4…The Plan

I am wandering around The Rambler while Bea puts the dishes from the rehab meal away in her apartment, and Em gets settled in the yellow guest room next to my bedroom.

Em got to the rehab center after Henry was already asleep, carrying a bag from an expensive store that had in it a beautiful dove grey cashmere warm-up suit, t-shirts, cashmere socks, and soft matching slip-on sneakers. Clearly, none of it is Ella-priced. The rest, she had said ominously, is due to come later in the week. I figure I'll deal with paying her back for it later; I've used up all my new-found will for the day and I imagine there's going to be an argument about it.

"Bea, look at this," I point when I hear her come up behind me in the hallway, Petal trailing her. I run my finger along the top of a wooden frame holding a photo of Henry bowling with some laughing Buddhist monks, all in their saffron and curry robes. When I hold up my dust-covered finger, Bea shudders. "This is not just two weeks' worth of dust."

We both look down the long hall at the dozens of other photos and paintings hanging on the wall; they are all dusty. Emory joins us as I say, "And come in here."

I lead them to our massive black and white kitchen where there are dishes piled in the sink, and a dirty pan on our vintage chrome and brass stove. The kitchen island has a huge pile of mail on it. I didn't notice any of this last night, or this morning I guess it was, in my altered state.

"Look. It's a mess. I won't have time to clean up for a while what with Henry's rehab schedule. Or maybe I can do it little by little every night." The thought of starting tonight exhausts me—this place is just too huge.

"Come on, let's go sit in the living room." I can hear the revulsion in Bea's voice. I look around the kitchen again, then follow them out.

"When Zahrahi retired, I know she gave Henry a referral for someone to take over." I say, coming into the living room. Zahrahi was our longtime housekeeper who retired to Nevada to be close to her son and his family. We had her going away party here the last time I was home over Christmas break. "Do you know if he ever called her?"

"By the looks of things, he never did," she replies, her eyes moving around the room filled with a mishmash of furniture and textiles and mementos from all over the world. Unlike Bea's apartment, there is a cacophony of color and pattern everywhere; it looks like a global bazaar.

Bea, Petal and Emory sit on one of the sofas as I fall into a chair upholstered in an antique suzani fabric that Grandmother had picked up in Uzbekistan. A little cloud of dust poofs up from the chair, illustrating Bea's point.

Em, who has been unusually quiet, pipes up, "And the whole…vibe feels weird, doesn't it? Like it's empty."

Our apartment has never been as pristine as Bea's—whose is?—but it's always been clean and…so…lively; people, friends, coming and going all the time, parties and dinners here, overnight guests as often as not. It does not feel that way now.

"Speaking of empty, does anyone else know he's had a stroke?" I ask Bea. "He's got thousands of friends and only one flower arrangement and card in his room at The Rehab." I turn to Em adding, "Thank you, by the way, for sending it. It's beautiful, of course."

Em nods in reply.

Bea answers, "How would he let them know, when he can't really talk? Plus, I don't think he's been as social lately as he usually was. Is," she corrects herself.

Speaking of which…I take a deep breath.

"That reminds me, if he can't talk, how did you know Henry didn't want me to know that he had a stroke?"

"That's sort of complicated," she says, clearly uneasy, shifting on the sofa.

"I can handle complicated, thank you very much." But as I say it, I'm not altogether sure I can. I'm exhausted after all this day of newness. Of rehab. Of complications. Of quietly yelling at a doctor, for heaven's sakes!

She says with a sigh, "He'd mentioned after he came back from visiting you in Palo Alto that if he got sick, he wanted you to stay there and be a student. Made me promise not to tell if anything happened to him."

"And you agreed to that!?" Bea is looking anywhere but at me. I know there's more to the story, but I don't have the wherewithal to dig it out of her right now. I just don't.

Em interjects, "I would never promise something so inane."

