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 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.