1993

1993 had been a crazy year. Emma had had to hide the bombing of a nearby office building from her inquisitive son, then keep him warm through a historic blizzard that had knocked out the heat and power for a day.

On the other hand, there was finally a Democrat in the White House again, the country hadn't been involved in a major war since pulling out of the Gulf two years ago, and the economy was on the rise.

Closer to home, Emma's mom had been in and out of the hospital, her receptionist had quit without warning, the inquisitive son - now five years old - was in need of more formal education, and that rising economy had just forced her out of her home.

The letter had come from the landlord in July: he was converting the building to condos and upscale retail space, and Emma had two months to evacuate the premises.

A frantic whirlwind of activity had followed. The first step had been to secure new living and working space. She'd found a building two miles further uptown - a long distance, by Manhattan standards. Step two had been to notify her clients of the move, and hope they'd be willing to travel to the new location.

After that she'd needed to pack up all her belongings and office equipment and arrange for everything to be transported. And finally, she'd had to explain to David what was happening.

When she told him they'd be travelling to their new home on the subway, he reacted as though she'd said they were going to ride in a spaceship. But he was apprehensive, too, as she coached him through how he would need to behave on his first trip outside.

"Why do I never go outside?" David had asked.

Emma's heart had sunk. By this time David was familiar with the office downstairs, where he seemed to take delight in the animals and the medical equipment in equal measure. He had gotten tall enough to look out the windows of the apartment if he stood on his tippy-toes, and it had surely occurred to him that he never visited the outside world. But he had never asked about it before.

"When you play with Anna," Emma began, "have you noticed that you look different from her?"

David nodded.

"Why do you think that is?"

"She's a girl," David replied, very logically.

Emma couldn't help smiling. "That's true," she said. "But what about when you play with Thomas?" she asked, referring to Anna's older brother.

"Thomas is a big boy," David said.

Emma regarded her bright son. "Do you think you'll look like Thomas when you get bigger?"

David nodded off-handedly. He seemed to not understand how this was relevant to his original question, and he was impatient to get back on topic.

Emma, for her part, didn't know quite what to say. She wondered if this was how other parents felt when they had to break the news to their children that Santa Claus was not real.

"David," she said slowly. "You're not going to look like Thomas when you're older. You're a very special little boy, and that's why you look different from other children."

"Why am I special?" David asked.

"Well," Emma said, "you're green, and you have bones on the outside."

"But why?"

This was what Ron and his colleagues - David's least-favorite babysitters - had been trying to answer for five years.

"I don't know, David," Emma had said. "I don't know."

And now it was September. A week ago, other children David's age had started kindergarten, and he had not.

Neither had Anna. After some frank conversation - Emma was not one to beat around the bush, and Terri didn't take offense at anything - Terri had agreed to homeschool the two five-year-olds, an idea she had toyed with for her older children, but had never quite committed to. They had found a program that would mail them textbooks and lesson plans, and they had decided to delay the beginning of the school year until David and Emma were settled in their new home.

Today was moving day. In the morning, David had stayed in his room until it was time for the movers to dismantle his nest of UV lamps, glucose meters, IV poles, and other critical equipment. Then Emma had shifted him to a cleared-out room downstairs, giving him a picture book and ordering him not to move.

And now - just after 2:00 PM, September 14th, 1993 - the moving truck had rumbled out of the alley, and it was time for them to go.

Though the day was warm, Emma had dressed David in long pants and shoes, and now she helped him put on a hooded sweatshirt and a pair of mittens.

"There you go," she said, as she tugged the hood up over his head. "Ready?"

David shook his head, causing the peak of the hood to whip back and forth. Emma hadn't done a very age-appropriate job of explaining why he couldn't be seen, and the conversation had resulted in recurring nightmares.

"It's okay," she said. "It will just take half an hour, and then you never have to go outside again." At least, so she hoped.

"Okay," David whispered.

Emma stood up, took her son firmly by the hand, and walked out the back door for the last time.

David, frightened either of the outside world itself or of what he imagined people would do if they saw his face, had no trouble keeping his head down. They wove through crowds of pedestrians, but this was New York, and no one spared a glance for an overdressed child.

It was only half a block to the subway station. Emma led David down the stairs, and didn't let go of his hand as she bought two tokens from the attendant.

As they waited for the train, David kept making furtive glances up and down the platform.

"Are you looking for the train?" Emma asked.

"No."

"What are you looking for?"

"I don't know," David said, and then he hid his face against her leg.

The train came in with a roar. Emma helped David over the gap, then put him in a seat, and they rode the four stops to their new neighborhood.

"Is this where we live now?" David asked, when they emerged again at street level.

"Yes, it is," Emma said. David already understood that everything important about their old home - friends, family, medicine, animals, household appliances - would be at their new home. He had felt a lot better after that conversation. His question now seemed to be mere curiosity.

"Okay," he said, and two blocks later they were there.

By the time the movers had brought everything inside, David was asleep on the floor in the room where Emma had left him. It had been a hard day for a little boy. The foreseeable future, she hoped, would be better.