What Wade loves to forget is that, initially, he was quite supportive of medical intervention. He seemed to have this idea that Eddie’s diagnosis automatically meant our son would be a savant, and Wade was kind of okay with the whole situation right up until the psychologist told us that Eddie’s IQ was a little under average, so he was unlikely to possess any quirky but genius abilities. My husband is a quirky genius himself—he could handle having a brilliant but odd child; in fact, we have one of those already in Callie, and he’s her best friend in the world. It was the “below average” designation that Wade couldn’t deal with, the autism itself was just the straw that broke the camel’s back.

That’s when the blame game started—but I don’t judge Wade for that, because I play it too. My husband and more importantly, his sperm, have spent an awful lot of time around intense industrial chemicals over the years, and he’s been exposed to radiation at work more than once. And heavens, left to his own devices? Wade’s diet is appalling. We blame each other for Eddie’s struggles—the only difference is Wade occasionally has the courage to voice his thoughts on the matter aloud. Maybe that makes him a better person, because at least he’s honest. I carry my resentment of Wade around like a millstone around my neck and some days I just know that sooner or later, something is going to snap.

He arrives twenty-two minutes after our call, and just as I expected, he’s frazzled. Wade wears a suit to work because he’s an executive manager these days. When he leaves home in the morning, his tie is always impressively straight. Right now, it’s at a somewhat-crazy angle, and his blond hair is sticking up all over the place. He looks sheepish as he enters the hospital room, his hands caught through the straining handles of two overloaded hessian bags.

“Hi, guys,” he says pointlessly to Babcia and Eddie on the bed, then he nods at me and raises the bag in his left hand. “I got a whole carton of soup—it’s in the car. Then they had plenty of stock of the old yogurt labels so I bought it all—here’s half of it.” He lifts the other bag a little higher and nods toward it. “And I got heaps with the new label too...” At my blank stare, he says hesitantly, “Well...you know, so he can get used to it.”

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.