by Susan Haas
I tried to send her a telepathic message. My body is coming. Soon! It will be here as soon as I find my gifts. But the message was weak and staticky, like a cell phone moving too far from a tower.
Dad picked up an envelope from a pile of mail on the counter. “When did this come?”
“Just now,” Hannah said. “I brought it from the mailbox after we chased off the cats.”
Dad turned it over. The familiar gold lettering flashed at the top. He ripped it open, and his eyes darted back and forth over the paper.
“Why? What is it?” Kali asked.
Dad ignored her. For a minute, he just stood there staring into the paper.
Finally, he let out a deep breath and pushed the letter toward Mom. “Well, you were right. Lou can’t help us. It’s over.”
“Help us what?” Kasey asked.
Mom scanned the letter. “It’s nothing.” She squeezed Dad’s hand. “Nothing we didn’t already know.”
I knew, and for the first time, there was no satisfaction in being the only one. He can’t help me. He can’t help me find my missing things.
I swallowed hard. Now I was completely on my own. My deadline was just weeks away. Did it even matter?
The rest of that week was quiet. Creepy quiet. Even at night when I lay in bed, no music seeped in through my walls. Not one note.
Mom kept asking me if I wanted her to call Ms. Trejo. She said she was sure it was all a misunderstanding, but I wouldn’t let her. I squeezed my imaginary rock. The familiar rough edges now felt sharp and prickly.
No thank you.
Being my friend, being on my side, was hard. I got that. I took work. Obviously too much work.
Every afternoon, Mom gathered me on her lap and tried to get me to work on my speech, but no words came. The letters stayed lined up at the top of my cookie sheet, like an army of soldiers waiting to be called into battle.
That whole week, I didn’t spell anything. What good were words? I didn’t have anyone I wanted to talk to or anything I needed to say.
Instead, I stared at the blank sheet until Spider-Man or the Hulk or Luke and Leia showed up and swept me off on an adventure. Harry, Ron, and Hermione always tried to tag along, but I hit them with the Obliviate Charm and told them to get lost. Obviously.
On Saturday, when Mom pulled me onto her lap, there was a message waiting for me. Hi Lexi. This is your cookie sheet. I miss you. Please tell me something.
I stared at the words.
Finally, Mom wrote, Pretty please?
I sighed and pulled down letters. My dog eats cheese, shoes, and library books. But mostly string cheese, sneakers, and books about cats.
Mom snorted, and I admit it was good to at least hear one of my parents laugh again.
She wrote, Spider-Man wears Hulk underwear.
Ggguuhhh.
I reached forward. Spider-Man wears Green Goblin underwear. So he can sit on him. That is all.
The next day, at 3 p.m., Mom pulled me onto her hip. “C’mon, Lex, we have work to do.”
I thought we were going to have another stare down with my cookie sheet, but instead, she stood with me at the bottom of the stairs and shouted, “SNL!”
I squealed with both relief and excitement.
Upstairs, a door creaked open.
“So … we’re doing this?” Kali asked, leaning over the railing.
Mom nodded. I stuck out my tongue.
One by one, the kids filtered down the stairs and into the den. Dad was last, shaking his head and smiling sheepishly. “You know, I forgot to record it last night.”
“What? You think I can’t work the DVR?” Mom asked. She tossed him the remote. “Well, c’mon. It’s not gonna play itself.”
Dad flopped onto the couch and took me from Mom. He folded my legs crisscross applesauce and wrapped his arms tight around my chest. His breathing slowed to match mine, and he rested his head on my shoulder. We sat like that through the whole show.
CHAPTER 37
Age 13, 8½ hours until surgery
As we roll back to the Ronald McDonald House for the last time, it begins to rain, little shards of glass against my face. Mom and Dad break into a jog. We roll under the awning in front of the house just as the sky opens. Water quickly overwhelms the gutters and downspouts. Thunder crashes much too close. Safe and dry, we watch the fury, and I think, See, I’m lucky.
Inside, the front desk is empty. Normally, someone is here to greet us no matter what time we roll in or out, but the receptionist must have run upstairs to deliver a blanket or fix a thermostat.
