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?”