It kills me, this pet name for his grandfather, a childish holdover from a time when my son was Sonia’s age, when he was still running around in bright red corduroy pants and a sun yellow T-shirt with the words SUPER KID! blazoned across the front. I have a clear memory now, of us in this kitchen, before the remodeling job, when the appliances were still avocado, and gold-flecked white Formica covered the countertops. I was making a batch of brownies, and Steven, rather than asking for the spoon to lick, pulled the empty batter bowl toward him, using his tiny hand as a spatula.

Why do they have to grow up so goddamned quickly?

I take the receiver. It’s my father. “Hi, Papà. How come you’re calling on the phone instead of FaceTiming?”

Whatever answer he has for this, I don’t hear it. My father is crying hoarsely, and the background noise of Italian hospital sounds filters through the phone line.

“Papà. What’s happened?” I say.

A new voice replaces his. “Professoressa McClellan?” a woman asks. Only she pronounces Patrick’s un-Italian surname as macalella, avoiding clusters and codas, turning it into something familiar to her.

“Yes.” Tea and toast begin an obnoxious roiling in my stomach. “What is it?”

It again. Everything has become one looming It.

“Your mother,” the doctor says after introducing herself. Her English is good, good enough that I don’t have to worry about medical jargon in a language I haven’t used for more than a year. “Your mother had an aneurysm. It burst early this morning.”

My tea and toast climb up farther, into my chest. “Locus?” I say.

“In her brain,” the doctor says.

“Yes. I know that. I mean, where in her brain? I have some background in neurology.”

“In the posterior section of the superior temporal gyrus.”

“Left or right?” I ask, already knowing the answer.

Papers rustle over the phone. “Left hemisphere.”

I lean forward on the counter, my head pressed against the cool of the granite. “Wernicke’s area,” I whisper.

“Yes, near the area of Wernicke.” Another blast of Italian comes over the phone, drowning out the doctor’s words. “I’m sorry. I really am sorry. But I have another patient to attend to. If you can call back in a few hours, we might know more about your mother’s situation.”

She puts my father back on the line.

“Is she conscious?” I ask.

“No.”

When we disconnect, I’m left with Jackie’s words. One step at a time, Jeanie. Start small.

I don’t know how to start, big or small, but I know whatever I do next needs to be huge.

I wish Jackie were here.

Chapter Thirty-seven

THIRTY-SEVEN

Everyone except Sonia is out of the house when the mailman’s truck pulls up. He dodges puddles on the way to our mailbox, sifting through the stack of envelopes in his courier bag.