The Things We Cannot Say Read online

  “And food, how do you—” I was thinking through the logistics of his situation, and the more it sank in, the more scared I was.

  “Please don’t worry about me. There are so many who are far worse off than I am.”

  “Mama always says the same,” I said, suddenly frustrated. “But Tomasz, just because our suffering isn’t the worst, that doesn’t mean it doesn’t count.” I kissed him once more, hard and fast. “Promise me you’ll be safe.”

  “I will,” he said, but he said it too lightly, and I gripped his collar tight again.

  “You don’t understand, Tomasz. I just couldn’t bear it if anything happened to you. Promise me and mean it.”

  “I do understand,” he assured me patiently. There was the sudden glimmer of tears in his eyes and his arms around me tightened. “The first night I came back here, I came to your window. I couldn’t make myself look inside. I was too scared to look because I wasn’t sure you would be there and...when I finally saw you sleeping, Alina, peaceful and healthy and...safe...and you were so damned beautiful I...couldn’t even... I can’t even...” His voice broke, and he clutched my upper arms tightly in his grip. A tear fell from his eye and ran down his cheek, and I started to cry too. I understood the moment he was describing because I was living it myself, even as he described it. “I don’t even have enough words to tell you about that relief, moje wszystko. Suffice to say that I was so relieved I wept that night. I promise you, I will only take the risks I have to, because I truly understand how much it matters to you that I’m safe.”

  We sat like that for a long time, basked in a contented silence. For long minutes, I had everything I needed in the world again and I was happier than I could ever remember being. The shadow of reality loomed too soon, because as desperately as I wanted to, I couldn’t stay with him like that forever.

  “I don’t know how I can leave you, but I can’t stay out much longer,” I whispered eventually. “If my parents notice me missing they will pay more attention tomorrow and I won’t be able to come see you again.”

  “Don’t come see me again,” he said. I gasped and moved to argue, but he shook his head and pressed his finger against my lips. “It is too risky, Alina, it is a miracle that I even saw you tonight. But... God help me, I can’t stay away from you now. I will wait until it’s very late, and assuming it’s safe, I’ll come to your window instead, okay?”

  “You will?”

  “I will,” he promised, then he sighed. “I should not, but I will.”

  I swallowed the lump in my throat at the reminder of the danger he was in, but he kissed me, and then gently disentangled our limbs. Then he rose and helped me to my feet, and we walked in silence back to the edge of the woods.

  “I love you, Alina,” he murmured.

  “I love you too. So very much,” I whispered.

  We shared one last kiss in the moonlight before he gently propelled me toward the house. As I took my first few steps, he caught my hand and I turned back to stare at him. We slipped through time then, back through the hard years to the night of our proposal. For a heartbeat, I was that same spoiled girl I’d been before the war, and he was the muscular, cocky boy who had proposed to me. Somewhere in time, that was who we’d always be, and I felt the certainty of that in my bones.

  “I can’t help but think that this is a miracle, Alina,” Tomasz whispered, his gaze scanning my face. “I can’t help but think that you finding me tonight was a gift from God. Maybe He can forgive me after all.”

  The darkness was returning to his eyes. We had so much more to say to one another, and no time to even start the conversation.

  “We will talk tomorrow, Tomasz,” I whispered. “Yes?”

  He reluctantly released my hand, and his gaze darted to the field beyond me for a moment, then he whispered, “Sleep well, moje wszystko.”

  “Be safe, Tomasz.”

  The house was still silent when I climbed in my window. I pulled off my coat and shoes and climbed under the blankets, but even once I closed my eyes I resisted sleep.

  Instead, I basked in the warm glow of something most remarkable—something almost miraculous. I was excited about his return, of course—but equally, I was relieved to welcome a glimpse of happiness and a glimmer of hope in my life again.

  CHAPTER 12

  Alice

  I get up at 5:00 a.m. out of habit and not necessity on school days. I plan out Eddie’s visual calendar, lay out his clothing and then pack his school bag—the dreidel, which he’s still taking with him everywhere he goes, his stuffed Thomas the Tank Engine toy just in case he wants it, six Go-Gurts, one can of soup and six pairs of spare underpants, each with a matching ziplock bag for the inevitable accidents.

  By the time I’ve prepared Eddie’s gear, it’s 6:00 a.m. and the house is still silent. I pour myself a cup of coffee and wander into the living room, where I turn the television on to a news channel, and then promptly zone out into the background noise. I look around the room, the endless books on the shelves and the dust on the windowsill I probably should address at some point.

  This is my favorite room, and this house feels more like home to me than any other house I’ve ever lived in. We bought this place six years ago, when Wade got the first in a series of promotions. It’s not that we’re extravagantly wealthy—but he earns well above an average salary these days, and I can’t really get my head around how his bonus scheme works but it seems to bring in a lot of money. Something about performance indicators for the teams he manages and every few months he has a win at work, then there’s another large deposit into the account and Wade wants to drink champagne and I listen to him as he tries to explain it. I nod and smile, but I never really grasp it because I just don’t have a frame of reference for his world.

  I’ve never had a job with performance indicators. The last job I had was tutoring freshman English majors at college. Even then, I just did it because everyone else I knew had a job, and I mostly spent the money on eating out or clothes. Mom and Dad were borderline obsessed with my education—and I guess that makes sense, with Mom’s career being the most important part of her life and Dad himself being an academic at the time. They were more than happy to support me financially throughout my college years.