We stop by the kitchen where leftovers from dinner lay covered on the counter, ready for stragglers from the hospital.
“You barely touched your dinner. Want a snack?” Mom asks.
I’m not really hungry, but I think Mom might need the distraction. I stick out my tongue. She peels back the foil.
“Smoked chicken,” she announces. “Smells good.”
I eat slowly and look around the deserted kitchen. Where is everyone? Normally, other families hang around after dinner to chat and catch up, but I guess everyone turned in early tonight.
We take my last elevator ride up to our room and roll through the door one last time. Gus stands over his bowl, waiting for his last dinner.
We are completely silent. Even Gus, who usually whimpers impatiently for his food, has nothing to say.
I sit in my chair and admire the boring old sameness of our evening routine. Brush teeth, change into pajamas, feed the dog.
A mechanical shriek pierces the room. Dad, his toothbrush dangling from his foaming mouth, throws open the door and finds the hallway echoing with the relentless, pulsating scream of an alarm.
Another wail joins the first. This one is coming from outside. With each passing moment, it grows louder and closer.
Mom yanks open the blinds and stares into the driving, night rain.
“Fire trucks!”
Dad hops around the room on one foot, pulling on tennis shoes as he grabs Gus’s leash.
Mom rolls me out into the hall. We’re met with families streaming toward the stairway in their pajamas. Firefighters, dressed in full-on protective gear, are marching down the hall, banging on doors. One even has a shovel. A shovel!
“Everyone downstairs,” he commands.
Dad pushes the elevator button.
“Sir! You cannot use the elevator!” shovel-guy shouts.
“But my kid is in a wheelchair!”
“You’ll have to use the stairs. Do you need help?”
Ggguuhhh. Please don’t let shovel-guy pick me up!
Dad shakes his head, heaves me onto his shoulder, and we work our way down the stairs with Mom and Gus right behind us.
Downstairs, families are gathered by the entrance, stuck between a fierce thunderstorm on the outside and a potential fire on the inside.
Mom pulls up a chair, and Dad swings me down to her lap.
“It’s a good thing you’re a lightweight, kiddo.” He stretches out his back and smiles.
After about a half hour, the firefighters file down the stairs.
“All clear,” shovel-guy announces. “It was a minor incident on the third floor.”
Families begin to filter back toward the stairway.
“Good luck tomorrow!” Eddie’s mom says.
“It’s tomorrow?” the lady behind her says, wide-eyed.
Mom nods, and the lady gives her a hug. The man behind her clasps Dad on the shoulder and fist bumps me. As families file back upstairs, they stop for a high five, a hug, or a fist bump.
Katy, her thin frame draped in Hello Kitty pajamas, smiles and says, “You’ve got this.”
I try to fist bump her but miss by a mile.
Finally, it’s just us, alone in the lobby.
“I guess we can take the elevator back up. Want me to take her?” Dad asks.
Mom stands up with me, still cradled like a baby in her arms. “No, I’ve got this.”
And together, we make on
e last trip upstairs.
Deep breath in. My story. Breath out.
CHAPTER 38
Age 6, The Year of the Buttered Cat
Sunday night, notes from Dad’s guitar finally filtered through my wall again. It was a jazz tune I had never heard before, but the notes wrapped around me like a warm familiar blanket. Had it really been a week since we both discovered we had been dumped?
I was still miserable, but knowing Dad was getting back to normal made me a less uneasy.
The next day, when Mom sat down with me to spell, my board read, Speeches sometimes start with, “Good morning! I am …”
Geez. She was not gonna let this go. I added my words to hers.
… the Lorax. I speak for the trees.
“Dr. Seuss! Nice!” Mom said, undiscouraged. “Quotes are great but be sure and give credit to the author.”
She wrote, Where do you think assistive technology will take you?
I reached down again.
“I just know before this is over, I’m gonna need a whole lot of serious therapy.”—Donkey, from Shrek
Mom read it twice, first the regular way then again in her best Donkey voice, which was terrible.
