Eleven Things I Promised

by Catherine Clark

  She hung up before I had a chance to press further. But that was okay. We’d made a start.

  CHAPTER 20

  When I walked into her house Sunday morning, Stella was in a wheelchair.

  She was wearing a couple of layered T-shirts over a pair of shorts, and her damaged leg, which now ended above her knee, was wrapped in a few layers of beige ACE bandages. Cheeto was perched in the wheelchair beside her—mangy old Cheeto, whom she’d thrown across the hospital room a few weeks back.

  Stella’s shiny brown hair fell over her shoulders, looking almost the same as it always did—there were some wispy strands that she would need to grow out. But the bandages were finally gone from her face, and the superficial wounds she’d gotten had all but disappeared.

  She looked like she usually did, for the most part.

  “Wow. You look great,” I said, amazed at how much she’d changed in a week.

  “You were only gone for a week,” she replied.

  “I know,” I said. “But you look better.”

  “Meanwhile, you’ve changed completely. What—your hair. Did you bleach it?”

  “Kind of,” I said. “I mean, yes.”

  “I like it.”

  “It’s impossible to comb out for some reason. And Max wouldn’t stop calling me ‘Blondie,’ which is highly tacky.”

  “He’s like that. But he’s nice, right?”

  I thought of all the help and support Max had given me over the past week. “He’s very decent,” I said. “Although he always has to try to hook up with someone, which can drive you crazy after a while.”

  “Speaking of which, I’m going stir-crazy. Get me out of here already,” she said.

  I unlocked the wheelchair’s wheels, and after Stella had a quick chat with Mrs. Grant about how long we’d be gone—I still had no idea where she wanted to go—we headed out the door.

  The Grants had had a short ramp constructed while I was gone, and Stella easily—at least it seemed so to me—wheeled herself down it and over to my mom’s car. I carefully helped her into the passenger side, sliding her over from the chair.

  “I can use crutches, you know,” she said. “Want to go back and get those instead of that bulky chair?”

  “This is fine. Besides, your mom might not let us go if she thinks about it too long,” I said. “Do up your seat belt.”

  I opened the trunk, prepared to store the wheelchair inside. A puff of peach fabric was taking up the whole right side of it. I pulled, and out came the ridiculous curtain dress I’d been trying on when I got the call about Stella, way back when. I had torn the bottom some, so it was nonreturnable. Still, I needed to go to Flanberger’s at some point and settle up with Phyllis. I was surprised she hadn’t tracked me down yet, but maybe she’d forgotten the incident. I’d been trying to, myself.

  I grabbed the dress, which still had its tags attached, and stuffed it into the backseat to make room. Then I collapsed the wheelchair—I’d done the same with my grandfather’s a few times—and put it in the trunk.

  When I got into the car, it felt a little odd to be sitting beside Stella’s changed body, but not all that different. “So, where do you want to go? Dunkin’ Donuts? Somewhere else for coffee? I know a place where I can get you a sweet discount on hash browns,” I joked.

  “No, I’m not hungry,” Stella said.

  “Oh. Well, what did you have in mind?” The fact that she wanted to get together was good enough for me; I didn’t care what we did or if we did anything at all.

  “I need you to take me there,” she said.

  “Where?”

  “You know where. The spot. The place,” she said.

  “Stells. Are you talking about . . .”

  “Exactly. I have to see it,” she said. “And why are you driving like an old lady? Are you worried you’re going to break me or something? I’m fine.”

  “I haven’t driven in a week—I don’t know,” I said. “I’ve never been good at driving and talking.”

  “True,” she said. “You tend to miss turns and major exits. Just take Concord Street to 12 to 91 and slow down when we get to the dairy farm. I’ll recognize the bend in the road when we get closer.”

  “Are you sure?” I asked.

  “Yes. I’ve asked my parents and they keep putting it off,” she said. “My dad told me there are cards and flowers marking the spot. Even now. A month later. Can you believe it?”

  “I guess—I haven’t been past there either,” I said. I hadn’t been going out of my way, exactly, but I had a vague idea of the location and I’d avoided it, unintentionally or not.

