The Things We Cannot Say Page 3

  “Tomasz,” I whispered, through the happiest of tears. “I was always going to wait for you. Even before you asked me to.”

  * * *

  Father took me into the town the next morning to say goodbye to Tomasz before he left for Warsaw. We were engaged now and that was a milestone the adults in our life respected, so for the first time ever, we embraced in front of our fathers. Aleksy carried Tomasz’s suitcase, and Tomasz held tightly to his train ticket. Despite the noisy sobs Emilia was making, she looked a picture in one of her pretty floral dresses. I fussed over him on the platform, fiddling with the lapel of his coat and straightening the fall of his thick sandy hair.

  “I’ll write you,” Tomasz promised me. “And I’ll come home as much as I can.”

  “I know,” I said. His expression was somber but his eyes were dry, and I was determined to be brave too that day until he was out of sight. He kissed me on the cheek, and then he shook my father’s hand. After saying goodbye to his father and sister, Tomasz took his suitcase, and walked onto the carriage. When he hung out the window to wave to us, his gaze was fixed on mine. I forced myself to smile until the train dragged him all the way from my sight. Aleksy gave me a brief hug and said gruffly, “You’ll make a fine daughter one day, Alina.”

  “She’ll make a fine sister, Father,” Emilia protested. She gave one last shuddering sob and sniffed dramatically, then she took my hand and pulled me away from Aleksy’s embrace. I didn’t have much experience with children—but the soft spot I held for Emilia grew exponentially in that moment as she beamed up at me with those shiny green eyes. I kissed the side of her head, then hugged her tightly.

  “Don’t worry, little one. I’ll be your sister even while we wait.”

  “I know he didn’t want to leave you, Alina, and I know this is hard on you too,” Aleksy murmured. “But Tomasz has wanted to be a doctor since before he learned to read, and we had to let him go.” He fell silent for a moment, then he cleared his throat and asked, “You’ll visit with us while Tomasz is away, won’t you?”

  “Of course I will,” I promised him. There was a lingering sadness in Aleksy’s gaze, and he and Tomasz looked so alike—the same green eyes, the same sandy hair, even the same build. Seeing Aleksy sad was like seeing Tomasz sad in the distant future, and I hated the very thought of it—so I gave him another gentle hug.

  “You are already my family, Aleksy,” I said. He smiled down at me, just as Emilia cleared her throat pointedly. “And you too, little Emilia. I promise I’ll visit you both as often as I can until Tomasz comes back to us.”

  My father was solemn on the walk back to the farm, and in her usual stoic style, my mother was impatient with my moping that evening. When I climbed into bed for an early night, she appeared in the doorway between my room and the living space.

  “I am being brave, Mama,” I lied, wiping at my eyes to avoid her scolding for my tears. She hesitated, then she stepped into my room and extended her hand toward me. Nestled safe within her calloused palm was her wedding ring, a plain but thick gold band that she’d worn for as long as I remembered.

  “When the time is right, we will have a wedding at the church in the township, and Tomasz can put this ring on your finger. We don’t have much to offer you for your marriage, but this ring was my mother’s, and it has seen Father and I through twenty-nine years of marriage. Good times, bad times—the ring has held us steadfast. I give it to you to bring you fortune for your future—but I want you to hold on to it even now so that while you wait, you will remember the life that’s ahead of you.”

  As soon she finished her speech, she spun on her heel and pulled my door closed behind her, as if she knew I’d cry some more and she couldn’t even bear to see it. After that, I kept the ring buried in my clothes drawer, beneath a pile of woolen socks. Every night before I went to sleep, I’d take that little ring in my hand, and I’d go to my window.

  I’d stare out toward the hill that had borne witness to so many quiet moments with Tomasz, and I’d clutch that ring tightly against my chest while I prayed to Mother Mary to keep Tomasz safe until he came home to me.

  CHAPTER 3

  Alice

  As we step into the geriatric ward, Eddie spots Babcia, and he immediately breaks out of my grasp and runs into her room.

  “Eddie,” he calls as he runs. “Eddie darling, do you want something to eat?”

