The Photograph on the Back

Lily's first science class coincided with a morning when Ethan wanted to stay in bed.

He attended therapy. He complained about the temperature, the exercise mat, and the music Maya had chosen.

She changed the music and ignored the rest.

By the end of the week, he had covered twenty feet with his crutches, stopping twice. He asked Nathan to keep his afternoon clear and called Claire to ask how the class had gone.

Lily answered on speakerphone.

"We built a bridge," she said.

"Did it remain a bridge?"

"Until we put too much weight on it. That's how you test them."

"I hope your instructor doesn't work for the highway department."

She laughed and described the collapse in considerable detail.

When they hung up, Ethan noticed that he hadn't mentioned his twenty feet.

He had wanted to hear her news more.

Two Saturdays later, Claire arrived while Lily was at class. She carried a flat folder and a paper cup of coffee.

"I brought something," she said.

Ethan had been resting on the terrace after practicing the smooth first section of the garden path. His wheelchair stood beside the bench, crutches within reach.

"If it's another soup container, I believe we returned all of them."

"Jess counted. You're clear."

Claire sat beside him and opened the folder.

The photograph on top showed Samuel at a picnic table, Lily on his knee. The medal around his neck was rounder at the bottom than Ethan's, its edge visibly dented.

"I wanted to settle the question about this," she said, touching her own collarbone. "Lily kept asking."

"We knew mine probably wasn't his."

"We do now. I found his in the small box we kept by the bed."

She placed it in his palm.

It was heavier than he expected. Familiar at a glance, different under his thumb.

"They're a common design," she said. "I should have looked sooner. There are boxes I haven't wanted to open."

Ethan nodded. Ben's apartment had been cleared by other people. Most of its contents remained in storage because Ethan could give instructions about objects more easily than he could touch them.

Claire took another photograph from the sleeve.

"This was with the papers Sam left for you. I thought it was just part of the same bundle because he'd been sorting everything together. Then I turned it over."

The image showed two medals on a white cloth, one dented, one scratched beside the saint's head.

On the back, Samuel had written three short lines.

Mine on the left. Benjamin Cole's on the right.

Benjamin asked me to give his to Ethan.

Passed to Ethan before transport. Please make sure he knows.

Ethan stared at the handwriting.

The scratched medal rested beneath his shirt, warm from his skin.

"Ben's?"

"That's what Sam wrote."

He pulled the chain free.

He had handled it hundreds of times. He knew the little rough place near the clasp and the shallow mark across the back. He had never looked closely enough to ask why it seemed familiar beyond that night.

His mother had bought two medals before Ben's first summer away from home. Ethan had been twenty-two and amused by her sudden concern for travelers. He had worn his for the train journey to please her, then left it in a drawer.

Ben had kept his.

Years later, when Ethan teased him about it before a road trip, Ben had said one of them ought to bring protection because the other one drove like a debt collector.

Ethan had forgotten the joke.

He had forgotten many ordinary things while remembering the road with punishing precision.

"I thought I was wearing your husband's," he whispered.

Claire rested the photograph on his knee.

"You couldn't have known."

"I could have asked more questions."

"So could I."

He looked at her.

"You don't get to claim all the things we wish we'd done differently," she said. "There are enough to share."

He gave a shaky laugh.

She left him quiet while he studied the medal.

Ben had asked about him. Ben had tried to send a message. And in the confusion of that night, he had given his brother something to hold.

Ethan did not feel forgiven. That would have required a conversation they could never have.

He felt remembered.

It was gentler, and it hurt in a different place.

"May I keep the photograph?" he asked.

"It belongs with your papers."

He handed back Samuel's medal. Claire closed it carefully in her palm.

For a while, they watched the fountain.

"How is Lily doing?" Ethan asked.

"She likes the class. She misses breakfast here. Both things can apparently be true."

"We could have Sunday breakfast."

Claire looked at him.

He nearly added that the cook would be there anyway. An excuse, though neither of them needed one.

"I'd like you both to come," he said.

"I'll ask her."

Maya stepped onto the terrace carrying his water bottle.

"Ready for a little more, or are we finishing?"

Ethan looked at the path. He had practiced on it several times, and it still unnerved him. Outdoors there was no long bar beneath each hand, no wall at a reassuring distance.

Today the paving was dry. The temperature was mild. His fatigue had eased during the rest, and Maya had planned another short attempt.

"Could we aim for the fountain?" he asked.

She followed his gaze.

"We can aim. You follow my instructions. If I say we're done, we're done."

"Agreed."

Claire moved the folder out of the way.

"Do you want me to call Lily?"

Ethan imagined her leaving the classroom, waiting on a phone for news of his body. He would be pleased to see her later. That was enough.

"Let her finish her bridge. I'll tell her afterward."

He slipped Benjamin's medal beneath his shirt.

Maya brought the crutches and positioned the chair behind him.

Ethan placed his hands carefully, leaned forward, and rose.

The fountain waited thirty-four feet away.

He steadied himself, listened to Maya, and moved his right crutch onto the path.