The Things We Cannot Say(25)

“Poor Babcia. She’s really missing Pa,” I say, and Mom frowns and stares at the photo again.

“I’m sure she is,” Mom says. “But that is not Pa.”

“How do you know?”

“Pa’s hair was dark before he went gray. That man has lighter hair, unless the shades on the print are deceptive,” Mom says, then she shrugs. “Plus... I don’t know. That guy just doesn’t look like Pa. His eyes are all wrong...the shape of his lips. Although, there is definitely something familiar about some of his features. He looks a lot like you, actually. Mama had twin brothers. This must be one of them.”

“I wonder who Henry Adamcwiz was?” I frown. “And 1941—was that after the war?”

“No, the war didn’t end until 1945,” Mom murmurs, and then we all stare at the photo, as if it can explain itself. Babcia wipes a tear from her cheek, then reaches for the iPad again.

Tomasz, it says. Find Tomasz. Please find Tomasz.

“Are you sure this isn’t Pa?” I ask Mom, and she takes the photo from me and stares at it hard, then she shakes her head.

“I’m quite sure.”

Babcia looks so frustrated now that if she could speak, I’m pretty sure she’d be yelling at us both. I frown and look at Mom, who frowns right back at me. Helplessness and frustration leave my mother looking much more vulnerable than I’m used to—much more human. I feel another alien pang of sympathy for her.

“She’s so confused,” Mom mutters, then she looks to the door and the frustration gives rise to anger. “Why won’t the staff listen to me? They should be reassessing her cognitive state. Clearly there’s more than language damaged here.”

Babcia hits the replay button on the iPad.

Please find Tomasz. Your turn.

I swallow and take the iPad. Mom is staring at the ceiling now, blinking rapidly—so I guess it’s up to me to remind my Babcia that her husband is gone. Rising dread swamps me, and I am shaking a little as I swipe through the screens, then I groan in frustration and try making my own icon.

Pa is d-e-a-d, I type, but Babcia grabs my wrist, shakes her head fiercely and snatches the iPad from me with surprising strength. She flicks back to the AAC and finds an icon we haven’t needed to use in twelve months—Pa. The sight of his image makes the ache in my chest intensify.

No Pa. Find Tomasz.

Then, she flicks to the “new icon” screen and with painstaking effort, starts to type. She makes a new icon of her own now. It’s a picture of houses, a suburban street. She painstakingly adds a label: Trzebinia. The AAC makes an attempt at reading the word aloud, but I’m pretty sure it’s not accurate.

“That word is on the photo too. Is it a mountain in Poland?” I ask Mom. She stands, then frowns as she reads the icon.

“That’s where she grew up. See? She is confused. I told you.”

I take the iPad and give another fruitless search for a “dead” symbol—but the best I can do is: No Pa. I am sorry.

Again, Babcia shakes her head, her expression twisting now with frustration, and she takes the iPad and she jabs her finger at the screen. She points at me, then at the photo.

Not Pa. Trzebinia.

She glances up, sees my confusion, then scrolls through all of the screens until she finds a page of national flags. She selects a red and white one, then adds it to her sentence.

Not Pa. Trzebinia. Poland. Tomasz.

Eddie is watching all of this with an almost-wondrous focus, and he reaches eagerly for the iPad, which Babcia automatically hands to him. He swipes out of the AAC program and loads Google maps, then quickly types in Poland. The map zooms in on Europe, then centers on Poland, and Babcia points to the lower half of the screen and looks at me as if this should explain everything.

It’s my turn to take the iPad. I swipe back to the AAC, copy the town name, and then paste it into Google maps. Eddie squeals with delight as the screen refocuses on the town, then he claps his hands. I didn’t know he knew how to use Google maps. I make a mental note to mention it to his teacher, because he sure does seem excited about it.

Babcia beams at him, then at me. I smile back at her, and for a moment, we’re all just sitting there grinning like fools.

“Is that all she wanted, do you think?” I ask Mom, who shrugs.

“To see a map?” Mom surmises, almost wryly.

Babcia looks from Mom to me, waits a bit, then when she realizes we still don’t understand her, her face twists into a grimace. She has our full attention, but we’re helpless and soon she’s distressed all over again. I’m not sure what to try next, but again, it’s Eddie who saves us. He swipes the screen and flips it back to the AAC, then he hands it to Babcia and he rests his hand against her forearm.

Every time I see a movie where a character has autism and their single defining feature is a lack of empathy, I have an almost-overwhelming urge to smash my television. Eddie is, at times, challenging, even maddening—but his heart is immense. He might never speak or live independently, but what no one ever tells you is that a well-placed hug from the little boy who hates hugs can entirely change your day. Edison Michaels understands frustration better than anyone I know. He recognizes even its most subtle calling cards, because frustration defines every aspect of his life.

Babcia types, then plays the words just to make sure we all hear them.