  “That was such a beautiful day. Remember?” she said, tapping her fingers on the top of the door. She’d rolled down her window, so I opened mine, too, and popped the sunroof on my mom’s Honda. “I got out of my last class early because the sub never showed up. I took off as fast as I could. Wait—slow down. I think that’s it, up ahead.”

  I gently put on the brakes and glanced in the rearview mirror to see if anyone was coming up behind us. Nobody was, so I slowed down even more and pulled over onto the gravel shoulder. I didn’t get far enough over on my first attempt, so I backed up and straightened out the car, making sure I left plenty of room for cars to safely pass us.

  I turned off the engine and we sat there, staring straight ahead, at a bizarre little display of items: a very large pink teddy bear, a pile of other stuffed animals, bouquets of flowers both real and fake, a big piece of poster board covered with messages, a bike pump stuck in the ground like a flagpole.

  We sat there for a few minutes, saying nothing, just watching cars go by us, hearing their engines zoom, their tires humming on the pavement. The air outside smelled as ripe as a cow pasture can smell in spring.

  “Why?” Stella said. “That’s what I keep asking myself.”

  “Why . . . would people leave flowers way out here?” I asked.

  “No. Why was I there right then? Why didn’t I move over more? What was wrong with that driver? I mean, they say it wasn’t her fault, in the accident report. It was nobody’s fault.”

  “I’m sure it wasn’t your fault. It doesn’t make sense—it’s one of those random wrong place, wrong time things—”

  “It has to make sense, Franny. Everything ultimately has to make sense.” She opened the car door and started to pull herself out. She was balancing on one foot.

  I raced around the car and offered my arm, and she put hers around my shoulder. She’d take one step, then we’d swing through the next step together. Just like when someone was injured at dance.

  “People go nuts wanting to say they’re sorry for other people. But it just makes everyone look at the accident place over and over. What good does that do? It’s just a place,” Stella said.

  “But it’s a place where something pretty awful happened. Maybe this could warn people, in the future?” I offered.

  “Then we’ll get a highway sign put here. ‘Dangerous Curve Ahead’ or ‘Share the Road.’ That’ll be a little more helpful than a Beanie Baby.” She frowned at the jumble of assorted mementos on the ground in front of us. “I don’t want to leave anything here. I want it to be gone. As long as it’s still here, it’s like I’m stuck at that moment. Like my life ended. And it didn’t.”

  “Then let’s get rid of it. I can bag it up. Let’s get you back to the car first, though.”

  “Do you think I could sit here for a second?” asked Stella.

  “On the side of the road? I don’t know. And what about getting up?”

  “I have arms, silly.”

  I helped her sit just off the gravel, on the grass even farther over, so her bare legs wouldn’t get scraped. Then I jogged back to the car and got two reusable shopping bags from under the front seat. I started gathering the flowers, stuffed animals, and everything else.

  Stella sat in the grass, absentmindedly touching the blades with her fingers, running her hands back and forth. Apparently she hadn’t been allowed to spend to
o much time outdoors over the past several weeks. She was desperate for fresh air and green grass.

  “Franny. Franny! Look at this.”

  I stopped filling the bags and turned to her. She was holding up a small piece of metal. “What?” I asked, walking closer.

  “It’s part of my bike. It’s half of my light—it’s the inside of the light. Holy crap. How would you even—make that happen?” She suddenly started to cry. To sob.

  I sat down and put my arm around her shoulders, and she leaned against me. We probably sat there for fifteen minutes, just like that, while cars went past, slowed, gawked at us, as if an accident had just happened.

  “You girls okay?” a milk truck driver called to us.

  “Fine!” I shouted back.

  “Nothing to see here,” said Stella, and we started giggling all of a sudden. “It’s like they’ve never seen someone sit on the ground before. What is wrong with people?”

  Back in the car with the bags of mementos stashed behind my seat, I handed Stella my mom’s tablet, which had the slide show cued to begin. After I’d heard from Stella the night before, I’d stayed up late getting photos from everyone. Elsa and Cameron had come over and helped me edit it into a slide show of epic proportions—with sound effects, music, and labels.

