillows. She waves us away and reaches for the box, her hands trembling. There’s reverence in her gaze, and every now and then she flicks a glance toward Mom that’s brimming with gratitude and relief. I have to help Babcia to lift the lid off the box when it becomes apparent she can’t coordinate her right hand to do so, but once I do, she pulls the lid against herself and hugs it awkwardly with her forearms.

“Where was it?” I ask Mom quietly.

“Under her bed at the retirement unit, I missed it the first time I went there,” Mom mutters as she shakes her head. “I didn’t realize how close she keeps it, but I probably should have. She’s always been so sentimental.” She makes that last statement as though this is an utterly bewildering character trait—which momentarily amuses me.

“So are you, Mom,” I laugh softly, and she frowns at me. “You forget I helped you and Dad move last time. I know your attic is basically the Museum of The Slaski-Davis Family.” She’s kept artworks and school reports for me right from preschool, and ticket stubs from her early dates with Dad, and, because she is a stickler for the letter of the law, she’s kept sentimental paperwork from her journey to the bench but she’s self-redacted identifying details where that might be problematic from a confidentiality point of view. I tried to thin the boxes of mementos out a little when they were moving, but Mom stubbornly held on to every last piece of our history, and when I pointed out how pointless those redacted files seem to be—she told me that each and every page triggers a memory of a case that meant something to her. I suspect that my Mom is scared that one day she’ll get dementia like Pa did. Maybe those bits and pieces from our past are important in case they one day need to act as a map to guide her back to the memories she cherishes.

In the meantime, it’s kind of hilarious that above my mother’s industrial minimalist-styled house is an attic brimming with boxes of macaroni art, letters and unsorted photographs. Mom sighs now, but she gives me a rueful smile.

“I suppose she taught me that some things just can’t be replaced,” Mom murmurs, and we both look back to Babcia, who’s awkwardly wiping tears from her face as she stares into the box. “She never said so,” Mom adds, “but I always assumed these little things came to mean so much more to her because she had to uproot herself from her whole life back there in Poland.”

Babcia motions impatiently toward Eddie’s iPad, and he’s partway through a train video so I fully expect him to resist and maybe even grunt like a toddler as he pulls the device against himself. Instead, he looks up at her, blinks, then swipes to the AAC and hands it to her. Babcia smiles at him, then she taps the thank you icon and shows it to Mom, who nods as she sinks into the chair on the opposite side of the bed. As soon as Babcia’s attention shifts, Mom rubs her forehead and for the briefest of moments, closes her eyes. She looks exhausted—maybe more tired than I’ve ever seen her, and I was waiting at the finish line for every one of her eight marathons.