* * *
They pulled into the half-circle driveway of Uncle Herb’s group home, parking next to a large van. The home was in a wooded area—the only house on the block. Abby had once told Peter that a lot of people don’t want to live near group homes even though the homes and properties were immaculately kept. Some residents fought fiercely to keep group homes out of their own neighborhoods. Abby said that people feared different, even in this day and age, and there was still a stigma on people with disabilities. Peter couldn’t understand it, but considering Herb was one of the first names he could speak, his experience was unlike other people’s.
“Uncle Herb will be so excited to see you guys,” Abby said, putting the car in park.
CJ kicked the back of Peter’s chair. “Uncle Herb! Uncle Herb!”
Peter said nothing, and his mother looked over at him as she stepped out of the car.
“Is everything all right, Peter?” she asked.
Peter didn’t look at her as he unbuckled his seat belt. “Yeah. I’m just tired of the sun, I guess.”
Uncle Herb was waiting in the shade of a tree with a suitcase on one side of his wheelchair and an aide from the home on the other. His button up shirt drooped down from his atrophied muscles as if it was wet.
Abby said, “Sorry we’re late, Maria. Traffic.”
The aide acknowledged the apology with pursed lips. Maria was a stump of a woman, barely an inch over five feet, but built solid from three decades of working two, sometimes three jobs at a time—always physical work, because it made the day go faster. She looked imposing compared to the man in the wheelchair next to her, his body swallowed by chrome and padding. In Maria’s four years working for the group home, Hoobie—as she liked to call Herb—had become her favorite resident. He had handsome, gentle features, and she playfully flirted with him as she helped him eat, go to the bathroom, or bathe. Unlike some of the lazy and stupid college kids she had to work with, Maria had found it easy to understand him. Her English was average, but Hoobie had such trouble speaking that he broke down his thoughts into the simplest terms, which was helpful in overcoming the language barrier. Maria’s anger would surge when her coworkers acted surprised and delighted when Hoobie said something smart or funny, those patronizing fools. Maria knew that Herb was a thousand times smarter than they or their children would ever be. Young people are so visual, Maria thought. They see drool and wheelchair, they think stupid. Hoobie might not be able to walk by himself, but Maria recognized early on he could run circles around people with his mind.
And now Maria felt like she should be slapped for not protecting her loyal friend. She was letting him go with this woman who was constantly chasing her own tail—always in a rush, always late! Always talking, never listening. Who cared if she was his sister? How could she take care of Hoobie for two weeks around the clock? This wasn’t Christmas dinner. She couldn’t even take care of her own children. The boy walked around with his head down like a kicked puppy. And the girl in her crown and holding a rope, loco rematado, raving lunatic. She was cute, though, you have to give her that, with her blond curly hair and big blue eyes. The mother was a hound dog, always chasing an invisible scent just out of reach.
Maria frowned as she watched Hoobie’s family spill out of their car. “Are you sure you want to go, Hoobie?”
But Herb was too occupied to answer, smiling and waving at his approaching niece and nephew, his fingers and arms crooked and rigid like those of a conductor cueing up his orchestra. He smiled at Maria, and she shook her head disapprovingly as she had done thousands of times to her adult children, knowing that they too had to make their own decisions. She pulled a napkin from her pocket and dabbed at bubbles of saliva forming at the corner of Herb’s mouth.
When Abby and Herb’s mother died seven years ago—not even a year after their father—the first thing Abby bought with her portion of the inheritance was an oversized SUV with large trunk space to hold Herb’s electric wheelchair. They had standardized vans made for this type of transportation, but Abby couldn’t bring herself to buy such an unattractive vehicle.
Abby leaned down to kiss her brother, which was followed by a gentle hug from Peter. CJ came at him with a flying hug, almost leaping into his lap.
Maria yelled, “He no piece of furniture!”
CJ paid her no mind until her hug was finished, and then she scowled at Maria as she let go. Maria, after getting over the initial shock of the little girl’s brashness, scowled in return.
They all followed Abby to the SUV. Maria helped them load and buckle Herb into the center seat of the back row. CJ and Peter would sit closely on each side of him for support. Maria leaned in and patted Herb on the chest. She whispered, “See you soon, Hoobie.”
Herb smiled. “Ew-ill.”
“I know I will.” Maria turned to Abby, “Two weeks is long time. Any problem you call me, right?”
Abby was struggling to lift the electric wheelchair into the back of the SUV, and this time, Maria didn’t offer any assistance; she was done helping. After much effort, Abby had the chair over the lip of the trunk and slammed the door shut. She pushed the hair out of her eyes and glared at Maria, who despite her cool appearance was laughing hysterically on the inside. Abby marched past her and slid behind the wheel. “I appreciate your concern, Maria, but I think I can take care of my own brother.”
Maria turned and walked away without saying goodbye. Abby noticed her roll her eyes.
They were on the expressway heading home when Abby finally finished cursing Maria in her mind. In the rearview mirror, she could see the three of them sandwiched in the back, the kids leaning toward the center to keep Herb upright. CJ was making silly faces at him, crossing her eyes and distorting her mouth. Abby said, “After this vacation, Herb, you might need a vacation.”
Herb smiled at the joke even though he didn’t share the sentiment. He had been looking forward to this for weeks, months maybe. The kids were growing up so fast. Usually he saw them once or twice a month for lunch or dinner, because it was easier on Abby not to have to take care of another body. But this time Abby was adamant about him staying for an extended period, and she didn’t have to twist his arm too hard. His group home was okay; he had fun with some of the staff, like Maria, and he got along with all the other residents, though most of them had more developmental disabilities than physical ones, but nothing could replicate time with Peter and CJ. They were his blood. The group home wasn’t bad at all if you looked big picture. If he’d been born twenty years earlier, he could have ended up in an institution.
“What’s that, Uncle Herb?” CJ asked. She was pointing to the indentation on the side of his forehead.
Peter groaned. “You ask that every time, CJ.”
“It’s his birthmark, honey,” Abby answered.
Herb didn’t mind CJ’s asking at all. It wasn’t a visit until she did. He loved how CJ’s fingers softly traced the horseshoe impression that started near his eye and curved above his ear and into his hairline, left by the forceps during his delivery. He was an “instrument baby” of the late 1960s. At birth, he was wearing his mother’s umbilical cord like a scarf. The loss of oxygen during that critical time left Herb with spastic tetraplegia, unable to walk and with limited arm control, so despite his age—he was turning forty-two in a couple of months—his muscles had withered to the point that his frame was pretty much equal in size to Peter’s.
“So,” Abby said, trying to get everyone’s attention. “Like I was telling Peter before, I need to go out for a little while, and Uncle Herb is going to watch you, if that’s okay with you, Herb.”
Herb nodded. Watching was no problem, it was one of the few the things he could do well. His only concern