The Things We Cannot Say(43)

“Mommy.”

I startle and look up to find Callie is standing in the doorway. She is pale this morning, her honey-blond hair a bedraggled mess around her shoulders, her big blue eyes swimming with tears.

“Honey bear,” I gasp, falling back automatically into the nickname Wade and I gave her as a baby. “What is it?” I push the coffee cup onto the table and open my arms to her. She runs across the room and launches herself at me.

“I’m sorry I called Eddie a retard.”

“Oh, Callie. I know you are. Yesterday was a bad day all round, wasn’t it?”

“But maybe you don’t know the origin of that word, Mommy. It is a terrible word. It once was a legitimate medical term, but it’s been used to denigrate disabled people for decades now. I looked it up on etymologyonline.com. I committed a hate crime against my baby brother. And he doesn’t even know it, which makes it even worse, because only you and me and Daddy know what a terrible person I am. How can you ever forgive me?”

I tuck her in closer to me and hide a smile as I run my hand over her hair.

“You’re not perfect, Callie Michaels. You’re allowed to make mistakes.”

“A hate crime is a little more than a mistake,” she says, and she’s full-on sobbing now.

“Now that you understand why I got so angry with you about that word, will you ever use it again?”

“Are you kidding me?” she gasps, pulling away from me to stare at me in horror. Her face is awash with tears, and I wonder how much sleep she’s had. A pang of guilt hits me, because I didn’t even check that she went to sleep last night. That’s what happens in our house sometimes. My default position is checking on Eddie. Callie has learned to fend for herself, but it’s not okay. “Of course I won’t use that word again. I couldn’t bear it now that I know what it means.”

“Well, that’s all that matters. Say sorry to Eddie later and let’s drop it.”

“But it’s unforgivable—”

“Baby. You’re overthinking this now,” I say softly, and she pauses.

“Oh,” she says, and then she gives a miserable little sniff. “Okay.”

“Watch a train video with Eddie tonight to make it up to him. All will be forgiven.”

“Okay, Mommy.”

I cuddle her close again, and rest my head against hers.

“I’m sorry you were frustrated at school yesterday, Callie.”

“I’m sorry I acted like a spoiled brat about it, Mommy.”

I forget sometimes that she has challenges too. I forget that the world is just as mystifying for Callie, who sees too much of it, as for Eddie, who understands so little. Just as Eddie needs me to make a way in this world for him, Callie needs me to help her navigate her own way.

“Should we wake the boys up and get this day started?” I ask her.

“Can we wait five more minutes?” she whispers, and she snuggles closer into me. “I like it sometimes when it’s just you and me.”

“Me too, honey bear,” I whisper back. “Me too.”

I’m at the hospital by 9:00 a.m.—right on schedule today. Babcia is dozing lightly when I step into her room, so I take a seat quietly beside her bed.

The iPad is within her reach, sitting on the tray table. Right behind it is a collection of what I suspect are the most precious things in my grandmother’s world. On the very top of the pile, there’s a handmade leather shoe, the size a very new baby might wear. The shoe is clearly very old, and not particularly well made—the stitching is coarse and uneven, and it’s made up of several shades of aged leather. I wonder if it belonged to my mother, and why Babcia kept it—why she’s showing it to me now.

Beneath the shoe there are two letters—the top one is in a fairly modern envelope with my name on it in Babcia’s careful handwriting. The envelope has faded a little so I know it’s not new, but even without that clue I’d have been sure she wrote it almost a decade ago, because the address on the front is in Connecticut. She must have written this letter when I was still at college, because a few months after I graduated, Wade and I decided to move back here to Florida.

Just then, she opens her eyes and raises her left hand to my wrist. We share a smile, then she nods toward the letter, so I tear it open and unfold the paper inside.

Dearest Alice,
How are you, my beautiful granddaughter? I hope you are enjoying your last semester at college. I am so very proud of you for earning your degree. Did you know—your mother was the first person ever in my family to do so? I am so happy that we are here in America where you have so many opportunities.
Darling, I need a favor. It is an immense one, and I hesitate to ask it, but I feel that time might be running out and I am becoming desperate. With Pa’s illness, I am going to be needed here more and more, so this might be my last chance to get away.
There are ends left untied from my life in Poland—things left unspoken, and more importantly, questions left unanswered. I am sure that you know by now I find it so difficult to speak about the war and our life back home, but there are things I simply must know before I can finish out my days in peace. But I am 85 years old now, darling Alice, and it has been 65-odd years since I left Poland in such a hurry. I am sure it is a whole new world to the life I once knew. I would like to invite you to join me for a brief holiday there. I will pay your way—I simply need help to plan the trip and then someone to accompany me. You are so smart, my darling, and so clever at finding things out from all of your studies and your writing—perhaps you could think of this as a graduate project on your own family history.