I groan. “The full-on wheelchair it is.”
She helps me back to the bed to sit, then returns to the closet and backs the wheelchair out of its corner, running it over her foot in the process. “Damn!”
“Sorry,” I call out.
“It’s cool.” She blows the hair off her face. “After you’re done with this contraption, I might have to exact some kind of revenge on it.”
I lay back on the bed. “I get that.” My legs ache. My back throbs. My head feels way too heavy for my neck to hold.
Mom throws the door open. “Oh, Jenna,” she says as she sits next to me on the bed. “Are you sure you want to do this?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay.” She looks at Rena. “Just grab some clothes for her and get ready yourself. I’ll take care of your sister.” Then she turns back to me. “Let me just call the school and make certain they’ve got an aide ready for you.”
And now my head hurts even more. “Not Mrs. Wilson.”
“You’ll take what you get, deciding to go into school after a procedure with no notice.” Mom’s in full-swing planning mode now. I want to argue. I want to remind her I told her I’d go last night, but it’s not worth it. If it’s Mrs. Wilson, it’s Mrs. Wilson. I’ll just have to deal.
* * *
Mom works the lift on the van and straps my wheelchair in. She hands me my shake. My hands tremble a little as I reach for it, and I’m almost positive Mom’s going to abort the mission. Instead, her face softens, and she cups her hand under mine, bringing the straw to my mouth. “You need some nutrition in you.”
“Thanks,” I say, and I hope she knows it’s for everything. A big part of me is still upset with Mom after my discovery this summer. But then Mom does so much for me—my whole family does—and I can’t help but feel grateful for that.
Rena hops to the car, pulling her boots on, a toasted waffle hanging from her mouth. She opens the front passenger door. Rena only sits up front when she wants something. Mom eyes her, waiting for Rena to click her seat belt on, and then backs out of the driveway.
It doesn’t take long for Rena to start making her case. “I’ve got to stay after today.”
Mom harrumphs and drums her fingers on the steering wheel.
Rena puts her foot on the dashboard and ties the laces on her boots, talking around the waffle. “It’s just today. I’ll come home at the normal time tomorrow.”
We get stuck at a stoplight, and Mom swats at Rena’s foot, then wipes the mark her boot made. She edges us forward in the traffic that is already backing up even before 7:00 a.m. “I need your help.”
“I’ve got to finish my design for the fashion show. You want me to fail?” Rena gestures wildly, and the waving of her arms sort of pulls my eyes in a car-sick-inducing way. I don’t need that today, so I glance away. The drama is strong with the girls in my family.
The auxiliary cord is hooked to my car iPod, so I toggle until I get to a song I want to hear. Now tracking in the van? “It’s Alright” by Weekend.
Rena grabs the coffee mug Mom loaded for her, takes a swig, and then salutes me with it. “Great song, Jenna.”
Mom’s eyes flit to Rena, then to me. A tiny smile forms on her lips because as annoyed as she gets with us all, she’s always happy about how close we are. “All right,” she tells Rena, “but when you get home, you’re mine.”
“Drama queen much, Mom?” Rena twists to wink at me.
Mom swats at Rena half-heartedly. The mood in the van magically shifts from cranky to light as Rena sings. “Sings sweet. Walks tall. Holds me upright.”
The lyrics reach inside me and squeeze my heart. Will I ever bring sunshine or hold someone upright? I will never sing sweet, that’s for sure. But now I know what doing those things would sound like and feel like. Music and stories do that to me. Slay me and heal me all with the same sword.
Rena chews, slurps her coffee, and does the hipster head bob to the music. Like the voice said in my head yesterday, it’s so easy. She means life. My life. And anything I want to do. Jennifer is the eternal optimist.
As Mom pulls into the school driveway, she says, “Your brother is coming in for your birthday weekend. We’re having a ton of family.”
“He is?” I ask from the cheap seats in the back.
“Yup. In two weeks. He’ll stay through the weekend.”
And suddenly nothing feels bad. Eric’s coming home. Eric. Rena. Me. They need a song for how great that feels. There may be no making me not have CP. There may be no rom-com happy ending for me. But when I’m with Eric and Rena, everything feels exactly the way it’s supposed to.
Mom swings the van up to the curb where my school aide stands ready to retrieve me. It’s Mrs. Wilson. I do my level best not to scowl.
Rena swivels around to face me. “See you at lunch.” She gives me a two-finger salute, and I try to return it. My fingers are slightly squashed together, because it’s morning, and my hands need a little time to wake up, but I make a decent attempt. Rena doesn’t acknowledge how sloppy I am, just blows me a kiss and picks up speed as she joins the ranks of the able-bodied.
Mom unloads me onto the sidewalk next to the handicapped space in the parking lot. “You call if you want to come home, okay?” she pats her pocket. “I’ve got my cell on, and I’m just a few minutes away.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
She looks at me one more time, her breath fogging out in front of her. October in Connecticut can serve up some cold days, for sure, but this one feels particularly cool.
“It’s going to snow,” Mrs. Wilson says, stepping forward, her arms wrapped around her chest. “Mark my word. Hi, Jenna.” Her voice is loud and grating on my already frayed nerves, but I smile and throw her a small wave.
Mom gives Mrs. Wilson a list of things to look for if I push too hard today. “Seizure, migraine…” she drones on while the wind blows, and I shrug into my coat. “Try to get her to eat something. She hasn’t been able to keep anything down.”
“I’ve got it,” Mrs. Wilson says. “Let’s get her out of the cold.”
For once, I agree with her.
Four
I drive my wheelchair down the halls of Harrington High, and Mrs. Wilson trails behind me. The sound of her boots on the cold floors propels me forward.
I’m closing in on the guidance office. Ben usually meets me in this hallway, but he’s nowhere in sight. I pull my phone out and check for messages. Sure enough.