Unsaid: A Novel by Neil Abramson

the dog’s chest with a stethoscope. “The dog’s gone,” he confirms in disgust and then throws his stethoscope across the table.
    Sally ignores him. To Clifford she says, “Let’s get your pad and pencil.” Sally looks like she’s aged years in seconds.
    Clifford allows himself to be walked out of the OR, but will not make eye contact with his mother. “I’m sorry MamaI’m sorry Mama.”
    “I know,” Sally says.
    Thorton shouts at Sally’s back, “My office in ten minutes.”
    Fifteen minutes later, Sally sits in one of Thorton’s exam rooms with Clifford on her lap. The boy is almost composed, except for the occasional snuffle. Sally tries to rock him, but his hands are in constant motion, drawing with the pencil and pad Sally retrieved from the waiting room.
    A knock on the exam room door is so tentative I almost don’t hear it. Ms. Pendle, her eyes rimmed with tears, walks in on Sally and Clifford. The boy takes no notice of her.
    “I’m very sorry for your loss, Ms. Pendle,” Sally says. “I deeply regret the confusion in there.”
    Ms. Pendle nods. “How is your son?” she asks in a voice choking back grief and uncertainty.
    “He’ll be fine.”
    “May I ask…” Ms. Pendle searches for words that will not offend.
    “He has Asperger’s syndrome. The wiring in his brain is a little different from the rest of us. When he gets upset…” Sally lets her sentence hang and nods toward the operating room.
    “I see. I’m so sorry.”
    Sally searches Ms. Pendle’s face for some evidence of condescension and sees only what I see—an old woman now alone in the world trying to find some solace in the part of being that she doesn’t understand.
    “Thank you. Clifford generally manages pretty well—except when he’s upset.”
    Ms. Pendle hesitates before she next speaks. “Your son mentioned a ‘Bennie’ in there. Is that someone he knows?”
    Sally shrugs. “It’s not a name I’ve heard before. No one we know.”
    “Do you know why he might’ve chosen that name?”
    “When he has an episode, his brain is firing on all cylinders. He could’ve picked the name up anywhere—TV, a book, someone at school. The doctors say the words probably don’t mean anything. Like his drawings—hypergraphia, they call it,” Sally says, pointing to the paper Clifford is transforming with his pencil. “Justregurgitations from somewhere in his brain. He probably won’t remember any of this by the time he calms down. He never does.”
    Ms. Pendle clears her throat and then turns away from Sally to straighten some jars on the countertop that do not need her attention. “My husband loved Archie. Sometimes I think that dog was the only reason he wanted to live after his stroke. He hated that cane.”
    “I’m sorry?” Sally asks.
    Ms. Pendle turns to face Sally, and again her words fail her. “You see… it’s just that… well, my husband’s name was Benjamin. I was the only one who called him Bennie.”
    “Oh.” I can literally see Sally’s growing discomfort with the road this conversation has taken. Her journey has been too hard and too long. Sally’s lips press into a razor-thin line as her eyes narrow in suspicion. Behind those eyes, just for an instant, I see a woman who believes in nothing except the need to care for her son and the hope that, with the right education and training, he will learn to be independent from her in some way that matters in the world. I see a woman who believes in no one except herself because everyone else has failed her or Clifford. I see a woman who has long since put away the glass slippers, the pretend ball gowns, and any dream that some glitter-winged fairy godmother is going to “bibbity-boppity-boop” away her responsibilities.
    But Ms. Pendle’s face is so hopeful and vulnerable right now that I fear Sally’s response. To my great surprise and relief, however, I see Sally’s defenses momentarily soften. “My husband once told me that animals were