The week after he returned from the hospital, she came home from teaching her fourth grade class to find him listening to Beethoven and pushing himself around with a broom and dustpan on his lap. She called it the accident again, and he whirled his wheelchair around so his back was to her.
“I'm talking to you,” she said.
He zoomed over to the boombox and boosted the volume. The music filled the room like water. She waited for him turn it down again. He scooped up the tiniest amount of dirt; Beethoven's noise cascaded onward. “I can't hear myself,” she said.
The day of the accident, he'd worked out a plan to find his birth mother in Korea, though she'd said she didn't care about his past or skin color. Their housekeeper, the bitch who came once a week and wanted to sleep with him, had encouraged him.
Now she couldn't help asking what she'd meant to ask the day of the accident. She yelled it over the music.