"And that is why you, Emory Clare Buchanan, are my best friend," I say to her, before turning back to Bea with, "I know you don't come over here very often." She loves Henry, but practically worshipped my grandmother. After Rosamunde died, Bea told me it makes her too sad being here. "But do you know what Henry's been up to lately?"

Bea gets a discomfited look on her face, probably thinking about the grime. "How about you let me take care of getting it clean. And if you get me Zahrahi's cousin or niece or whomever's phone number, I'll call her and set up her coming regularly."

"You've already done enough," I say sardonically with dual meaning, but I can't really be angry at her. Bea told us on the way back that she had consulted with the rehab nutritionist about Henry's diet so she could make his dinners every night. There was flax seed flour in the bread and quinoa and brown rice in the casserole.

"I cannot have this dust trap remain right across the hall from my living space," she says haughtily. "So, don't think about it again. This is for purely for me!" I know what she's doing and I am grateful for it.

"Then I'll take care of Petal's last walk for the night," I jump up from my chair. Petal tilts her head up when she hears her name and the trigger word, "walk."

"Take your phone with you!" they both say at the same time.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. Come on Petal girl!" I grab her leash from its hook by the door.

Really, walking Petal is less a favor to Bea and more because I need another Walkabout. With Em staying here, there's probably no chance she'll let me walk to The Rehab tomorrow morning without an argument and I dearly need to process what I learned from today.

As for Henry trying to keep this from me, I figure I'll talk to him about it when he can actually talk. I put that to the side, contemplating further just how I will get Henry talking again.

For one, Henry is a veritable master communicator and right now he can't and won't talk, aside from when he tried right when he first woke up. Two, he did everything else Shad and the other specialists asked him to do, aside from the language therapy, but he did it all listlessly—the only times he exhibited anything remotely close to his usual sparkle were when I was having my Main Line Philly moment with Dr. Grinch, and when Bea and I were hanging out in the evening. And even that was a tenuous thing. And three…I'm not sure what three is yet, but I will figure it out.

With each meandering block Petal and I walk through Chinatown, the pieces of a multi-tiered plan form to get Henry back to himself—back to me. I need more information, though, and will continue to follow Henry around during his rehab for the rest of the week, deciding that I'll start enacting one part of this nascent plan tomorrow, with Saturday being the big surprise day, for which I will need both Bea's and Emory's help.

There! Now that my Walkabout business has concluded for tonight and Petal's completed her business, I hurry back to The Rambler to get their input.

After Bea has taken Petal back to her apartment and Em has gone yawning to her room after planning with me, I find I can't sleep. Part of the insomnia is that China time still has a dogged hold on me, but I think a lot of it is the excitement of the impending Plan for Henry.

I've carefully chosen books from the library shelves, linens from the closet, photos from the hall, and a couple colorful antique prayer rugs from the floor. I've put all these on or near the coffee table, moving Professor Zhang-Lei's bag and its contents to my room. Em had noticed the bag earlier while in the living room and commented that it was absolutely beautiful, which had reminded me to give her the card from the Gardner's son, Jerry.

It was then that she told me with a starry-eyed smile she had met someone at a party—a nice English boy—and couldn't wait for me to meet him. He is due to move here as he is just about to finish his MBA at Penn. I'd told her that as soon as we got Henry squared away, I'd be glad to.

After washing the dishes, I set my alarm and get into bed, hopeful.

The next morning, upon waking, I decide I do need another Walkabout to clear my head, to get ready for the first part of The Plan and possibly fine tune it. So after quietly showering and getting dressed in a bathroom further down the hall, I put a few of the books I chose last night into my messenger bag, along with a pair of Henry's reading glasses, and sneak out of the apartment, Em still asleep. When I step onto the dark sidewalk outside our building, I stop short.

There is a town car idling, with the driver…what was his name?...oh yeah, Marco!...leaning against the fender. When he sees me, he jumps up to open the rear passenger door.

