Human Sister

our hands and arms and hair. Years before, we had had difficulty “socializing,” as Grandpa had put it, Michael’s constant sucking on his own fingers—not just his thumbs, all of his fingers. Unlike the rest of his skin, Michael’s hands and lips were soft and spongy, somewhat like the inside of an orange peel. Grandpa said those areas contained an abundance of synthetic Krause corpuscles, which, when caressed, elicited the production of endorphins, and thus calming pleasure, in the biologic part of his brain.
    In an attempt to wean Michael from his fingers, Grandpa brought in many items for Michael to touch: sheets of velvet, a brown teddy bear, leaves, twigs, bark, vegetables and fruit and blossoms not available in the hydroponic garden. But though Michael loved to touch and kiss and caress all of these items (as well as the many others we tried), it wasn’t until Grandpa began bringing in books and musical scores printed in Braille that Michael found a satisfactory alternative to finger-sucking. He would spend hours in reverie over these texts, for the pleasure of touch, I believe, as much as or more than for the information contained therein. Perhaps for him touch and information complemented each other, as voices and instruments do in opera. Sometimes, I would see him smiling or crying while reading with his fingers and ask about the text. Each time he would say something to the effect that the dots felt so wonderful: beyond them was a world of shapes, colors, tastes, scents, and sounds.
    We had not, however, discouraged Michael from expressing his love by touching and kissing us. He seemed to experience his skin (what Grandpa called his integumentin) not as a limit or boundary of the self but as a place of exquisite and joyful interaction with the world.

    It was within an hour of sunset when Grandpa and I left Michael’s rooms. I asked Grandpa to take a walk with me in the vineyard. As we strolled among the lush, green rows of trellised vines I told him of the feelings I’d felt when Elio and I first made love and of the marriage vows we later exchanged. Grandpa appeared thoughtful and interested, frequently raising his thick eyebrows and nodding, even as I rambled on, trying to explain and justify what I feared he might think had been impulsive and immature actions.
    “What are your intentions in telling me all this?” he finally asked. “Are you afraid I’ll think you were a silly, foolish girl?”
    “Maybe.”
    Laughing, he stepped toward me and we hugged. “I was sensitive about these matters when I was sixteen, too. You love Elio, so love him fully. You don’t need to justify your feelings to me. Grandma and I love and respect you, and we completely support your feelings for Elio. We all feel a need for a special other. However, I ask you to keep in mind that you will be disappointed only to the extent that your desires or expectations fall out of harmony with reality.”
    “But, Grandpa, I don’t know much about this aspect of reality. You do.”
    He chuckled. “One of the problems with knowing, or thinking you know, is that it often makes keeping your hands off what is not yours quite difficult. If we aren’t careful, we’re tempted to transform our knowledge into a license to change and control. But there are some things—actually, I believe there are many things—that we should not get involved in changing or controlling. Your sexuality, how you express your love, how you express your wonder and awe at the world—such things are yours, not mine. I love you, and in loving you, I humbly defer in such matters to you.”
    We walked awhile longer in silence; then I said, “Elio wants to come live with us, but there’s a problem with Aunt Lynh. He told me she hates America and is adamantly against his ever returning here. He loves her and doesn’t want to hurt her. We need your help.”
    “What do you want me to do?”
    “I’d like you to go visit her in Amsterdam. Tell her we’re concerned about her feelings, and help Elio express his desires without getting into a shouting match with her. I want Elio to come live with us as soon as possible, but I’ll encourage him to delay if you think delay is called for.”

    From the moment I first mentioned that Elio might be coming to live with us until the morning I left to pick him up at the airport in early September, Michael pestered me with questions: What do I do if he says this? How do I respond if he does that?
    One day,