“Mom! No. Just No,” Hannah said, poking her head into the den. “You will ruin that movie for all of us.”
“Do you want to give this a shot?”
“Doing Shrek impressions? No thanks!” Hannah flopped onto the couch.
“I mean working with Lexi on her speech. I’m clearly not helping.” Mom stood up and stretched.
Hannah shrugged. “I’ll give it a try.”
She sat behind me and pulled over the cookie sheet. “Let’s see what you have so far.”
I glanced down.
“Seriously? That’s it? Haven’t you been working on this for like a week?”
I arched and screeched.
“Okay, okay, no big deal. It sounds like you have writer’s block.”
Writer’s Block? That sounded serious and official. I spelled, Do I need a doctor?
Hannah snorted. “It’s not a disease. It means you’re having trouble getting your thoughts on paper. It happens to me all the time. Trust me, you need a change of scenery. Are you up for something different?”
Tongue out.
“Wait here,” she said, and she ran out of the room.
In a few minutes, she returned and heaved me onto her shoulder.
“Time for a tea party.”
Hannah had spread a blanket on the floor of my room. On top were three toys and my tea set.
“Welcome to your Assistive Technology Q&A,” she said.
She pointed to a Princess Leia action figure who was holding a black blaster and straddling a pink plastic teacup.
“Lexi, you already know Celeste,” she said. “But did you know on weekends she wears a tunic and hangs out at the firing range?”
I laughed.
She pointed to Mrs. Potato Head and my stuffed owl. “And these ladies are Lois and Toots from the award selection committee. I thought you’d like to ask them some questions.”
She folded me onto her lap and pulled over my cookie sheet.
I spelled, Why me? I have no AT accomplishments.
“Celeste, Lexi wants to know why you nominated her for this award,” Hannah said.
She picked up the Princess Leia doll and turned her to face me. “Well, Buttercup, accomplishments aren’t just the feathers in your cap, they’re also the birds you meet along the way.”
Ggguuhhh. Accomplishments are the feathers in your cap. Obviously.
“No, I’m serious,” Celeste continued. “AT isn’t about a destination, like Cleveland or Atlanta. It’s the collection of road maps and cheap souvenirs and even the argument you have in the back seat because your brother won’t move over when he is clearly in your space …”
The blaster flew from Celeste’s hand, landing in my teacup. We both laughed.
“Buttercup, I nominated you because you have the biggest collection of cheesy road-trip souvenirs I’ve ever seen—and you’re only six. Now excuse me, I need to find my blaster. Speaking of cheesy, is that cheesy bread over there?”
Kasey appeared in the doorway. “What are you guys doing?”
“We’re having a tea party,” Hannah said. “A private tea party.”
Kasey jumped onto my bed and curled up.
Hannah sighed. “We’re working on Lexi’s award speech. She was a little stuck so we’re trying to get ideas flowing.”
“Good idea. Is it working?”
Ggguuhhh.
“The problem is that she doesn’t think she has accomplishments in Assistive Technology.”
Kasey sat up. “Seriously, Lex? You’ve been using that thing since you were a baby. Don’t you think that’s an accomplishment?”
I spelled, This isn’t technology. It’s a cookie sheet. AT is Haha.
Kasey shook her head. “Haha is high-tech assistive technology, but AT isn’t just that.” She typed something into her phone. “This says AT can be anything that helps deal with a problem caused by a disability. If you think about it that way, even my glasses can be AT. Your cookie sheet definitely counts. Now, are you gonna offer me tea or not?”
After that, every afternoon I sat down with Hannah to work on my speech. It was slow going so whenever I got stuck, she would pull out Celeste, Lois, and Toots and let me ask them questions. It was a good thing I had nearly a month, because it took that long to finish.
The Monday before the ceremony Celeste brought Haha to the house. Kasey typed in my speech, and I practiced activating the top button until I was sure I could do it at the presentation. It was a little weird hearing my words come to life. It was like stepping back and seeing for the first time an entire house I had built brick by brick with my own hands. The house was tiny and plain, but it was mine.