"Good morning, Miss Ellis. Miss Buchanan has requested I take you up to the rehab center."

Damn!

"Mr. Marco, can't I just walk and let this be our little secret?" I try for some Em cajoling.

"Miss Buchanan did mention you might say exactly that," he replies nodding. "But may I say, Miss Ellis, that the Buchanans are very good to me." His eyes are almost pleading. He gestures to the open door.

I get in the car without another word. I don't even feel guilty that this must be costing her a fortune.

The Controller strikes again.

Henry waking is a repeat of the last two times. I am at the foot of his bed, watching him and he talks upon first opening his eyes—garbled words I don't understand—and then settles into that spiritless quiet. The same nurse, Lauren, comes into his room for his bath and I give her the bag with the warm-up suit from Em to dress him in afterwards. I pace outside, gathering courage, mentally channeling my grandmother. When Lauren comes out in the hall, I take a deep breath, square my shoulders, and go back into Henry's room.

The back of the bed is raised so he is sitting up on it, pointing at his upper left chest, with a smile on his face. I get a case of the giggles immediately. Em didn't show me this last night, but she had the warm-up suit top embroidered with the letters "O.G." one of Henry's nicknames. It stands for "Original Grandfather," derived from Original Gangster, a rap nickname from Bea. The Coordinator strikes again. When I can, finally, get control of my ridiculous giggles, I nervously begin phase one of the Plan.

"Today is a new day, O.G." I try for a sober, commanding countenance, but I really can't keep the smile off my face, seeing Henry's pleased look. "And, from this day forward—this moment forward, actually—there will be no more nodding and shaking of your head."

I falter when I see the smile drop from Henry's face, but I press on. "Um…yeah, so…uh…from here on out, you will use your words. Okay?" I take a breath. "I don't care what language, but you…Will. Use. Your. Words." Another breath. "Do you understand me?" Gulp!

I cannot place the expression on Grandfather's face. Shock, maybe? But he slowly nods his head, his lips pursed. I turn my head and eyes to the side, away from him, looking over my right shoulder theatrically.

"I can't hear you," I say in a singsong voice. I wait a moment, but whip my eyes back around in alarm when I hear a strangled sound from Henry. His shoulders and head are bent down and I wonder if he's choking. I run to his side. "Are you okay? Are you okay?"

Crap, what have I done! Maybe this is too soon.

Merde alors!

I reach my hands over to push his shoulders back against the upright bed. He clutches his middle. Ohmigod, ohmigod, ohmigod!

I lift his chin up, his eyes are wrenched shut. "Henry! Granddad!" Ohmigod, should I call the nurse? His eyes flutter open and it takes me a moment to get it.

Henry is laughing. Henry is laughing, hard. Almost like the doctor was yesterday. What the hell?

"Jeez, Granddad!" I sink down on the bed next to him, all my limbs pure jelly as the panic ebbs away. "What the…You scared the caca out of me!"

When I can move my arms again, I reach over and hug him hard, not letting go until his shoulders stop shaking and I hear him hiccup out of his laughter.

I pull back, wanting to get back on track.

"So…" I say, softer this time. "Are we clear? You'll use your words?" I will not be deterred by the mirth in his bright hazel eyes.

Henry croaks out a sound through his smile that at first I think is a "No."

"Perdon?" I say acerbically in Spanish, raising my eyebrow.

He says it again and I finally get it.

He said, "Na'am." Arabic for "Yes."

"Mon petit malin," I use a French phrase for "wiseass," rolling my eyes in mock consternation. I get up from the bed, turning away to hide my crowing smile. Step one accomplished!

I tell all of his caretakers and nurses and rehab specialists throughout the day that Henry will be speaking from here on out and not to let him get away with any nonverbal language. I say this right in front of him; too bad if it's a bit on the patronizing side. A part of me feels guilty that it's not all that different from the doctor's patronization yesterday. Luckily, though, he seems to find this all absolutely hilarious. I have no idea why, but hey…I'll take it!

