1

Is That Your Kid?

“Is that your son?”
“Yeah, why?”

“You won’t believe what he just did.”

The car was coasting. Kai heard the wheels crunch as it drew to a halt outside his house. The car door opened, and a young man hopped out. He popped the hood and disappeared beneath it. “You’ve got to be kidding me!” he fumed.

Kai emerged from the front yard. It was late in the morning, and the street was empty. Cars were a rare sight around there. Kai often played in the street with his sisters. Mostly only bikes passed by, anyway—students on their way to class. Kai lived with his parents and sisters on a sprawling college campus, which boasted sculptures, water fountains, benches, flame trees, a Japanese garden, and enough space to spend the whole day wandering idly, accompanied by chirping birds.

“Hello. I’m Kai.”

The man ignored him.

“Is your car not working?”

“No,” the man grumbled. How would he get to class now? He was stuck in this damn residential area and would be too late for his exam. If he didn’t make it there on time, they’d mark him absent and fail him.

Kai spun around and dashed off. The man got back in his car and turned the key. The engine sputtered for a moment and died again.

The boy came running back. What the hell did he want?

He was holding something in his hand.

“Here,” said Kai. “My mom’s key.”

“Excuse me?”

“You can take our car.”

The man stared in disbelief and took the key.

Kai loved people, and it was hard not to love him back. At the age of two, he started twisting his way out of his father’s grip and running over to them—random pedestrians, the postman, elderly people sitting on benches basking in the warmth of the morning sun. Kai opened his arms and clung to their legs. He didn’t say anything. They froze at first, but when they looked down to see his twinkling brown eyes staring up at them, they couldn’t help but laugh. Kai didn’t speak much. He spoke with his hands and glowed from inside. He warmed their hearts more than the sun possibly could. Soon they were sitting on the benches because of him, the little boy who had just moved to Rehovot, Israel.

Kai was born in Heidelberg, Germany, on June 21, 1994, the first day of summer. It was the longest day of the year and proved to be the longest birth his mother Anat would have to endure, dragging on some twenty hours. While she twisted and turned in pain, Henry wandered up and down the hallway. Their two daughters, Kali and Linoy, would soon have a baby brother. They could barely contain their excitement.

The midwife laughed when she held Kai up by his feet. He was so long and heavy and had so much hair on his head. “We might as well put a jacket and pants on him,” she said. “Send him straight to kindergarten.”

Babies are often born with a smile on their face. Experts call this a reflex smile. It’s a newborn’s way of ingratiating itself. That smile is many parents’ first memory of their child. Henry doesn’t remember if Kai was smiling. He remembers something else: newborn Kai kept trying to lift his little head. His wide eyes had this absorbing glimmer, tracking every light and sound, darting back and forth on high alert.

Henry had treated many babies during his time at medical school, but he had never seen eyes like that. His son’s gaze seemed targeted, intentional. That was impossible. A newborn’s vision doesn’t develop for another few months. Until then, everything is blurry to their eyes—colors, contours. They can only see what’s right in front of them: their parents’ faces, the mother’s breast. Kai, however, behaved as though he could see.

His pupils darted nonstop. Henry was worried. The doctors on the ward huddled. They had never seen a child like that either. As they inspected Kai carefully, the worries vanished from their faces. Kai scored a full ten points on the Apgar test, which rates a newborn by appearance, pulse, grimace, activity, and respiration. “All good, boss,” his colleagues told him. Henry’s fears turned to pride: “He is the most alert child on the ward,” he told Anat. “Our son is ­something special.”

Anat wasn’t all that comforted. She watched Kai even more closely. When he was around six months old, she noticed a change in his eyes. She couldn’t put it into words; it was a feeling more than anything. Henry didn’t see it. Neither did the doctor they consulted. “A ­wonderful child,” he assured them, “fit as a fiddle.”

“You see?” Henry said to Anat. “Everything’s fine.”

And so, the Markrams’ life continued blissfully. Kai’s bassinet became a stroller, then a tricycle. Their house echoed with laughter and happy shrieking. They spoke and joked in multiple languages—English, Hebrew, German. Henry was from South Africa, Anat from Israel. His work as a neuroscientist had brought them to Heidelberg. He had made a name for himself in his field at an early age, asking questions and devising answers that seemed precocious for a grad student. Bert Sakmann, a German Nobel Prize winner in medicine, recruited him to the Max Planck Institute for Medical Research. Who knows? Maybe this Markram would someday win the Nobel Prize himself.

