by Anne Eliot
“My mother saw it on in our very own living room in Ireland. My Uncle Yann says his parents , who live outside of Paris were watching the video over and over again today!”
“Wow. Really?” I croak out.
Mom goes on, “Mrs. Campbell is still in town—for now. She won’t see anyone and she’s had to have a couple of reporters chased off by police. Instead of dying down, each and every day it seems to get worse. They’ve interviewed the whole high school. Tanner and Cam are now portrayed as rich, spoiled brats with nothing better to do than attack innocent poor people.”
“Innocent, poor, very tragic and disabled girls,” Patrick says. “They love your face and your life story on TV, Ellen.”
My stomach aches. “But it’s not true. None of it’s true.”
Nash picks up my other hand. “Yes, but it’s a good story and if you watch the footage, it looks true. Things will die down, real news should happen eventually and we will all be forgotten, but for today, I chased a photographer away from your pre-op room!”
“Wow.” I blink.
Patrick sighs a sigh so heavy I feel the weight of the room doubling. “The entire Huron High football program has also been suspended because of this.”
“I’m sorry, Patrick. What about those recruiters from Michigan? Will you still be able to apply next fall? You weren’t really in the fight.”
Patrick smiles softly, shooting Laura and I the same, over-protective glance. “I’ll try, but after you got hurt, and after Laura almost tried to murder people with her crazy-tiger-ways, I don’t know what I’m going to do.” He winces as if remembering. “I realized, maybe I want to stick closer to the people I love because they—you two especially—obviously need me.”
“Aww. Patrick, that’s so sweet,” my mom sighs out.
“Really sweet, but not at all necessary.” Laura glares at Patrick and I wonder if they’re fighting?
The circles under Mom’s eyes are so deep, I don’t ask, nor do I argue with Patrick. There will be time for that later. He’s not going to miss out applying to colleges next year with the need to baby sit me as his excuse to fail. I let my eyes travel over Nash who looks equally sad and very sleep deprived.
I reach out and tug Nash’s hand. “When I get better, Nash—everyone—I promise I’ll always have a cane with me. I’m so sorry I put you through all of this.”
“It’s nobody’s fault!” Laura sighs, throwing her arms wide. “Most of all, it’s not your fault, you wee-puny-ninny! You don’t need a cane. What happened to you could have happened to any person who accidently stepped between Cam and Tanner!”
I really want them all to stop looking so somber so I argue, “Let’s be real. If I’d had a cane like I was supposed to, I could have used it to whack the heck out of Tanner and Mr. Campbell. I meet Nash’s gaze, hoping he realizes I’ve given up being stubborn and unrealistic about my CP. I whisper, “I won’t be caught without it again. I promise.”
Nash squeezes my hand. “You won’t need a cane, Ellen.” His voice is sandpaper rough. “You will recover even stronger. I promise.” I can see tears brimming in his eyes, which only makes me feel guiltier and very sad that my attempt to make him laugh a little seems to have backfired. I quickly change the subject.
“So no one, no one at all has heard anything from Cam?”
Mom walks over to a long padded window bench and picks up my cell phone. “He texted. One time. It was really strange, though and off a number that wasn’t in your contacts book.”
My heart flips with hope. “What did it say? How can you know it was him?”
“It must be him. But it was long and strange.”
“It’s Cam,” I choke out. “He’s the king of the long strange text!”
“Here. I’ve been keeping your cell charged in case he texted again and because I knew you’d want to see it right away.” Mom holds out my phone, but she’s not smiling and her face is a mask void of any emotion or hope. Not a good sign.
I read the texts:
Ellen.
Ellen. You there?
Ellen???
I can’t get to you like I’d hoped. I need you to know I’m sorry. So sorry. I did try, but how many times have I failed you now? I can’t even call you because I’m hiding and I don’t want them to hear where I’ve gone! I know you aren’t the type to keep track of failures, but I am. And the number is now so high that I know I must stop trying to be with you, to get to you. Me, failing you, is my pattern, not yours. They began the day you fell into that puddle. The fact that I can’t say this all to you in person is another failure. Now, sending this text is going to make things worse, because I’m sending it off a stolen phone. No time to explain with people beating down the door now because they’ve found me out. I’m typing fast and will hit send when they get through but it’s a strong door. Ha. One they put up for us, that now works against them. I knew you’d wonder and you’d worry about me so I burned my last bridge of today so I could fat least contact you once. After this, I won’t text you anymore. Don’t wait for calls or emails. They aren’t coming and I’m not coming. BC to Ontario would be impossible if we were both living normal lives, but we know we both are not. I can only hope you don’t hate me for breaking your heart, breaking you...how I did. I know you said be patient, but I can’t figure a way out of my messed up life, and my parents will always be my parents. No patience can change that. It is not going to work. Do not wait for me. Don’t. I’m not waiting for you. Please understand it’s not that I don’t care. I do and I want to know you are well. I know you will want to know the same about me. And I’m fine enough, but it’s like what you said from the very beginning about us. We are too young and we don’t—can’t—match. That point is so obvious and so real to me now that I’m so far away. I’m bad for you. Even now, I can see your face crumpling with sadness because of these words. I’m tired of hurting you and I refuse to go on with this. It was only two weeks, right? Only two weeks. It’s possible we weren’t even in love. Not really. I’m so sor—
I let the phone drop to my lap.