During the late afternoon pre-dinner rest time, I start Phase Two. Henry did pretty well during the day, even if the only words he used were a rasping Yes and No. Still, I'm kind of nervous. I go to his closet, where I've stored the books I brought, cheekily choosing a slim leather-bound volume of Shakespeare's King Henry the Sixth. I take the book to Henry who is sitting up on his bed, "I thought you could read aloud. Start here, if you don't mind."

I point to where I'd marked a passage with a post-it, pretending not to see his look of horrified dismay. Instead, I flip on the TV to some frivolous sitcom, just for the sound, then scoot a chair over to the end of his bed where Bea and I sat last night. I sit, facing the TV.

When I don't hear anything, I turn around toward Henry and say over my shoulder in that same singsong voice I used earlier, "I don't hear you!"

He smugly says what might be, "Can't," making a motion to his eyes.

"Oh right" I say, getting up and going to my bag, where I pull out his reading glasses and then place them right on his nose. "Good thing I remembered these, isn't it!" I say, chirpily, but underneath, I'm tensing up.

He does not look happy. I sit back in the chair and further turn up the volume on the TV, hoping that it will help with any chagrin he might feel in reading aloud. I close my eyes and wait, holding my breath.

Finally, I hear behind me a rough, rasping sound. I can't make out the words, particularly, but I picked some volumes whose lines I know at least somewhat. I did this so I could immerse myself in his post-stroke language; so I could learn it. Because I think—I know—the key to Henry getting well is for him to be able to communicate.

Concentrating hard, I can just make out the strangled words, barely. It sounds like, "R'mb lahs yah ahs ta H'y swahn…" but I know it is "Remember, lords, your oaths to Henry sworn, either to quell the Dauphin utterly, or bring him in obedience to your yoke." I key into his slow, painstaking words, using the language part of my brain, comparing his sounds to the words I know. He only gets to, "Each hath his place and function to attend," before Bea comes in with dinner, strangely illustrating the last line. I put the book away and whisk the glasses off his nose.

Okay, it's a start.

The rest of the week continues the same way, Bea brings dinner, Em, a new outfit for Henry—this is totally getting out of hand!—and I change out the texts; last night I had him read Professor Gardner's get well card out loud before moving on to some ancient Sufi poetry Henry is fond of.

On Saturday morning, I replay these past few days in my mind, looking to find any markers of progress as I subdue the urge to shake Henry awake before seven, so excited for him to get his surprise. Probably the only thing that stops me is that he still has to complete his morning routine and exercise schedule first, so getting him up earlier won't hurry it along. Saturday, Shad had told me, is a lighter rehab day, ending early, with tomorrow being an entire day of rest. I'm trying to figure out something fun to do tomorrow with Henry when his eyes blink open, eyebrows furrowed in confusion when he sees me standing at the end of his bed.

And just like every other morning, a flurry of agitated and garbled words spills out of his mouth. "P'ul? P'ul?"

I concentrate, listening hard, and I can almost feel something click in my brain. I know! I know what he's trying to say. Petal! He's saying "Petal," my grandmother's nickname.

"No! Not Petal. I'm your granddaughter, Ellawyn. Not Rosamunde!"

His eyes seem to blink off the confusion. I wait.

"Dre," Henry says.

I silently mull over this sound. Another click.

"Dream? You were dreaming of Grandmother?"

He nods, sadness in his eyes. "Guh dre'."

"Good dream?" Another nod. "I dream about her a lot, too, Granddad." And I don't care if this is mean, but I add emphatically, "You don't get to see Rosamunde for a long time." I walk around the bed to his side, picking up his hand, squeezing it. "You're staying here with me."

We stay like that until Henry's face changes from sadness to what I think is humor as he pulls his hand out of my grasp, placing it on my cheek. "Doo'."

