crust.
“They wept pink ooze till they were sticky as a used sucker.” She looked up from the pavement to Mother. “Then I had to wash him in his wheelchair, run the damp cloth over his hands and feet and legs while he tried to get his tongue to my neck or face.” She shook her head. “He was a mess.” We crossed Buchanan.
“And he was my brother, Kate. My brother with no thumbs.” She sighed at the flash of memory.
“He liked to lick his fingers after he’d held some food to his mouth. It turned my stomach when he did that. Finger after finger going in and out of his mouth with loud sucking sounds.
“I had to push his wheelchair around when we were out. At the end he couldn’t walk at all. He just sat in his chair and turned his head and smiled at me when someone we knew passed, or a dog or a cat.
“A mess.”
Mother waited for a few seconds. “Could he hear? Did he speak?”
Nana shook her head at the sidewalk. “Not a word. But he had sounds, noises, he’d made up for some things. A different grunt for me, one for our father and mother, one for the neighbor’s German shepherd. His own language.”
They both looked at me then as they trudged on. “You were ashamed of him,” Mother finally said. There was no tone of accusation in her voice, simply a soft acknowledgment.
“I was eleven years old when all this was happening, Kate. The kids teased me at school about his claw hands, his elephant legs always crusted with ooze. I could never have my friends to the house. Even my teachers at school seemed to treat me . . . differently than the other girls. I didn’t cry when he died. I remember that. I didn’t cry a single tear.”
We crossed a street. I felt the front wheels bump down and then the rear. The sensation made me laugh.
“I couldn’t bear it if anything happened to Jess,” Mother said. “But it won’t. Her heart has a murmur but it will either mend itself or get fixed by surgery when she’s seven. The cardiologist did all the tests and told us so.” Nana’s face registered surprise, and she stumbled a little coming off the curb.
“How do they know that?” she asked.
“They have all these tests—EKGs and echocardiograms and X-rays. Her heart’s not going to be a problem for her. It’s going to be her hearing and her learning to speak, to communicate. She’s going to have an operation on her ears in six weeks. We’ll work with the speech pathologists. Then we’re all going to learn sign language. We’re going to do it, Ma. Her geneticist is convinced Jess is smart. Real smart. And we believe him.”
Nana’s eyes drilled into mine. “Well, she looks smart, if you don’t notice her hands. Not like Billy, I’ll give you that.”
“Ma, Ford and I have talked. We’ll take whatever it is we got with Jess. We hope you and Dad do, too.”
Nana looked at me again where I lay under a pink blanket. “I thanked God when every one of the four of you were born normal. Fingers, ears, toes, hearts, all normal. I thought I’d gotten free of the shame and the memory of Billy. But now . . . Now Kate, I know I didn’t. It’s in our genes like a spoiled spot on an apple. It’s in our genes, whatever condition this is, and it’s skipped a generation.”
Mother took hold of Nana’s arm. “Dr. Garraway, Jess’s geneticist, told us it’s a lot more complicated than that, Ma. And he told us that Jess isn’t the syndrome she has. She’s a baby girl. Jess is a baby girl, Ma, just like any other baby. What’s more, she’s my baby.”
Nana wouldn’t take her eyes from mine. “Yes, she is, Kate,” she finally said. “She’s yours.” They walked a silent route down Macomb, through the community gardens stitched straight with the bright spring green of new-sprouted onion, radish, and lettuce, and back home along Quince. Now* I listen and hear what they heard—the brittle traffic noises, the faint squeak of the carriage chassis, the birds’ daysong in the branches,
“They wept pink ooze till they were sticky as a used sucker.” She looked up from the pavement to Mother. “Then I had to wash him in his wheelchair, run the damp cloth over his hands and feet and legs while he tried to get his tongue to my neck or face.” She shook her head. “He was a mess.” We crossed Buchanan.
“And he was my brother, Kate. My brother with no thumbs.” She sighed at the flash of memory.
“He liked to lick his fingers after he’d held some food to his mouth. It turned my stomach when he did that. Finger after finger going in and out of his mouth with loud sucking sounds.
“I had to push his wheelchair around when we were out. At the end he couldn’t walk at all. He just sat in his chair and turned his head and smiled at me when someone we knew passed, or a dog or a cat.
“A mess.”
Mother waited for a few seconds. “Could he hear? Did he speak?”
Nana shook her head at the sidewalk. “Not a word. But he had sounds, noises, he’d made up for some things. A different grunt for me, one for our father and mother, one for the neighbor’s German shepherd. His own language.”
They both looked at me then as they trudged on. “You were ashamed of him,” Mother finally said. There was no tone of accusation in her voice, simply a soft acknowledgment.
“I was eleven years old when all this was happening, Kate. The kids teased me at school about his claw hands, his elephant legs always crusted with ooze. I could never have my friends to the house. Even my teachers at school seemed to treat me . . . differently than the other girls. I didn’t cry when he died. I remember that. I didn’t cry a single tear.”
We crossed a street. I felt the front wheels bump down and then the rear. The sensation made me laugh.
“I couldn’t bear it if anything happened to Jess,” Mother said. “But it won’t. Her heart has a murmur but it will either mend itself or get fixed by surgery when she’s seven. The cardiologist did all the tests and told us so.” Nana’s face registered surprise, and she stumbled a little coming off the curb.
“How do they know that?” she asked.
“They have all these tests—EKGs and echocardiograms and X-rays. Her heart’s not going to be a problem for her. It’s going to be her hearing and her learning to speak, to communicate. She’s going to have an operation on her ears in six weeks. We’ll work with the speech pathologists. Then we’re all going to learn sign language. We’re going to do it, Ma. Her geneticist is convinced Jess is smart. Real smart. And we believe him.”
Nana’s eyes drilled into mine. “Well, she looks smart, if you don’t notice her hands. Not like Billy, I’ll give you that.”
“Ma, Ford and I have talked. We’ll take whatever it is we got with Jess. We hope you and Dad do, too.”
Nana looked at me again where I lay under a pink blanket. “I thanked God when every one of the four of you were born normal. Fingers, ears, toes, hearts, all normal. I thought I’d gotten free of the shame and the memory of Billy. But now . . . Now Kate, I know I didn’t. It’s in our genes like a spoiled spot on an apple. It’s in our genes, whatever condition this is, and it’s skipped a generation.”
Mother took hold of Nana’s arm. “Dr. Garraway, Jess’s geneticist, told us it’s a lot more complicated than that, Ma. And he told us that Jess isn’t the syndrome she has. She’s a baby girl. Jess is a baby girl, Ma, just like any other baby. What’s more, she’s my baby.”
Nana wouldn’t take her eyes from mine. “Yes, she is, Kate,” she finally said. “She’s yours.” They walked a silent route down Macomb, through the community gardens stitched straight with the bright spring green of new-sprouted onion, radish, and lettuce, and back home along Quince. Now* I listen and hear what they heard—the brittle traffic noises, the faint squeak of the carriage chassis, the birds’ daysong in the branches,
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