His family loved Heidelberg, the colorful houses, the winding alleys, the Neckar River, the famous castle. On weekends, they drove out to the countryside, went swimming and ice-skating, picked apples and asparagus. They spent their vacations travelling in Europe, which was entirely new territory for them. Paris, Rome, Copenhagen: Henry carried Kai around in a blanket, with the girls skipping alongside them and Anat taking photographs. It was the best time. All their worries awaited beyond the horizon.

They had spent two years in Heidelberg when Henry got the fateful call from Israel. By then, the postdoc had lived up to the promise his mentor Sakmann had seen in him. Henry had researched how brain cells communicate with each other, even inventing a way to watch them do it, a method that would soon be standard in labs around the world. At the young age of thirty-five, he landed a job at the prestigious Weizmann Institute in Rehovot, where he would become a professor, build a laboratory, and lead his own research department.

Kai had grown up to be a happy child. Wild curls swirled around his head; his eyes were much too big for his face. When he laughed, his nose wrinkled. When he spoke, you could see the gap between his front teeth. He would often say things that were beyond his years. He was a tad professorial for a toddler. “What a special boy,” the neighbors said.

Henry and Anat watched him in awe, moved and amused by their little boy. Kai was an enigma. He didn’t speak much. He said only what was necessary. And greeting strangers was absolutely necessary. He greeted every person he saw. “Hello. I’m Kai.” If they responded in kind or just smiled, Kai would remember their face and what they were wearing and add them to his growing list of friends. Referring to these encounters days later, shocked that his parents couldn’t recall them, Kai would jog their memories with minor details: he meant the woman with the pink flowers on her hat, the man with the smudge of dirt on his boot. He raised his voice, his cheeks glowing red: How could they not remember?

If they ever said something snarky about one of his friends, say, that the flowers on the woman’s hat were too bright and pink for their taste, Kai would burst into tears and shriek, “You shouldn’t say that!” Henry and Anat smiled. He was right, of course.

His kindergarten counselors would never forget him. Years later, their hair now gray, they still talk about young Kai, how he would mosey from table to table, arms folded behind his back like an old gentleman. He didn’t draw; he preferred to watch others drawing. When he wanted to play with other children, he didn’t ask, he just reached out and touched them. Sometimes his gesture came as a surprise or his grip was too tight. The other kids thought he was trying to push them and shoved him back. Kai was aghast, but he didn’t cry, even if they bruised or scratched him. Kai wasn’t good at sharing his suffering.

His sisters were gentle with him. They accepted Kai as he was. But sometimes they did wonder. They loved feeling just a bit creeped out when their parents read them bedtime stories, but their brother lost it completely. A reading of Goldilocks was too much for him. “Stop!” he would scream, running out of the room and slamming the door behind him. To Kai, this wasn’t just a story—it was real. After a tearful night caused by the death of Bambi’s mother, the family agreed that it would be best for all involved if they only read good night stories that merited that designation.

There would be countless such experiences. No child in the neighborhood was discussed, laughed about, or puzzled over more than Kai. “Kids are kids,” Henry would say. Every one of them lives in their own world. Wasn’t it great that Kai had an imagination, an eye for detail, that he loved everyone and approached them?

Sitting by the open window, Anat could often hear Kai in the garden accosting pedestrians. “Want to come in and have coffee with my mom?” Luckily for her, sadly for Kai, they usually turned him down, and Anat remained undisturbed in their messy kitchen.

But today was different. The doorbell rang and Anat answered it. A young man stood in the doorway in front of her. No, she didn’t want to buy anything.

“Is this your key?”

“Excuse me?”

“Your son gave it to me.”

“What?”

“My car broke down, and your son—”

“Kai!”

Five minutes later, the three of them were sitting in the car. Anat drove, the student kept an eye on his watch. He would make it after all.

“What would I have done without your help?” he said.

“You have Kai to thank for that.”

“What a special boy.”

Anat nodded.