At first I think he's saying, "Duh," or maybe Da, Russian for "yes," but then I get it. He's saying the word I picked up when I went away to California; a word that I brought home with me and spread to Grandmother and Henry both, infecting our household like a virus. After Bea picked it up, too, Grandmother banned the use of this word from the premises, which only served to make all four of us say it more.

I repeat it, "Yeah…Dude."

He says again, "Doo'."

A sad smile. "Dude."

This is my grandfather! This is the Henry who loves all forms of language, even the virulent words! When I told him on that same visit that a lot of the kids at school were saying, "craptastic," he thought it was the most delightful thing he'd ever heard. Same with "asshat" and "jackhole." Grandmother not so much. She never let those words get a leg up in our house, but she was powerless against the sublime beauty of "dude." I bet Henry, like me, is remembering this right now. The sadness in him is replaced by amusement and we're repeating it over and over again. And this is how a new nurse I don't know finds us—giggling like idiots—when she comes in after a quick knock on the door.

"Bath, sir?"

Shad and I are alongside Henry, who is painstakingly using a walker, slowly making our way down the fifth floor hallway to his room after his morning exercises. When we passed the front desk a few minutes ago, all the staff there gave me none-too-subtle smiling nods and knowing looks, but thankfully Grandfather didn't notice. His concentration was fully on using the walker for the first time, rather than the usual wheelchair back from the exercise room.

Near Henry's end of the hall, there are five or six other of his caretakers lurking, pretending to do busywork at various carts, some theatrically perusing clipboards. Sheesh! None of them would make good spies, I think, as I smilingly roll my eyes at them. When we're at his room, I scurry in first, practically leaping to a waiting Bea and Em. I giddily grab their hands, then turn to face the door. I want to see his expression. In what feels like ten minutes, but it's probably not ten seconds, Henry comes into view in the doorway, head down, intent on his walker. Shad and now a bevy of nurses peer in behind him.

"O.G." I say softly. "Look up!" Henry raises his head, his eyes traveling around the room, mouth falling open. Bea and Em have outdone themselves. While Henry and I were at rehab, they've transformed his room.

The privacy curtains around his bed, formerly hung with boring hospital fabric, are now draped in a colorful African cloth from Cameroon. His bed is covered in a bright star-patterned quilt that Grandmother had made herself, with matching pillow shams. His bed linens are now 600-thread count Egyptian cotton. Over his bed is an abstract primitive painting of the globe, with angel wings enfolding it.

There is an extendable table by the window with a colorful Bulgarian tablecloth on it, set with four formal china place settings. Surrounding it are three gold Chippendale folding chairs that Grandmother used to bring out for larger dinner parties at The Rambler. In addition to those is Henry's favorite beat up old club chair from the study.

Above the window blinds is a bunting of Tibetan prayer flags. On the window sill are stacks of Henry's favorite books and DVDs, as well as stand-up picture frames holding various family photos including one of Rosamunde and me, Em and me at Stanford, and an ancient black and white one of his late parents.

The walls are hung with other photos I pulled from our hallway gallery—all of them carefully chosen to remind Henry of his place in this wide world he loves so much.

Henry giggling with Desmond Tutu, somehow they both look like naughty little boys; surrounded by adoring students at one of the seminars he taught at the University of Geneva, and another doing some sort of green shots at a Philly bar with students from his time lecturing at Penn; dancing with abandon with Boris Yeltsin; photo bombing Zbigniew Brzezinski and Cyrus Vance at Leeds Castle in the 70's—I swear he invented photo bombing long before it became a thing; heads bent together in intimate conversation with Anwar Sadat; pensive with Golda Meir; with Rosamunde, Averill and Pamela Harriman outside a French country house; gazing at the night sky with Neil deGrasse Tyson and a younger me; squinting against the sunlight with Kofi Annan on that big circle in front of the U.N. building; with arms around Rosamunde and Tawakel Karmen in Yemen; another with Thatcher and other British diplomats. And some of my favorites—that one of him bowling with those Buddhist monks; and one of him from the back, strolling down a garden path in Dallas with his great friend and mentor, the late Argentinian Catholic priest and biblical scholar, Professor Enrique Nardoni. In this one, I am maybe six, trailing behind them, my hands clasped behind my back mirroring theirs. My grandmother took a lot of these photos.