  Echolalia is the bane of my existence sometimes. Babcia is constantly offering Edison—and everyone else—food, and so now, when he sees Babcia, he mimics her. It’s harmless when we’re alone. When we’re in public and he piles on that faux Polish accent, it sounds a lot like he’s mocking her. The nurse reviewing Babcia’s IV setup frowns at him, and I want to explain to her what’s going on, but I’m too stricken by the sight of Babcia herself. She’s propped up and her eyes are open. This should feel like an improvement on the semiconscious state she was in last night, except that she’s clearly still very weak—she’s sunk heavily into the pillows.

  “Hello, Edison.” I hear my mother sigh as I catch up to Eddie and join him in the room. Eddie looks at Mom, then mutters under his breath, “Stop doing that, Eddie.”

  Mom remains silent but her disapproval is palpable, as it always is when Eddie’s echolalia reminds us all that the phrase he most associates with her is a scolding. Now she turns her gaze to me, and she says, “Alice, you are incredibly late.”

  I feel justified in ignoring my mother’s greeting given it is equal parts social nicety and criticism, which is the exact ratio that comprises almost every communication she undertakes. Julita Slaski-Davis is a lot of things; a lifelong marathon runner, a venerated district court judge, a militant civil libertarian, an avid environmentalist; a seventy-six-year old who has no intention of retiring from her work anytime soon. People are forever telling me she’s an inspiration, and I can see their point, because she’s an impressive woman. The one thing she’s not is a cuddly, maternal grandma—which is exactly why Eddie and I have a much easier relationship with Babcia.

  I take the space next to Eddie at my grandmother’s bedside and wrap my hand around hers. The weathered skin of her fingers is cold, so I clasp my other hand around it and try to warm her up a little.

  “Babcia,” I murmur. “How are you feeling?”

  Babcia makes a sound that’s closer to a grunt than a word and distress registers in her eyes as she searches my gaze. Mom sighs impatiently.

  “If you’d been here earlier, you’d already know that she may be awake now, but I don’t think she can hear. These nurses don’t know anything. I’m waiting for the doctor to tell me what the Hell is going on.”

  The nurse beside Mom raises her eyebrows, but she doesn’t look at Mom or even at me. If she did look at me, I’d offer her an apologetic wince, but the nurse is clearly determined to get her job done and get out of the room as quickly as she can. She presses one last button on the IV regulator, then touches my grandmother’s arm to get her attention. Babcia turns to face her.

  “Okay, Hanna,” she nurse says gently. “I’ll leave you with your family now. Just buzz if you need me, okay?”

  Eddie pushes me out of the way as soon as the nurse goes, and fumbles to take Babcia’s hand. When I let him have it, he immediately settles. I glance back to Babcia, and I see the smile she turns on for him. I always thought my relationship with my grandmother was unique. She all but raised me through different phases of my childhood; my mother’s career has always come first. But as special as it is, our relationship isn’t a patch on the bond she has with Eddie. In a world that doesn’t understand my son, he’s always had Babcia, who doesn’t care if she understands him or not—she simply adores him the way he is.

  I survey her carefully now, assessing her, as if I can scan her with my gaze and realize the extent of the damage within her mind.

  “Can you hear me, Babcia?” I say, and she turns toward me,
but frowns fiercely as she concentrates. Her only response is the swell of tears that rise to her eyes. I glance at Mom, who is standing stiffly, her jaw set hard.

  “I think she can hear,” I say to Mom, who hesitates, then offers, “Well, then...maybe she doesn’t recognize us?”

  “Eddie,” Eddie says. “Eddie darling, do you want something to eat?”

  Babcia turns to him and she smiles a tired but brilliant smile that immediately earns a matching smile from my son. He releases Babcia’s hand, throws his iPad up onto the bed beside her legs and starts trying to climb the railings.

  “Eddie,” Mom says impatiently. “Don’t do that. Babcia is not well. Alice, you need to stop him. This is not a playground.”

