Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close

would come to the apartment, I could hear the door opening, and the footsteps, little footsteps, I heard talking, a child's voice, almost a song, it was the voice I'd heard when I called from the airport, the two of them would talk for hours, I asked her one evening, when she came to pose, who paid her all of those visits, she said, “My grandson.” “I have a grandson.” “No,” she said, “I have a grandson.” “What's his name?” We tried again, we took off each other's clothes with the slowness of people who know how easy it is to be proven wrong, she lay face-down on the bed, her waist was irritated from pants that hadn't fit her in years, her thighs were scarred, I kneaded them with YES and NO, she said, “Don't look at anything else,” I spread her legs, she inhaled, I could stare into the most private part of her and she couldn't see me looking, I slid my hand under her, she bent her knees, I closed my eyes, she said, “Lie on top of me,” there was nowhere to write that I was nervous, she said, “Lie on top of me.” I was afraid I'd crush her, she said, “All of you on all of me,” I let myself sink into her, she said, “That's what I've wanted,” why couldn't I have left it like that, why did I have to write anything else, I should have broken my fingers, I took a pen from the bedside table and wrote “Can I see him?” on my arm. She turned over, spilling my body next to her, “No.” I begged with my hands. “No.” “Please.” “Please.” “I won't let him know who I am. I just want to see him.” “No.” “Why not?” “Because.” “Because why?” “Because I changed his diapers. And I couldn't sleep on my stomach for two years. And I taught him how to speak. And I cried when he cried. And when he was unreasonable, he yelled at me.” “I'll hide in the coat closet and look through the keyhole.” I thought she would say no, she said, “If he ever sees you, you will have betrayed me.” Did she feel pity for me, did she want me to suffer? The next morning, she led me to the coat closet, which faces the living room, she went in with me, we were in there all day, although she knew he wouldn't come until the afternoon, it was too small, we needed more space between us, we needed Nothing Places, she said, “This is what it's felt like, except you weren't here.” We looked at each other in silence for hours. When the bell rang, she went to let him in, I was on my hands and knees so my eye would be at the right level, through the keyhole I saw the door open, those white shoes, “Oskar!” she said, lifting him from the ground, “I'm OK,” he said, that song, in his voice I heard my own voice, and my father's and grandfather's, and it was the first time I'd heard your voice, “Oskar!” she said again, lifting him again, I saw his face, Anna's eyes, “I'm OK,” he said again, he asked her where she had been, “I was talking to the renter,” she said. The renter? “Is he still here?” he asked, “No,” she said, “he had to go run some errands.” “But how did he get out of the apartment?” “He left right before you came.” “But you said you were just talking to him.” He knew about me, he didn't know who I was, but he knew someone was there, and he knew she wasn't telling the truth, I could hear it in his voice, in my voice, in your voice, I needed to talk to him, but what did I need to say? I'm your grandfather, I love you, I'm sorry? Maybe I needed to tell him the things I couldn't tell you, give him all the letters that were supposed to be for your eyes. But she would never give me her permission, and I wouldn't betray her, so I started to think about other ways ... What am I going to do, I need more room, I have things I need to say, my words are pushing at the walls of the paper's edge, the next day, your mother came to the guest room and posed for me, I worked the clay with YES and NO, I made it soft, I pressed my thumbs into her cheeks, bringing her nose forward, leaving my thumbprints, I carved out pupils, I strengthened her brow, I hollowed out the space between her bottom lip and chin, I picked up a daybook and went over to her. I started to write about where I'd been and what I'd done since I left, how I'd made my living, whom I'd spent my time with, what I'd thought about and listened to and eaten, but she ripped the page from the book, “I don't care,” she said, I don't know if she really didn't care or if it was something else, on