Scattered on the floor at the foot of his bed, under the table and in front of the sink are small Persian and Turkish rugs—I may have to take those up if he's going to use the walker more—and there are flowers everywhere. Everything is bathed in a soft light from a couple floor and desk lamps placed strategically around the room. As much as it can, this room looks like an international bazaar—like Henry, like Rosamunde, like home.

And to top it all off…the kicker?…From an i-Pod dock on a bedside table, my brilliant Aunt Bea has playing the brilliant Amy Winehouse's brilliant Rehab song.

As Henry's eyes come to rest first on Bea, then Em, who is jumping up and down doing happy claps, and then on me, I see that his expression is perfectly readable this time; it is straight up awe and joy.

"Well?" I say softly. "Are you coming in, or what!" He slowly makes his way in, helped by Shad, the hallway lurkers crowding in behind him to much oohing and ahhing. I go over to Henry and take one arm, pushing the walker to the side, as Shad and I help him to his club chair. He sinks into the worn leather with the most gratified smile I've ever seen.

That miraculous progress just keeps coming. Bea is at the sink, washing the lunch dishes with some special antibacterial soap she brought so she can wash up here and leave the dishes for future meals. The miracle is that Henry ate right in front of us at the new table in his room. I think this was due to the fact that Bea brought homemade pizzas—somehow kept warm via some magic pizza stones—so there was no cutlery needed. I'm sure this was by design on Bea's part; I'll have to ask her later.

I have been arguing with Em as we sit around the table after lunch, but we're all in such good moods that we're laughing more than anything else. We're bickering in particular about her sending that damn town car every morning.

Em is nonchalant when I argue about the cost of sending a car for me every morning. She is unmoved when I mention that I have studied an Okinawan style of martial arts…in Okinawa, not to mention all the other self-defense and martial arts classes I've had all over the world at Grandmother's insistence. She is undaunted when I explain that I have walked around China, Japan, Syria, Cameroon, Dubai, Russia…She interrupts my list of countries and turns directly to Henry—who is smiling indulgently at us.

Em says, "What do you think, O.G.? Surely you wouldn't argue with me about this." I note she is using her uber-Southern honey voice, which is patently unfair.

All of us go still as statues as Henry opens his mouth. Henry's going to talk! Grandfather is talking! Of his own volition!

Just as before, I look at him, listening hard, and I get it! I get it!

Emory turns to me, "What did he say?"

"He said," I translate slowly pushing back my elation, trying for an air of reluctance, "That he would never argue with anyone trying to protect his granddaughter." I roll my eyes for effect.

Em looks at me, haughtily triumphant, "See!"

I mock glare at Henry. "Traitor!" I accuse, hiding my own triumphant smile. From the sink, Bea winks at me.

I may have lost this town car battle, for now, but I'm winning the war. This is a miracle! Henry's only said "yes," and "no," in front of other people so far. This is a big step—huge!—in this path toward him getting better. And getting him communicating!

I ask him, "What do you want to do the rest of the day, G?" Slowly, Henry replies, but I do not translate this, instead exclaiming, "What! It's just past noon!"

Bea this time, "What did he say?"

I don't answer at first, asking Henry, "Are you sure?"

Henry nods, but I let him have this one. He's gotten good at using his words.

Em again, "What? What did he say?"

"He said to let an old man rest. He's tired. Come back tomorrow." I am searching his eyes, his face, for any signs of discomfort when Bea bustles over from the sink, trailing his walker which she places next to his chair.

"Do you want to get into bed, or stay in your chair?" she asks.

