Chapter 9
Shadows dance around the dusky room, making Ike pause as he enters and wait for his eyes to adjust. The dim twilight is filtered through the lace curtains of an open window, the only source of light. It's almost as though his other senses come alive as he waits there, like a blind man's picking up the slack for broken eyes, and they tell him all sorts of things. He can feel the late summer breeze caressing his checks as it circles from the window and about the room, carrying the muffled sounds of a city preparing for rest, close but distant at the same time. Around him the air feels hot…or maybe it's just because his heart is racing. The room smells funny, too, like an old person, full of stale memories, musty years, faded dreams, and…and…something else… It tickles his mind, wriggling and squirming, it's fingers pulling at his memories, groping for the right one.
And then he remembers.
"Mama, what ya doin'?"
The five year-old little boy crouched down next to his mother, his eyes glowing with childish excitement and his chubby fingers playing in the dirt.
"I'm weeding the flowers, Ike, to make the house look pretty," his mother had answered him, pausing to gaze lovingly at her son and laugh at his inquisitiveness.
"Oh, I'll help!" Ike cried fervently and grabbed a large handful of plant, ready to yank it out with all his might, but his mother stopped him. Skillfully moving his curious hands away from the precious plants and back to the less dangerous pile of dirt, she smiled at him. "Thanks honey, but why don't you just sit here and talk to me. That will help me a lot."
"Okay," he'd replied, to young to recognize the distraction technique and happy with the chance to have his mother to himself. Soon he was babbling steadily about anything that came to his mind: trees, birds, horses, why he had to take baths... Enjoying each other's company, mother and son worked their way around the small house, pulling weeds and asking questions. Suddenly, a skinny purple flower caught Ike's eye.
"Mama, what's that flower called? It looks funny."
"That's your mama's favorite flower, Ike. It's called lavender."
"But it ain't that pretty," Ike protested, staring with puzzlement at the straggly plant with blossoms so tiny it looked more like a weed.
"Isn't very pretty, Ike," his mother had corrected gently and then continued, "and it's pretty to me."
"Why?"
"Because it reminds me of someone…someone I loved very much."
Undaunted, he had pressed on, "Who?"
His mother sighed and for a moment, she didn't answer. Then in a low voice she had finally replied, gazing off into the distance as she spoke.
"My Mama, Ike. When I smell them I think of my Mama."
Too young to understand the emotions and meaning hidden behind her words, Ike had simply asked to smell them too, wondering how a smell could remind you of a person. It isn't until right now as he stands in the doorway of his grandmother's room that he understands what his mother was speaking of that day. The scent teasing at his memories is the same as the fragrance of his mother's wispy purple flowers, and just smelling it is enough to send the protective walls in his mind crashing down and a wave of memories flooding out, crystal clear for the first time in ten years. The immediacy of the images sucks his breath away and he sways on his feet, glad for his hand still on the doorknob steadying him.
"Isaac? Are you Isaac? Are you my grandson?"
The crackly voice draws Ike's attention back toward the open window, and for the first time he notices the rocking chair moving gently back and forth and the shawl wrapped figure sitting in it, silhouetted against the evening light. But the name Isaac isn't what he's expecting and he's about to shake his head no when something comes to mind. Isaac is his name, at least he remembers reading it on the page of his recently recovered family Bible, but never in his life does he recall ever being called that. Still, if that's the name he was given at birth, he'd better answer yes. Almost hesitantly, he nods.
"Come in then, child, no need to lurk in doorways. Come over here where I can get a good look at you."
The voice is kind and wrinkled with age, but firm, like a favorite blanket that's fraying on the edges but still strong in the middle. Swallowing quickly, Ike steps closer to the woman in the chair, still unable to clearly see her because of the light at her back. He can't rightly explain why he's so terrified. After all, she's only an old woman in a lace shawl, but she's also the last tangible and living link to a family he had thought were long gone. If she rejects him it will be like watching them die all over again.
A gnarled hand reaches out to him, the paper-thin skin almost transparent in the dim light. It trembles slightly as it beckons him nearer.
"Come closer still. My eyes aren't what they used to be, and I want to see my grandson properly."
Ike takes another hesitant step forward, his heart pounding, knowing any moment she will realize he's different.
"Give me your hands and sit here on this stool next to me." She indicates a stool at the foot of the aged rocker.
For one instant, Ike seriously considers bolting for the door and the safety of the hallway and Buck, but he forces the thought aside. Closing his eyes for a moment, he sends a silent plea heavenward, just in case anyone's listening, and then reaches out and places his bandaged hands in his Grandmother's frail ones and steps forward into the light. Sinking down onto the stool, Ike is aware of the elderly woman's surprise at the white bandages and the light glinting off his bald head, but he's also distracted by his first clear view of her as well.
The solid oak chair dwarfs the petite figure sitting in it, and Ike's sure she can't be more than five feet tall. He also senses immediately that her height is not an issue. Five feet or ten feet, she is a woman of strong character; a lady of breeding and importance, and though her body might be old and frail now, her mind is still quick and alert and her temperament just as intact. The thought flashes through Ike's mind that he may have just found the source of his stubborn streak. She wears a dress of stiff, grey taffeta, complete with lace cuffs and collar, and her silver hair is plaited and wound about her head and crowned with a lacey day cap. And her face…her face is wrinkled, aged and weary, but kind. Ike would have continued to stare at her, almost searching for a memory of her that he knows he couldn't have, but she speaks again, her trembling hands gently caressing his cloth covered ones as she gazes with confusion at his head.