“Pretty cool, Lex,” Kasey said. “You’re an author!”
An author? Yes! Kasey was right. Somewhere in the last month, I had stopped spelling and started writing. I let that sink in. Lexi Haas, author.
“So, I found this sound file on the internet and thought you’d like it,” Kasey said.
She showed me a new button she had added to Haha. When I activated it, I nearly jumped out of my wheelchair. The perfect ending.
“Well, I think you’re ready!” Hannah said. She shook my hand. “It’s been nice working with you.”
Ggguuhhh.
“No?”
I pointed to my cookie sheet. There was something else that Lexi Haas, author, needed to say.
Hannah put the cookie sheet on my lap and held my wrist. I wrote, I need to read a letter and write a letter.
CHAPTER 39
Age 6, The Year of the Buttered Cat
Surprisingly, neither Kasey nor Hannah gave any pushback to stealing Dad’s letter. If it really was about me, Kasey pointed out, I had a right to read it.
Later that afternoon, when Mom took Tucker to a dentist appointment, Kasey slipped into Mom’s office. A few minutes later, she returned, envelope in hand. The gold lettering shimmered as she held it up.
“Okay, Lexi, remember: This never happened.”
“Never happened,” agreed Hannah. She waved her hand. “Now hurry up before someone sees us.”
Kasey unfolded the letter and held it up for me to see. Hannah ran a finger under each word:
Dear Ken and Susan,
As much as it pains me to report this, my investigation has been unable to uncover additional information regarding the missing records. I must therefore close this case without offering further representation.
Ken, I will personally bring Lexi’s records by your office next week. At that time, I would be happy to answer any additional questions you may have. I’m sorry I couldn’t provide you with a more satisfying outcome.
Sincerely,
Lou
Louisa Lattimore, J.D.
For a second I stared at the letter, just like Dad had the night it arrived. I tr
ied to wrap my head around the whole thing at once. My missing evidence was just missing records? Records of what? And Lou Lattimore was a woman! No wonder Anna and Elle couldn’t find her online.
Hannah and Kasey looked at me wide-eyed.
“It looks like Mom and Dad had some legal thing going,” Kasey finally said. She pointed to the gold letterhead: Lattimore and Goldmann, Attorneys at Law.
No! Lou Lattimore was a superhero. What the heck was I supposed to do with a lawyer?
“You know, we could ask Mom about it,” Hannah said.
Ggguuhhh.
“Are you insane?” Kasey squeaked. “If she knew we were snooping through her stuff we’d be grounded for a year. We have to make a pact. No one tells. Got it?”
I stuck out my tongue. Hannah nodded. It didn’t really matter. Superhero or lawyer, Lou couldn’t help.
Kasey stuffed the letter back in the envelope and slipped back into Mom’s office.
When she returned, she held up her hands. “There. Mission accomplished. Now, didn’t you say you had a letter to write?”
Friday morning, all seven of us loaded into the van for the nearly three-hour drive to Raleigh for the assistive technology conference where I would receive my award. The meeting was at a fancy hotel, so the trip started with Mom’s standard speech about how we were all going to behave like civilized people.
At the end, her eyes settled on Tucker. He threw up his hands and said, “Why do you always look at me?”
We stopped for gas, and everyone got out to stretch. I looked out the window at Tucker, who was swinging what I thought was an imaginary lightsaber in the parking lot. My arms tingled. I jumped into battle with him. Together, we took out four stormtroopers who were headed back to the Death Star with their Slurpees.
Mom leaned inside the van. “You okay? You were squealing.”
She extended my legs one at a time, then rubbed my hamstrings and calves.
“We’re nearly there. Excited?”
Ggguuhhh.
“Nervous?”
Tongue out.
She smiled. “I’ll be with you the whole time. Plus, Celeste said they’re saving the front row for us. When you look up, you’ll see people you know.”
That thought relaxed me until Dad pulled into the hotel parking lot. My nerves returned, worse than ever. What if my eyes couldn’t find the button on Haha? I pictured myself on stage, my head cranked hard to one side, and everyone laughing.