  I had a much easier time relying on my parents for money than I do my husband. I’m a confused mix of grateful, guilty and frustrated about the circumstances of my family every single day. But for our decision to have a family young and our decision that I should stay home long term once we realized that Eddie was not going to be your run-of-the-mill kid, I’d have a career too and things would be different.

  But things aren’t different, and they have never seemed equal.

  It’s not anything Wade does or says that makes me feel that way. Sometimes I wonder if I’d feel this uncomfortable about our situation if I’d set out to be a stay-at-home mom. Instead, that life just kind of happened to me, and now there are some days when this beautiful home is a little like a gilded cage.

  “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 ev
en 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.

  I asked Julita a while ago and thought for some time that she might join me, but she is so busy with her new job now, and besides, now I will need her to look after Pa if I am to go away.

  If you can spare me the time, perhaps we could take two weeks to visit the home of my ancestors and to try to find some information for me. It would mean the world, Alice, truly. We could go as soon as you graduate, and perhaps we could take a trip to Paris or Rome so you can see some more of Europe as an expression of my gratitude to you.

  Love always,

  Babcia

  I’m cast immediately back into the timing of this letter—the most tumultuous time of my life. Pa had just been diagnosed with dementia—just a few weeks after Mom was appointed to the district court. Dad was still working as an economics professor at the University of Florida but talking about retiring so he could travel—without Mom, given he’d finally accepted she was serious when she said she was hoping to work until her brain or body gave out. Wade was finishing his second graduate degree and working in his first full-time job.

  And then when my final results came in, there was a marked decline in my academic performance in the final semester of my degree, because I was spending most of my waking hours obsessing about how to tell my family that instead of taking an internship the following school year, I’d be becoming a mom.

  I look up from the letter now, and my vision is blurred as I drag myself back to the here and now. Babcia is looking at me expectantly, and I feel a crushing sense of grief for the missed opportunity. If she’d sent the letter, I’d have gone with her anyway—pregnant or not. Even so, I’m not surprised that she didn’t ask once she knew I was about to become a mom. Babcia has always respected this singular focus I want to have for my family.

  Now Babcia awkwardly picks up the other letter with her left hand, and she drops it near to me on the tray table. I open it very carefully—this is clearly much older than the first letter. Even unfolding the rough, aged paper, I fear it’s going to fall to pieces. It feels like something I should handle while wearing cotton gloves, while standing in a museum.

  Most of the ink has faded, and only the bottom few lines of the letter are still vivid. It’s in Polish, although it’s so light I’m not sure even someone who did read the language could make much sense of it. I can barely make out the first few lines—but I can see the name at the bottom. Tomasz.

  I look at her blankly, but she’s silently crying now, and she reaches across to very gently take the older letter from my hands. She folds it again, then rests it on the tray table. Tears flow freely down her cheeks, but she wipes her face with the back of her hands and reaches with some determination for the iPad. She has all of the icons she needs saved into her favorites screen, so it takes only a moment for her to start our conversation.

  Alice.

  Find Tomasz.

  Alice plane Poland. Alice plane Trzebinia.

  Babcia fire Tomasz.

  She looks at me expectantly, then hits the your turn button. My heart sinks all over again as I take the iPad. My hands tremble a little as I peck out my response.

  Babcia no plane—

  She impatient
ly snatches the iPad from me.

  Yes. She types, and I think we’re in an awkward argument, until she spends the next several minutes correcting me as she accesses the icons from the recently used screen.

  Babcia sick.

  Babcia old.

  Babcia no plane.

  Alice plane.

  Alice plane Trzebinia.

  Find Tomasz.

  Babcia fire Tomasz.

  “But... I can’t go to Poland, Babcia,” I protest aloud, forgetting for a moment that it’s pointless to do so. She hits the repeat button on the iPad, then looks at me, and when I simply stare at her as I try to figure out how to explain to her how insane this is, she presses repeat again, and then again.

  Then she puts the iPad down, crosses her arms over her chest and stares at me stubbornly. Her chin is raised. Her jaw is set. Babcia looks exactly like my daughter did last night when I walked through my front door.

  “But...” I protest weakly. I couldn’t leave Callie and I couldn’t leave Wade—and I definitely couldn’t leave Eddie. I can’t even begin to imagine how I could make that work. Wade would never take time off; Eddie would never adjust to my absence; Callie would act up too—God, it would be a nightmare for all of them. Besides, I’m still not sure what question Babcia wants me to answer. Who are these people? What the Hell is Babcia fire Tomasz supposed to mean? Say I flew all the way across the world for her, what would I even do when I got there?

  Babcia can either read my mind, or she’s thinking the same thing. She swipes back to the home screen on the iPad and finds the FaceTime button, then she points to the icon, and then looks at me again. When I look at her blankly, she swipes over to the camera button, then she jabs at it, and she opens the photo roll. It’s empty because this is Mom’s iPad and she’s not really the Grandma-paparazzi sort, but I get the message anyway.

  My grandmother wants to see her homeland one last time.

  Babcia passes me the iPad now, and I open the AAC and swipe vaguely through the icons, wondering how I’m supposed to use this limited language to say “there’s no way in Hell I can arrange to fly to Poland and take some photos for you, especially not on short notice, and we have no idea how long you have left so I’d have to go straightaway anyway.”