Edward's Eyes by Patricia MacLachlan

Prologue
    The day was crisp and bright. It was fall on the cape. Maeve had packed us a lunch. She kissed us all, Trick and Albert and me.
    â€œYou sure you don’t want to come with us?” I asked.
    â€œNo, Jake. This is for you,” said Maeve with a little smile.
    Sabine was in her arms. I kissed her cheek.
    Â 
    The ballpark had painted green walls. The grass was green, too. The seats were not yet filled because we were here early. Trick and Albert Groom and I had come for batting practice.
    Some baseball players were out on the field,throwing baseballs and stretching. Some were doing sprints across the field. We had seats next to the field, by the dugout.
    A ball hit the wall in front of us. Albert leaned over and picked it up. He rolled it around in his hands.
    â€œDo you know what is inside a baseball?” he asked me.
    I shook my head.
    â€œCharcoal yarn, wrapped up tightly. Yards of it,” he said.
    He threw the ball back to a baseball player.
    It was a good throw. I had never before seen Albert throw a baseball.
    â€œI love the smell of ballparks,” said Trick. “Every single one smells the same.”
    â€œThey do,” said Albert.
    Some players came close.
    Albert Groom touched my arm.
    One of the players had protective glasses on.His hair was brown, cut short. He was tall. When he faced the outfield I could read the name on the back of his shirt.
    I stood up.
    â€œWillie?” I called.
    He turned and smiled. He waved and turned to go away.
    â€œDo you see the stitches on a knuckleball when it’s thrown?” I called.
    He stopped. Very slowly he turned and stared at me.
    â€œCan you see the ball leave the pitcher’s hand and come down the path to you, like a train coming down the track?”
    â€œWillie?” a player called to him.
    Willie waved him away. He walked over to me.
    â€œYes,” he said softly.
    â€œDo you hit better now than you ever did before?”
    â€œYes.”
    It was a whisper.
    â€œMy brother Edward learned how to throw a knuckleball. And he never ever once struck out,” I said.
    â€œEdward,” he said. “So that’s his name.”

Chapter 1
    My earliest memory begins with Edward, as if somehow I have no life to remember before him. The memory comes to me often, mostly at night, but more often during the day now, surprising me. It is a very early memory. Not as early as the artist, Salvador Dali, my sister Sola tells me. He could remember when he was inside his mother, Sola says, where the world looked flat, like squashed egg.
    But this is my memory:
    Maeve and Jack have just brought baby Edward home from the hospital. Maeve and Jack are our parents, but we don’t call them Mom and Dad, except for Edward, who when he learns to talk will speak to them in a formalmanner, a bit English. “Motha and Fatha,” he will say in his little tin voice.
    Here’s the scene:
    Maeve and Jack walk in the front door, Maeve carrying baby Edward in his green blanket, packed tightly like a pickle in plastic. I am only three years old, but I can tell from their faces that Maeve and Jack want us to love Edward. They look a little happy, but not too happy; a little fearful as if they are adding an unwanted puppy to our large litter. Sola, the oldest, is used to this. Edward is the fourth baby they’ve brought home to her. Will, seven, is interested for only the barest moment, then he goes off to read a book in the corner, to spend the day happily in his own head. Wren, not yet five, reaches out to brush Edward’s face with her hand. Maeve and Jack like this, a physical sign of affection. They look at me then.
    â€œJake?” says Maeve.
    They wait. I peer down at Edward, my face close to his.
    â€œHe will poop all day long. And throw up,” Will says.
    Wren bursts into laughter at the sound of the word “poop.” Sola, having heard years of this talk, unscrews the top of her fingernail polish