  Now, as Stella hit play, the whole trip began to spill out, from the first horrible ride in the van to Oxendale’s awkward dancing, to my posing for a toast with Scully, and my attempts to start a food fight.

  “You really did do my list,” she said slowly. “That’s why you bleached your hair.”

  “Seemed important to you,” I said. “And I needed something to do besides be last.”

  During the piercing scene, suddenly the screen view slammed sideways and went black.

  “That’s when Mason fainted,” I said.

  “Why was Mason there?” she asked.

  “Oh. Well, I needed a ride in order to get to the tattoo place,” I said. That was true, but that wasn’t why he’d been there. But we were doing so well; I didn’t want to go into that story. I didn’t want to rush things too much.

  “Why couldn’t you just go on your bike?”

  “Because I’m not you!” I said.

  Stella was laughing, snorting, gasping with surprise when she saw us all balanced on the lobster boat sculpture. While she couldn’t hear us yelling, I’d added a caption that spelled out STELLLLLLLLLLLLA!

  “I hate that play, movie, whatever,” she said. “I hate Tennessee Williams for writing it, and I hate Marlon Brando for being good and making it a thing you have to watch in school.”

  “At least you’re not named Blanche,” I said. “’Cause she gets the worst of it.”

  “If I never read that play again, it’ll be too soon,” Stella muttered.

  The slide show ended with the scene of all of us saying good-bye and signing our shirts.

  “This ride looks like it was completely out of control,” Stella said.

  “No, it—well, was it? I don’t know. I’ve never done it before.”

  “Can’t say that anymore,” Stella reminded me. She let out a loud sigh. “I’m actually glad everyone knows. I couldn’t stand pretending anymore. And it’s not like I can hide the fact that I’m going to be . . . you know.”

  “So what’s the plan?” I asked. “For your leg.”

  “They have these amazing prosthetics with computers now. I mean, it won’t be the same. But it’s—you know, I’ll be able to walk again. It’s going to take time. It’s a ton of work. That’s the thing they keep warning me about. How hard it is.”

  “Good thing you like work. And good thing summer’s coming. I’ve got nothing but time,” I said.

  “Yes, but you’re not a physical therapist.”

  “No. But I can come with you every day,” I said. “I can even drive you.”

  “Good point,” she said. “I guess I will need some help. For a while. Until I get used to the new normal.”

  We both groaned. “Did you really just say that?” I asked.

  “We’d better get going,” Stella said, “before my mom and dad panic.”

  “Let’s drive a little bit farther,” I said. “We can call and tell them everything’s fine.”

  “What did you have in mind?” Stella asked as I started the car and checked my mirrors before pulling back onto the road.

  “I don’t know. Let’s just drive for a while. I haven’t really seen you in, like, a month. We have some catching up to do. So, I was wondering,” I said. “Do you think I did everything on the F-It List the way you meant?”

  “I’m not sure. I might have to watch the slide show a few more times,” she said. “I might have to check with some people who were actually there, and not just take your word for it.”

  “Good. Because they’d love to meet up, anytime you’re ready,” I said. “We even have an extra shirt for you.”

  “I don’t know. I’ve been getting fitted for my prosthetic leg. It’s cool-looking, I’ll give it that. But they say it takes a while to learn how to walk with it, even after all the adjustments and fittings and stuff. Plus you have to keep what’s left of your leg strong, so I’m in physical therapy for that.”

  “It’s a lot to take on. You’ll get there, though. I have complete confidence. And we’ll do the ride next year, you know,” I said.

  “We will,” Stella said. “I haven’t decided what kind of bike to get. Dad’s researching it. I’m sure he’ll buy the most expensive one. I’ll probably be faster than you. Just a heads-up.”

  “Of course, that goes without saying. But in the afternoons, you’ll ride beside me so that I finish. That goes without saying, too.” I drove faster, pushing the accelerator, hitting sixty as the road straightened out.

  I had opened the sunroof wider, and behind me, the peach dress was rippling in the wind, making an annoying sound.