  But Babcia tries to pull herself into a sitting position and opens her arms wide toward Eddie, and even Mom falls silent at that. I pull the bedrail down, and help shift the various cords out of the way as my very solid son climbs all the way onto the bed beside his very fragile great-grandmother. Babcia shifts over, slowly and carefully, purposefully making room for him right beside her. He nestles into her side and closes his eyes, and as she sinks back into the pillow, she rests her cheek against Eddie’s blond hair. Then Babcia closes her eyes too, and she breathes him in as if he’s a newborn baby.

  “She certainly seems to recognize Eddie,” I say softly.

  Mom sighs impatiently and runs her hand through the stiff tufts of her no-nonsense gray hair. I settle onto the chair beside the bed and reach into my bag for my phone. There’s another message from Wade on the screen.

  Ally, I really am sorry. Please write back and let me know you’re okay.

  I know I’m not being fair, but I’m still so disappointed that he wouldn’t help me today. I scowl and think about turning the phone off, but at the last second, I relent and reply.

  Having a very bad day, but I am okay.

  * * *

  It’s a long while later that we’re approached by a middle-aged woman in a lab coat, who motions toward us to join her at the nurses’ desk. Eddie is holding the dreidel up again in front of his face and doesn’t react to me at all as I turn from the bed, so I leave him be.

  “I’m Doctor Chang, Hanna’s physician. I wanted to update you on her condition.”

  Babcia is stable today, but given the location of the stroke, her doctors think there’s damage to the language centers in her brain. She can certainly hear, but she’s not reactive to requests or instructions and further testing needs to be done. Behind us, I hear Eddie’s iPad as the robotic voice of the AAC app announces, Dreidel.

  I’m not paying much attention to Eddie, only enough that I’m vaguely surprised he managed to figure out what his new treasure is called. His visual language app lists thousands of images he can use to identify concepts he might need to communicate, but dreidel is hardly going to be in the “most commonly used” section of the menu. I enjoy a moment or two of Mommy-pride in among the panic of the seemingly endless bad news from Doctor Chang. Could be permanent, more testing required, scans, this situation is not entirely unheard of, unfortunately high chance of further events. End of life plans?

  I like dreidel, Eddie’s iPad says. Your turn.

  I wince and turn back to glance at the bed, where Eddie has turned the iPad toward my grandmother. He’s sitting up now, his back against the bedrail. I don’t know what I expect to see, but I’m surprised when Babcia lifts her hand slowly and hits the screen.

  I...like...

  I interrupt the doctor by grabbing her forearm, and she startles and steps away from me.

  “Sorry,” I blurt. “Just...look.”

  The doctor and Mom turn just in time to see Babcia hit the next button. Mom draws in a sharp breath.

  ...dreidel...too. Babcia hits each button slowly and with obvious difficulty, but eventually, she expresses herself just fine.

  Babcia hurt? Eddie asks now.

  Babcia scared, Babcia types.

  Eddie scared, Eddie types.

  Eddie...is...okay, Babcia slowly pecks out. Babcia...is...okay.

  Eddie nods, and sinks back onto the bed to rest his head in Babcia’s shoulder again.

  “Is he autistic?” the doctor asks.

  “He’s on the autism spectrum, yes,” I correct her. The terminology doesn’t matter, not really, but it matters to me because my son is more than a label. To say he is autistic is not accurate—autism is not who he is, it is a part of who he is. This is semantics to someone who doesn’t live with the disorder every day and the doctor looks at me blankly, as if she can’t even hear the distinction. I feel heat on my cheeks. “He’s nonverbal. He uses the Augmentative and Alternative Communication app to speak. Babcia is already used to communicating that way, although she’s normally much faster—”

  “That’s the problem with her hand,” Mom interrupts me, and she’s glaring at the doctor again. “I told you, she’s having trouble moving her right side.”

  “I remember, and we’re looking into it,” the doctor says, then she pauses a moment and admits, “We don’t tend to use technology with elderly patients in this situation—most of them don’t have a clue where to start. So as difficult as this is, at least she has the advantage of her familiarity with the concept. I’ll talk to a speech pathologist. This is good.”