He points to the chair he's sitting in, then sees the admonishment in my face for not using words, so he says, "Chair."

"Okay then. How about I set up your computer in case, you know…" Bea trails off, going to the closet where she pulls out his laptop. Oh, I hadn't thought to bring it. In fact, I hadn't even seen it in his study. Bea sets it up on the table in front of Henry, opening it and hitting some keys. "The wireless connection is strong here. There are your files. And here's that program I set up so you could track Elle's phone in China." She hits some more keys. "Look! It's still working."

We all crowd around to see and sure enough, there is a map of Manhattan and three pulsing dots indicating the Rehab; one of them is Bea's.

"My grandfather the stalker," I joke, but I know it gave both Henry and me comfort that we both watched each other's movements while I was across the globe. I have the same program to track his phone on my own laptop and phone.

"Ah lu' wat'g yuh mom'ts a'nd Chi'a." I loved watching your movements around China. Henry continues, "Made me feel as if I was traveling, too, in some way."

"And I loved watching your dot here in New York when I was in China. Made me feel as if I was at home with you, in some small way," I reply back, although I only looked at that app a handful of times when I was there. To Bea and Em I translate a truncated version of our exchange, "We both like this program."

Bea leans over the computer and pulls up another screen as I turn away to pack up, "And here's your email if you want it." I honestly don't know if he has enough control to be able to jab the keys to type anything. At the best of times, he's really only a hunt and peck kind of typist.

Which reminds me. "G, I thought tomorrow we could handle some snail mail correspondence together. I'll bring some note cards and the mail from home for us to answer." He does not say anything, just looking at me serenely. And I pause for a few seconds, before getting to the crucial question I've been wanting to ask. "Does anyone else know? That you're…um…here? Aside from the Gardners and us?"

Henry shrugs, shaking his head and I let him get away with this one, too.

And that reminds me of something else I've not yet thought about. "What about your phone messages? Have you checked them? Replied to any of them?" Why am I just thinking of this now?

It is Bea who answers. "I've taken care of that. I've called everyone back to say that Henry is away for the time being and will contact them when he returns. I changed his outgoing message to say the same thing, so there are no new messages left."

"Isn't that lying to people? His friends?"

"No," Bea argues. "Henry is away, isn't he? I just don't say where. So it's not a lie."

I think I'm a bit sensitive on this subject, since I was the recipient of that same misdirection. "I guess so." Looking down at Henry, I ask, "You're okay with this?"

Henry starts to nod, then says, "Da!" Russian for "yes."

"Aren't you turning into a show off!" I drop the subject as long as he's okay with it. I'm too happy with our surprise and him talking to dwell on anything else anyway.

Em and I collect our bags and such, with Bea wrapping up the remainder of the pizza for Henry to eat later. I move one of the rugs out of the way, leaving a clear path to his bed.

She asks, "Music? On or off?" Her iPod has been softly playing some of Henry's favorite songs after the Amy Winehouse song finished.

He opens his mouth, croaking out a word that to lesser ears could be either "on" or "off," but I know.

I turn to Bea, "He said 'on.'"

We each of us, stop to kiss Henry's cheek. "Thank you," He sweeps his arms around his newly-decorated room, looking at all three of us in turn. "Thank you so much." Even though the words are not clear, this does not need any translation.

"You're welcome," Em and Bea say in unison.

"See you tomorrow," I say, as we walk out the door. "Love you!"

I want to dance a jig down the hall to the elevator. I want to cry and laugh and scream and sing all at once. Henry is talking.

Henry is talking!

This is the beautiful blessed day when I have become the translator for The Translator!

In the car on the way home, we are all chattering about how well that went.

"That was so worth getting permission from everyone and his brother at the Rehab!" I exclaim, almost dancing in my seat. Over the course of the last few days, I have talked to every level of personnel who oversees Henry's care to get the okay for this, Shad helping a lot. When Henry leaves, I'll have to patch every nail hole and make the room just like it was. So worth it!