  Stella reached behind me and pulled the cascading ruffles of gauzy material up to the front seat. “What is this?” she asked.

  “It’s the stupid dress I was trying on at Flanberger’s when you—when your dad called. I ran out of the store and—do you remember me standing in your hospital room with it on?” I asked.

  “God, no. You didn’t buy this, did you?”

  “Not exactly,” I said.

  “So why do you still have it? And why does it feel like a curtain?”

  “Phyllis said it was magical,” I said.

  “Phyllis has been working at that store since 1842,” Stella said, and we both laughed.

  She reached up, holding the dress in her hands, pushing with her good leg, forcing the material through the sunroof. Before she could even let go, the wind grabbed the dress, sucking it into the air, and I watched it billow out behind us like a sail that had snapped loose from its mast.

  Fly like you mean it, bad-luck dress.

  “Looks like you need another prom dress,” said Stella.

  “Or not,” I said. “Because were we really going to go, anyway?”

  “Yeah. Of course we’re going,” she said. “Just not wearing that nightmare.”

  CHAPTER 21

  “This isn’t a date,” Cameron said when I came out the garage door, walking my bike to the curb. He was dressed in a black vintage suit jacket with a white shirt, classic skinny tie, skinny jeans, and gray Converse sneakers.

  “Nope,” I agreed, carefully getting onto my bike.

  “But we are riding into the sunset on bikes,” Cameron pointed out, “wearing semiformal clothes, so some people could construe this as something completely different.”

  “They wouldn’t do that,” I said, “would they?” My long, striped, stretchy dress was going to get in the way of the pedals, so I cinched the bottom into a knot at knee length. The three-inch heels of my strappy shoes dangled off the back of the pedals, while I wore my beaded black mini purse across my body like the world’s smallest messenger bag.

  Even tonight, I had to wear a helmet. I knew that my hair wou
ld spring right back into a semi-decent style once I got to school and put a little water in it. My neck was bare, which felt odd as I started riding. This dress did not cover me nearly enough, I realized, with its tie at the back of the neck, open back, and the questionable lingerie I had on underneath. I needed one of those billowy scarves that I’d seen in prom photos, but getting the dress at the last minute had been hard enough. Overnight shipping had saved me.

  “God, I hate prom. I hate anything resembling prom,” Cameron complained as we rode down the bike path, front bike lights flashing. We were the only ones on the path, which I didn’t mind. It meant we could ride side by side.

  “You’re making a huge sacrifice. I get it,” I said. “But it’s for Stella. Which is why I’m about to get bike grease on this dress, catch it in the spokes, then tangle my shoes in the pedals.”

  “I don’t do prom.”

  “No, I don’t either,” I said. “Usually.”

  “Actually, I’ve never even been before, but I already know I hate it.” Cameron laughed. “I don’t even like looking at fashion spreads of formal wear, and this is like ten thousand steps above that.”

  “Why would you like it? It’s a dance. And you don’t dance,” I said to Cameron. “As a rule.”

  “A very good rule, I might add.”

  We kept on pedaling to school. I’d thought Stella would be doing this tonight, not me. She was the one who’d planned for it.

  Instead, I’d wanted to drive and pick up Stella, but Mom didn’t want me to drive on prom night, afraid of the worst, and Stella’s parents insisted on bringing her and on picking her up. It made sense. They’d offered to give me a ride, but since I was trying to make sure everyone on the bike trip team went to prom, I had to go this way in order to convince Cameron to go.

  Ten minutes later we zipped into the high school lot, which had a large sign—Mighty Sparrows Parking Only—in our school colors. Invariably, pigeons were the birds that liked to sit on the sign, leaving their marks on the cars that dared to park directly beneath it when all the other spots were taken.

  A few limousines idled at the curb by the gym entrance. Cameron and I coasted to the bike rack near it. I carefully scooted off my bike, undid the knot, and let my dress fall to its full length. Then I took off my helmet and shook out my hair before crouching down to lock my bike. I had just finished when I heard a familiar voice ask, “Frances? That you?”