“Delete it. Someone. Please. I never want to see that again.”
Nash picks it up and looks at me doubtfully. “You sure? Want me to save the number? I took the liberty of calling it back when the text came in, but the voice mail said the phone belonged to a lady who was a school librarian? I could call it back again if you want?”
“No…he said he stole the phone so…that could be awkward. He also said he was—you know—not coming back. So…no.” I whisper, “Delete it.”
I glance down at my bandaged, casted legs and the ankle where I had the surgery. And even though I’m trying to be so strong and positive, I break down and cry in front of everyone. I seek solace in the fact that Cam and I actually discussed what would happen if his parents took him away. I imagine him how he was during that last game. Frustrated. Trapped. Angry. But staring at me like I was a lifeline.
But that was before…before he broke my legs.
I shake my head to clear it. Even I’m starting to do it. Cam did not break my legs. It was an accident. An accident.
*Thinks: Patience. Patience. That’s what I said to him. Wonders: Is this what love is? Is this why people say it hurts? Do I have enough for both of us?*
I swallow down the last of my tears and take in the gruesome wires, metal screws and creepy long pins sticking out of my skin where the two big breaks are setting. I wince a little as I try more toe wiggles and both legs begin to throb as my medication wears off.
It’s a good sign.
I know that when the pain starts, I’m allowed to begin work.
And I couldn’t hurt more right now—inside or out.
*Closes eyes. Dries up all the tears. Refuses to believe the words in that text and wishes that Cam would walk through the door. Wishes it
again. And again. And again. And again. And again.*
coming soon
How I Fly the romantic sequel to How I Fall
Two weeks later:
“Ellen. Ellen. Can you hear me? Wake up. It’s important.” It’s my mom. I don’t want to talk to my mom. Or my best friend, Patrick, or Laura my other best friend, or Nash my physical therapist, who’s been acting more and more like he’s my dad ever since I fell and broke both of my legs.
Why do they all keep coming in here?
Don’t they get it? I only want to talk to my boyfriend—the boyfriend who has done exactly what he said he would do. He has not called me, or texted me, or come to find me ever since this nightmare started.
Ever since he broke up with me over text with what I think was a stolen cell phone.
Ever since he broke my heart.
Still, I don’t care.
Still, though I should hate him, I don’t.
I’ve decided not to speak or move until he shows up and tells me this was all a joke. Maybe if I stop eating and do some sort of silent protest, my mom and my physical therapist, who’s practically like my dad will get themselves across Canada to British Columbia—the last known place Camden Campbell, my boyfriend—was last heard from!
It worked for Gandhi…and didn’t all his starving and suffering somehow change the world? Or did he die from that idea?
I sigh, already giving up my starvation idea. I’m too hungry to starve and if I get all weak then I won’t be able to complete my PT for the day and get one step closer getting these double-broken-leg casts and pins out of my skin and off of my body.
*Says Cam’s name to drown out all people talking out in the hall plus the stupid hospital’s beeping machine sounds, and my mom’s voice which is growing louder and louder: Cam, Cam, Cam, Cam, Cam….*
“Ellen. I know you’re awake.”
*Cam, Cam, Cam, Cam, Cam….*
“A letter came to the house. It was all tattered and messed up like it had been caught in one of the machines. I think you will want to see it.”
My eyes pop open.
“It’s from…”
“Cam?” I ask, struggling to sit up, rejecting Mom’s offered helping hand. The faster I don’t need anyone’s help, the quicker I can get out of this place. “I knew it. I knew he couldn’t stand to stop talking to me. I knew it!”
“It’s not what you think.” Mom’s shaking her head while she helps me adjust the bed. “I almost didn’t bring it to show you, but I did.”
“Why would you not want to show it to me?”
“Because I can’t lie to you and because what’s inside is so sweet and beautiful that it’s going to break your heart even more, that’s why. It’s everything you want to hear and everything you shouldn’t have in your head while trying to get over Cam Campbell.”
“You read my mail? Mom!”
“I thought it was a letter from your school. Look.” She holds up an envelope with the Huron High logo on it. It’s all crumpled and bumpy looking and it appears one half of it was taped up by the post office in an attempt to keep it together. My heart twists when I recognize Cam’s scrawling handwriting on the front. “According to the postmark, it looks like he sent it just before the accident—before everything—happened.”
“Before?” My heart’s already sinking as I pull it out of her fingers. It’s not a normal letter, that’s for sure. Heavy. And bumpy like something’s in it besides just a letter.