"So, you're good to change out the linens and towels every other day?" I ask Bea. That was one of the things I agreed to with the cleaning department; we're doing our own changing and washing of everything.

"As if I would let those fine linens get into the rehab washing system," Bea sniffs. "I put two changes of sheets and towels in the closet in his room already, and then I'll wash them as needed."

"Oh, bless you, Aunt Bea!" I am giddy. "By the way, did you plan the pizzas so Henry wouldn't have to use a fork?"

She nods, smiling, and for just a second I want to say, "Use your words," but I stop myself, shaking my head. "You are brilliant." I say instead.

"That, I cannot deny," she smugly shrugs.

"And you are hereby absolutely forgiven for all prior transgressions as long as you don't keep anything else from me of importance about Henry," I practically sing.

Bea quickly looks over me—I'm in the middle of the back seat—to Em, who has gone quiet on the other side of me. I follow her gaze to see Emory intent on her phone.

Bea asks her, "Are you texting that limey lover boy you keep prattling on about?"

"Yes. And he's hopping a train from Philly to take me to dinner later," she smiles dreamily at first and then looks up at me, getting a glint in her eye that I immediately distrust. I know that damn look; this is the purposeful gaze of The Coordinator or maybe even its evil cousin, The Controller. I'm not sure which, but either way I brace myself against the coming onslaught.

"And I want you to come with." My paranoia is confirmed when I hear her cajoling honey Southern voice. "Please. I want you to meet him. Plus, if you come, he might bring his best friend, whom he hasn't let me meet yet."

"No," I say simply, and I hope, definitively.

"Come on!" she pleads. "Henry is fine. Look at all we did for him today!" I know what she's aiming for—guilt—by bringing up all she's done for Henry and me. And she has done a lot. She knows I do not like being in debt to anyone.

"Nope."

She leans in front of me, batting her big blue kitten eyes to Bea. "Don't you think Elles should come out with James and me? Have a little fun? Just for dinner? For one night?"

Bea, very wisely, replies, "Oh no you don't, Miss Magnolia! I just got back in this one's good graces," she waggles her thumb in my direction, "so I'm staying out of this entirely."

I smile my thanks to Bea and turn back to Em, getting serious now. "Listen, I've been home for less than a week and everything, my whole life, is thrown for the proverbial loop, as has Henry's. All I care about is getting him well right now, and all that that entails. I can't think of anything else and I am certainly in no mood to be any kind of social. And I still have the last phase of the plan to do tomorrow, which is simply to get Henry out into the world again. And, and I've got so many other things to do and think about." I take a breath, unsure if I'm getting through.

"Can we at least…"

I cut her off, knowing what she's about to ask. "No, you cannot drop by. Please, Emory Clare! I am going to get to work on that pile of mail in the kitchen, then take a long shower and put on sweats and stay in. I'm still half on China time, too. I'm exhausted. Do not, under any circumstances, bring him by." Her face falls, and yes, as much as it bugs me, I do feel a twinge of guilt.

She lifts up her phone melodramatically, typing out a text while saying, "My best friend stubbornly refuses to come out with us tonight. Change the reservation to a table for two, if you will. Send." She was clearly expecting me to acquiesce, like usual.

"I will meet him soon, I promise. Just not now," I say softer this time.

There is a ping of a reply text. Em looks at her phone sticking her tongue out at it.

"What did he say?" I ask.

"None of your beeswax."

"Tell me."

"Fine." She reluctantly puts her phone in front of my face so I can see it, with Bea peering over my shoulder.

The text reads, Her grandfather is ill. I understand completely. I look forward to meeting your friend another time then.

"I like him already," I laugh, relieved.

"I really need to get him in line," she huffs.

Bea pipes up, "That poor boy doesn't stand a chance."

"He has no idea," I say, shaking my head.