Jacob Had Remembered

Simon looks for the catch — and finds none. Jacob remembered both requests, “word for word, with the reasons attached,” though back in the hospital room it had seemed he was listening with half an ear. “Somewhere deep, under the ribs, something loosened — one turn, no more.” Then there will be a glass of water, broth in a heavy mug, food someone had warmed for him — “and he couldn’t remember when that had last happened.”

For someone who grew up in neglect, a remembered request weighs as much as a declaration of love does for others: the scale is calibrated to zero. That is exactly the danger: a little attention from the person who caused a great deal of pain creates a sense of enormous debt and leaves almost no room for the question “what, exactly, was I given?” (see “One Sip at a Time”). “One turn” is an honest measure. The author hurries neither Simon nor the reader: “loosened” is not yet “trusted.”