Blah blah blah blah blah blah James, says Jennifer.
Sorry?
We’re sitting on the couch, after Summer has left with a threat to come back tomorrow. Michael is fidgeting, uncomfortable.
Jennifer knows I wasn’t paying attention, but she stays patient. Repeats herself slowly. Your brother, James. Three years older. He’s coming this evening.
I nod; I’m not sure what is required of me here.
He remembers you. He was very [ ]. I mean, when you were born, your grandma brought him to visit, and he ran down the hospital [ ], shouting, where’s my baba? That’s what he called you. His baba. He was three.
I nod again.
The others … they forgot quickly. Or they didn’t know you. But James never forgot. He loved you. She puts her hand to her mouth, too late to stop the past tense from slipping out. He loves you. He jumped on the first flight he could get. He’s doing a semester abroad. The [ ]. Paris.
Right, I say.
Jennifer puts her hands on her knees in a decisive gesture. Okay, I’m going to make some dinner. You eat chicken?
I nod. Who doesn’t eat chicken? I mean, apart from vegetarians. And vegans.
You want me to put the TV on, honey?
I nod. She picks up the remote and flicks it on—Special Agent Deacon fills the screen, a ticker tape running below him, saying, ANGELICA DENIES BEING ABUSED, SHAYLENE COOPER STILL AT LARGE, ANGELICA CURRENTLY—
Turn it off, I say.
James shows up after dinner. I am helping Jennifer to clear away the dishes—I mean, what else am I going to do?—when her head does that turning thing again and she puts down the rice bowl and walks to the door. When she opens it, a tall guy comes in: sandy hair, light stubble. He got more of his mom’s looks than his dad’s. In any other circumstance I would think: he’s hot.
He has a carryall in each hand, and there are dark circles under his eyes; the eyes themselves are bloodshot. He is wearing a University of Calgary sweatshirt and jeans. When he sees me, he drops both bags to the floor—
—instantly, like that—
and moves fast, like the quarterback I’m sure he was, crossing the ten yards between us like it’s nothing, and then his arms are around me and he lifts me up into the air, and for a moment I see the ceiling, turning, and just feel his strength wrapped around me.
Then he must feel that I’m stiff, a dead weight. Because he puts me back down on the ground and steps back, awkward.
Sorry, he says. His eyes flit away from mine, but keep coming back, like nervous birds to a feeder.
I make a gesture, like, it’s no big deal. But I’m kind of trembling from shock so maybe it is a big deal, and he can tell. He looks mortified.
Angelica, he says. I came as soon as I heard. Do you remember me? I remember you. My whole childhood, I don’t think I understood, it was like I had an invisible friend and suddenly they were gone, suddenly you were [ ], but I always remembered how we [ ] and playing in the sand pit with you, and it was only when I was older that [ ] and Mom and Dad could tell me what really [ ].
I look at him blankly.
Oh, shit, he says. He turns to Jennifer, to his mom. So what he says next is just pure [ ].
Then he turns back to me. I knew, he says. No. I didn’t know. But it wasn’t a surprise. That you were deaf.
Jennifer is standing watching all this with a complicated expression on her face. Love, pride, happiness. But also nervousness. Michael is unreadable.
James moves a hand to his mouth. You remember that? That meant you were hungry. He walks his fingers. That meant you wanted to go for a walk. Ah … He thinks for a moment. Then he makes a round cage with his hands. Ball, he says.
And the weird thing is, when he makes these gestures, something flares in my memory. Some dim light, in the darkness. A struck match that is then gone again, into the gloom.
I guess I didn’t see the connection then, he says. It was just something we did. But now, as an adult, it’s obvious. You were deaf. So that’s how we must have found to [ ].
You never said, says Jennifer. I see reproach in her eyes.
I never knew it was important, says James. I was five.
Michael takes a step forward. He indicates the TV with his thumb. Red Sox, he says.
Michael, no! says Jennifer, angry.
But I am not really looking at her. I’m watching Michael, and something is pushing electricity through my skull. You like baseball? I say, with my mouth, the words tortuous.
You’re kidding? says James. Dad loves baseball. Broke his heart when I tried out for the football team, made [ ]. Oh, wait, wow. You can speak?
I roll my eyes, like, obviously. He looks embarrassed again. For all his muscle, for all his good looks. I feel sorry for him. This situation must be so weird. But right now I am more focused on Michael, who is looking at me with very slightly narrowed eyes, like he has recognized something in me too.
You like baseball? he says.
I like batting, I say, slowly. The batting cages.
Something collapses inside the bony armature of Michael’s face, then, and he starts to cry.
I stare at him, horrified. So does James. And Jennifer.
Michael rubs at his face. I got you a bat. A small one. You were incredible, a natural. You could throw and catch at the age of two. You [ ]. I’d pitch to you and you’d hit the ball, I mean, just in the living room.
Jennifer has a dreaming expression. I remember that, she says.
And now you still hit? asks Michael. His cheeks are shiny with tears.
Yes, I say.
Come on! he says excitedly. It’s Red Sox vs Mariners. I’ll get—
No, says Jennifer. Her hands are on her hips.
No?
No. We’re doing something as a family.
James is looking from his mom to his dad and back again, like he’s watching a tennis match.
Something like what? says Michael.
I don’t know, says Jennifer. Boggle?
James smiles. You brought Boggle?
Sure, says Jennifer.
James smiles even wider. Teams?
Me and your dad, I guess. And you and … and Angelica. Are you up for that, honey? She’s looking at me.
Uh, okay.
Maybe she’ll help you to finally beat us, says Jennifer, and I remember that Michael is a journalist and she’s a teacher. It makes sense that they’re good at Boggle.
Fine, says Michael. But tomorrow, he says to me, you and I are going to the park.
Then his eyes go to my leg, the CAM Walker. Oh, no, you’re—
It’s okay, I say, trying to keep my sentences short. Only fracture. Batting, you stand still. Just … can’t run.
You sure?
Yes.
Jennifer looks hard at him. You take it easy on her, okay?
Yes, my darling.
I smile, for the first time. Maybe this isn’t going to be so bad after all.
That’s what I think then, anyway.
Later I think: I should stop saying these sorts of things to myself.