  “This isn’t good,” Mom says impatiently. “Good isn’t my mother having to speak through a damned iPad app, it’s frustrating enough that we have to use the rotten thing for Eddie. How long will this last for? How are you going to fix it?”

  “Julita, in these—”

  “It’s Judge Slaski-Davis.” My mother corrects her, and I sigh a little as I turn back toward the bed. Babcia catches my eye and nods toward the iPad, so I quietly leave the doctor to deal with my nightmare of a mother. Babcia hits the your turn button, and I take the iPad from her hands.

  Are you hurt? I ask her. She takes the iPad and flicks through the screens until she can find the right images. Then slowly and carefully, she speaks.

  Babcia okay. Want help.

  She hands me the iPad immediately, obviously keen to see my reply, but I have no idea what to say to her or even how to ask her for more information about what she needs. I look from the iPad screen then back to her face and her blue eyes quickly shift from pleading to impatient. She motions for me to pass her the iPad again and so I do, and then she scrolls through screens and screens. She finds the magnifying glass icon and hits it, and the iPad says find, but then she goes back to scrolling. Her gaze narrows. Her lips tighten. Beads of sweat break out on her lined forehead, and more time passes as a flush gradually rises in her cheeks. She hits the find button again and again, and then she growls and pushes the iPad toward me.

  Her frustration is palpable, but I don’t know what to do. Mom and the doctor are still squabbling, and Eddie is still curled up beside Babcia, rolling the dreidel along the sheet now as if it is a toy train. I look at Babcia helplessly, and she raises her hands as if to say I don’t know, either. For a moment, I swipe through the screens of Eddie’s most commonly used icons, pausing each time so she can check to see if what she needs is there. After a minute or so of this, a new thought strikes me. I open the app to the new icon page, and as soon as I do, Babcia snatches the device back eagerly. She finds a picture of a young man, then starts to type, slowly and carefully. She’s not using her forefinger—she’s using the side of her pinkie and her ring finger. It’s awkward, and it takes her a few goes to form the word correctly, but then she does, and she clicks the save button and shows me proudly.

  Tomasz.

  “How is she?” Mom asks me from the doorway. I look up to her and find the doctor has gone, possibly to find a stiff drink.

  “It’s slow, but she’s using the device. She’s just asked me for—”

  It occurs to me what Babcia is actually asking, and my heart sinks.

  �
��Oh no, Babcia,” I whisper, but the words are pointless—if the stroke has damaged her receptive language, then she’s in much the same boat as Eddie; spoken words have no meaning for her right now. I meet her gaze again, and tears glimmer in her eyes. I look from her to the iPad, but I have absolutely no idea how to tell her that her husband died just over twelve months ago. Pa was a brilliant pediatric surgeon until his seventies, then he taught at the University of Florida until his eighties—but as soon as he retired, dementia took hold and after a long, miserable decline, he died last year. “Babcia...he’s...he...um...”

  She shakes her head fiercely and she hits the buttons again.

  Find Tomasz.

  More scrolling, then:

  Need help.

  Emergency.

  Find Tomasz.

  Then, while I’m still struggling to figure out how to deal with this, she selects another series of icons and the device reads a nonsensical message to me:

  Babcia fire Tomasz.

  Her hands are shaking. Her face is set in a fierce frown, but there’s determination in her gaze. I put my hand gently on her forearm and when she looks up at me, I shake my head slowly, but her eyes register only confusion and frustration.

  I’m confused and frustrated too—and I’m suddenly angry, because it is brutally unfair to see this proud woman so confused.

  “Babcia...” I whisper, and she sighs impatiently and shakes my hand off her arm. My grandmother has an unlimited depth of empathy and she loves relentlessly—but she’s the toughest woman I know, and she seems completely undeterred by my inability to communicate with her. She goes back to scrolling through the pages of icons on the screen of the iPad, until I see her expression brighten. Again and again, she repeats this process, painstakingly forming a sentence. Over the next few minutes, Mom goes to find a coffee, and I watch as Babcia tries to wrangle this clumsy communication method into submission. It’s easier for her now that all of the icons are on the “recently used” page, and soon she’s just hitting the same buttons over and over again now.