"Goodness child, what happened to you? What happened to your hands, and your hair?"
The moment that Ike has been dreading for two weeks has finally arrived, the moment his grandmother realizes her grandson is a freak and a dummy. Trying in vain to buy some time, he simple lowers his eyes and shrugs.
"Isaac," his grandmother presses on, determined. "A person's hair does not just disappear, and I know a bandage when I see one. Now I'm your grandmother, tell me what happened! Are you injured, in pain?"
Pain is a very good word to describe what Ike's feeling as his grandmother questions him – deep, gut-wrenching anguish at the explanation she's demanding and his inability to give it. For the first time he wishes he hadn't been so hasty in his decision to come in alone, but that's what he chose and somehow he must make this woman, his only living kin, understand him. Then he will brace for the hail storm of hate he's sure will follow.
"Isaac, answer me."
With a resigned sigh, Ike returns his gaze to meet his grandmother's and gently but firmly withdraws his hands from her grasp. Then he begins the ritual that's been part of his life since he was seven, trying to use hands and eyes to communicate in a world fashioned around spoken words. Lifting one hand, Ike covers his mouth and shakes his head, trying to show her he can't speak.
"I don't understand. Can't you tell me what happened?"
Again Ike shakes his head no, pointing at his mouth. Slowly, understanding lights up her features.
"You can't tell me because you've lost your voice?" his grandmother guesses and Ike nods. "But when did this happen?"
Ike spreads out all ten fingers as much as the restricting bindings will allow.
"Ten days ago?"
Frustrated, he shakes his head as he realizes bitterly that she still thinks the loss of his voice is temporary, brought on by illness or over-use. Readying himself for the disgust he knows will come as soon as she understands he is truly mute, he motions to indicate a long time ago.
"Ten years ago?" she asks, shocked, and Ike nods, not raising his eyes from the floor.
"Oh, child! But how did this happen? And what of your hair and these bandages?" She stops, seeing the haunted look and obvious frustration on Ike's face, remembering he has no way to answer her questions anyway. Reaching forward, she draws his hands into her lap once more and presses them against her own. "Never mind all that. There will be time enough for questions and answers from both of us later. The important thing right now is that you are here. I've waited so long for this."
Ike looks up in surprise. These are not the words of hate and disgust he'd been waiting to hear! These are words of acceptance and, after everything he's done to prepare himself for rejection, he doesn't know what to do! His expressive face twists into a look of confusion and the woman sitting across from him reads the emotion in surprise.
"You didn't think I would spend three years looking for you, ask you to come so far, and then turn you away simply because you cannot speak did you?" she wonders, and Ike's face clearly says that's exactly what he expected. In shock she also understands that it wouldn't have been the first time.
For a full minute, Margaret Lowe stares deeply at her grandson, really seeing him for the first time, and her heart begins to break. She sees eyes that are age-old and sad, ears that have learned to live with the insults they can never really shut out, lips that hold captive a soul more effectively than all the chains in the world could, but more than anything, to her he appears as a lost little boy, hurting and broken inside. He's seen more sorrow and suffering than anyone should have to in this life, but especially a boy of his age. She finds herself longing to draw him onto her lap like a tiny child, hold him tight, and make it all go away. She can't help wondering if she could have spared him all this pain had she been in his life earlier, but it's too late for that. All they can do is go forward from here and try to make up for lost time.
"Isaac," she sighs, sounding very old, "I turned my back once before. I was stubborn, hurt, and unwilling to see the good in someone who was "different" from me, and I lost my daughter because of it. It's only by the grace of God that I've found you. I'm a stubborn, pig-headed old woman and don't you let anyone tell you otherwise, but I know enough not to make the same mistake twice. You are my grandchild, Isaac, and I love you. Not speaking doesn't change that!"
A glimmer of hope shoots through Ike, and he unconsciously allows his trade-marked grin to slip back on his face, lighting up his eyes. His grandmother loves him! She doesn't care that he's bald and can't talk! She wants him to stay anyway!
Suddenly, she takes her trembling hand and brings it up to his cheek, softly caressing the side of his face. Ike sits very still, almost holding his breath, not even remembering the last time he was touched like that.
"You have her eyes you know. Her beautiful green eyes. I can see her soul staring back at me when I look at you." This said, she can no longer resist the urge to hold her grandson, and she gently draws him forward until his head is resting in her lap. The scent of her lavender perfume fills Ike's senses again and memories of long ago flood over him, memories of being held this way by another woman smelling of lavender and he closes his eyes. Then his grandmother begins to softly sing in her time-worn voice.
"While the moon her watch is keeping,
All through the night;
While the weary world is sleeping,
All through the night;
O'er thy spirit gently stealing,
Visions of delight revealing,
Breaths a pure and holy feeling,
All through the night."
The room is now completely dark but neither one moves to light a lamp or candle. Ike is glad of the darkness as it masks the tears sliding silently down his cheeks to become lost in the stiff folds of his grandmother's dress. With the last phrase of the familiar song floating in the air and her soft fingers on his head, Ike knows he has finally found a place he belongs.
And for the first time in ten years, he's not afraid to remember.