Free Translator by Nina Schuyler

Hanne’s arm, she talks about dinosaur bones and sharks, dead beetles and dead squid. No, she made a mistake, alive squid with their tentacles swimming in a glass case. She reaches into her backpack and pulls out a brochure. new york science , she begins to read the fine print.
    So bright, thinks Hanne. Just like Brigitte, who, at the age of two, spoke complete intelligible sentences. And without anyone’s counsel, began to sound out words, as if she would not be denied access to the world of language. It was pure Brigitte, naturally gifted and gravitating toward sounds and words and sentences. Of course Hanne was delighted. Wasn’t this every parent’s secret dream? To give birth to a wonder? A child prodigy who might rise to unheard-of heights? That her gift was language delighted Hanne even more. Cut from the same cloth as I, thought Hanne. And something meaningful that they could share.
    â€œListen to her,” Hanne whispered to Hiro as Brigitte read the stop sign. Brigitte was in the back in her car seat and they were driving to Brigitte’s music class, which wasn’t far from their home in San Francisco on Noriega Street, a house perpetually wrapped in cold fog. “Do you hear her? She’s reading. At age two.”
    Brigitte kept saying “stop” as if it were a live thing that must be rolled around in her mouth to be kept alive.
    â€œDid you read that early?” said Hanne.
    â€œHmm. No.” Hiro was his usual restrained self. “She’s just being herself.”
    â€œWhich is remarkable. Tomas wasn’t reading until age five.”
    â€œHanne, don’t compare. They will each have their strengths and weaknesses.”
    He was right, of course, but she couldn’t help herself. Brigitte’s language ability was just one of many differences. Unlike Tomas, who came out with an elongated head because of an agonizing labor, Brigitte was a beautiful baby. Her perfectly shaped head courtesy of a Caesarean, her symmetrical sparkling eyes, her tuft of black hair, like a dark rain cloud. Tomas liked the playpen, so he could stand up and throw blocks at the wall; he was independent and strong-willed, always wanting to do things for himself. But Brigitte would swing for hours, as long as Hanne was in view. When she could walk, Brigitte trailed Hanne around the house, up and down the stairs, to the basement and into the kitchen. When suppertime came, Hanne gave Brigitte a chore—folding the napkins or stirring the pudding—so she could stay near. If Brigitte took pleasure in Hanne’s company, Hanne reciprocated. Hanne cooked and sang to her in different languages. German made Brigitte’s eyes widen; French made her smile. Japanese she imitated, saying kokonoko. Nine. At night when she’d cry out, a small whimper, it was Hanne Brigitte wanted, not her father.
    A baby girl, unexpected, but certainly wanted. There was an eight-year gap between the two children. With Tomas, Hanne had split herself into two, working and mothering, each role never fully committed to, and therefore, in her mind, never done well. With Brigitte, Hanne wanted only one role and to perform it to perfection. She would give her daughter the world. Hiro was an assistant professor at Stanford in the chemistry department, and though there wasn’t a lot of money, it was enough. They’d make the sacrifices.
    Hanne signed Brigitte up for French. And when French proved a breeze, Hanne added German and Japanese. All by the age of six. To be fair, she enrolled Tomas, but he despised the lessons and by age fifteen had dropped out of everything except Japanese. Brigitte loved to practice with Hanne. “Do I sound good, Mama? Do I? Are you proud of me?”
    â€œBeautiful, my love,” said Hanne. “You sound like music. Tell me about your day in French.”
    Now Sasha is reading about penguins. Wonderful, thinks Hanne, anything to transport her away from here. She