When you come up. It has been tradition since Isabelle was born to go see Wilson’s mother the weekend before Christmas; this year, the thought of it takes him by surprise. Since nothing is as it normally is, he hadn’t even considered their usual visit, and it is perhaps the realization that he had forgotten it that surprises him more than anything else. Normally, it is a part of their Christmas ritual, like the pageant on Christmas Eve and the opening of stockings Christmas morning. This year, silent, Isabelle won’t be much of a visitor. This year, he will have to consult with Ruth.

“Dr. Bremer is a good vet,” Wilson says finally.

“Well.” He hears his mother sip her tea. Radio voices murmur in the background. He can picture the radio, an ancient, dusty thing, perched amid the clutter of catalogs and unopened mail on the kitchen counter. He loosens his tie and undoes the top button of his shirt; his office is so hot that, were the temperature in here the temperature outside, all the buildings would have their air-conditioning on. He looks up at the pictures on the shelf behind his desk; there is one of Ruth and Isabelle sitting on a rock, one of Ruth from years ago, when they’d first married, one of himself and his brothers, one of Maggie and Isabelle sitting in a leaf pile under the apple tree. There are dried leaves caught in Isabelle’s hair, and her face is flushed with fall. She is mid-laugh, tossing a handful of leaves above Maggie’s head. Wilson looks at that photograph, and his heart drops.

“She must be very sad,” his mother finally says.

“What?”

“Isabelle,” she says.

Wilson blinks. Sad, he thinks. Such a heavy, thudding word, so simple, so final, so wise. “We’re thinking of going to Africa,” he says.

“Africa!”

“We thought it might help her. We’d go only if the school disowns her, which they’re going to do if she’s not speaking by the time the semester starts. It’s bad, Mother. Things are not getting any better.”

His mother is quiet for a moment. “I remember when your father took you to Africa,” she says.

“Yes, I showed her the slides.”

“Nicholas was about Isabelle’s age then, wasn’t he?”

“About,” Wilson says.

“I imagine it’s a very different place now.”

“Yes.” Wilson looks at the paper before him; it is filled entirely with circles. Over the intercom, a voice announces that Mrs. Carter is on line two, and Wilson is puzzled for a moment, since Mrs. Carter is on line one, until he realizes the voice means Ruth. “Tell her I’ll call her right back,” he says into the intercom. “Mother,” he says. “I have a few tax forms I need you to sign. I was going to fax them to Branwell and have him bring them over, but I guess I’ll just bring them when we come up.”

“Good. Do call before that,” she says.