As I open tightly folded piece of paper, two rough pieces of weathered glass fall out of the envelope, glinting brightly against the thick, white cotton hospital blanket covering my lap. One is white-yellowish, the other a shining blue. Even before I touch them, I know it’s some of that lake glass he was telling me about.
Dear Ellen…
Stole this fancy paper and this pre-stamped envelope from the front office because that’s what my insane parents have driven me into by trying to keep me from talking to you this week.
Facebook official for only a handful of days and I’m already breaking the law. Hope that’s not going to be a pattern. ;) Wish I could see you. Miss your face so much. Miss your lips so much more.
Just looking at your name written here is killing me with horrible longing. The thought that you will read this letter and smile while holding it in a few days time makes me really happy. Hopefully by then this, and my dad’s stupidity, will all be resolved. Maybe we will get to open it together so I can explain my sappiness? Bribe you not to show this letter to anyone?
Do you remember the first day we set up the ropes and you said you might go beachcombing with me? I think the exact word you used was: ‘maybe’? The beach glass in this envelope is a preview. A present. An invitation for a piggy back ride on the next sunny day. No more maybes. I know all of your secrets now.
I love you, Ellen Foster. So much it hurts.
I’m so happy you became my friend and also my girlfriend. And fine, I know you don’t need me to write it again. But you also know me, blab blab worry worry, right? So while my parents try to break us apart I wanted you to not wonder about how serious I am about you. So here it is.
I love you, Ellen Foster. Keep in your heart?
In the meantime, I’m going to fix this. All of it.
Your boyfriend,
—Love (snuck it in there again, didn’t I?) Cam—
I fold the letter carefully and place it back into the envelope, and then slide it under my pillow. “See Mom? He does love me. And if he wrote all those words when he sent this, then he loves me still despite what that horrible text message said. I know it.
“Maybe so, honey. Maybe so.” Mom walks over to the hospital window. “It’s a very sweet letter. But again, he wrote it before. Do you know their house has gone up for sale? I don’t want you to get your hopes up, honey. That’s all. You have to be realistic if he never comes back here. If you haven’t heard from him in another month, please don’t...waste too much time...”
“I won’t. I know.” I sigh, already memorizing the beach glass by warming it against my cheeks. “I love how the pieces he picked are sort of jagged. Not worn too soft yet. This is new-beach glass. Still taking shape. Like us.” I hold them up to the light, loving how the blue one reminds me of the lake. “I wonder how long it takes before this glass would weather enough to look like a real stone. Do you know?”
Mom walks back over to get a closer look. “A long time, I would guess. They are really pretty, though.”
“I wonder if I can make these into a pendant somehow. I’ll pretend they’re a Christmas present from him.”
Mom forces a smile and puts on her change-the-subject voice. “My Christmas present will be when you are finally checked out of this hospital and home with me. That’s what Nash is hoping for. Our Ellen, home for Christmas Eve.”
I don’t answer. I’ve already chosen the spot on each piece of beach glass where I’m going to glue a silver pendant loop.
I know what I’m hoping for, and it’s going to happen. It will.
*Thinks: Patience. Patience. Cam. Cam. Cam. *
Find out more about the upcoming release dates for the final book in this two book series: How I Fly. For more information, check Anne Eliot’s Author Central Page at Amazon.com or her website,
www.anneEliot.com . …
inspiration for the story
The character of Ellen Foster is fictional, but her Cerebral Palsy symptoms and hemiparesis/balance issues loosely match what an amazing teen (and I girl I’m proud to call my friend) named Allison Winn, faces every single day. Her condition was not brought on by CP, but was brought about due to complications Allison suffered after the removal of a childhood brain tumor which resulted in side effects that will be with her for the rest of her life.
De
spite all that sadness, with the help of her mom, Dianna, dad Brian, the patience of her sister, Emily, and the inspiration from a tiny rescued dog named Coco, Allison was inspired to help other kids by baking dog biscuits (thousands of them) so she could raise money to help other kids like her. These biscuits were hand sold by Allison for months (and now years) so other sick kids and sad families could afford to adopt a fully trained dog from a very special program into their lives.
At age nine, Allison’s goal was to raise enough money so one special trained dog could be placed with a kid who had life threatening issues. She met that goal, and that same year adopted out 10 dogs with the sales of her dog treats! Now she’s fourteen and her project has a name: The Stinkbug Project. Stinkbug has now adopted out 40+ dogs to kids who live around the Rocky Mountain Region all because Allison never gives up baking. Now so many people help to raise awareness while others donate baking and packaging supplies and volunteer to help Allison bake and sell the treats.
This girl, who soon will be an amazing woman, is now cancer free but she still works tirelessly at baking and selling biscuits for what has become a thriving community charity effort. The trained dogs are all rescued dogs who come from the very special, Colorado based, K-9 correctional dog training program. Adoptions and applications for a dog are now handled via the Rocky Mountain Children’s Health Foundation. More information about The Stinkbug Project, Allison, and RMHF can be found at:
