by Nancy Allan
“Hey! Ashla. Hello?” They looked at me questioningly.
Tara summed it up. “He’s got it all. That’s for sure. Looks, money, and fame.”
“That’s just peachy,” I said.
The girls looked at each other, an unspoken message passing amongst them. “Hey, Ashla,” Brenna said, “Tara and I are going to go. You look pretty tired.”
We hugged. “The card is really nice,” I said, “and I love the microphone, er, I mean the roses.”
When they were gone, Celeste looked me in the eye, the one that wasn’t black and swollen. “Fess up,” she demanded.
I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. I wanted to tell her, but the words lodged in my throat. “It’s the concussion, that’s all. Messes up everything.”
“I’m your best friend, Ashla, remember? You can’t fool me.”
I gave it some thought. “This is just between us, right?”
Celeste nodded. “Always.”
“The resort says Justin was the last skier down the mountain before they closed the run.”
Her eyes grew wide as the meaning of this struck her. “So are they saying you are responsible for his injuries?”
“Apparently.”
Celeste moaned, “Just wait ‘till that tidbit hits the news.”
“Truth is, if I hadn’t been flying down the West Face at that exact moment, Justin would be in the village right now, partying with his friends instead of in a hospital bed with two broken legs.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Seattle, two weeks later…
I slogged through the rain as early darkness descended like a wet wrap. Looking ahead, the welcome yellow glow from the windows of our older two-story home came into view. I had been out of the hospital for two weeks but had not gone back to school or been allowed any physical activity. The doctor said even the slightest bump could re-injure my brain.
I was going stir crazy doing nothing.
So, when Linda Murphy, coordinator for volunteers at Harborside Medical Center called to ask if I would once again volunteer at the therapy pool this season, I happily agreed while silently promising myself to be careful. Like many hospitals, Harborside relied on volunteers. Celeste and I, along with the rest of our swim team have done this sporadically over the past two years. It wasn’t much to give back in exchange for the hospital’s ongoing sponsorship of our team.
Within minutes of Linda’s call, an idea began to form. Justin had been transferred to Harborside from Vancouver. For the past two weeks, I had agonized over his future and imagined him in a wheelchair forever. Had I destroyed his entire life? Would he ever walk again? Questions like those and constant worry over his broken legs haunted my dreams. Daytime thoughts were around what I had done to him, so it all came down to one thing. I had to see him and find out for myself how bad things really were before I lost my mind. I had to find a way to make things right . . . somehow.
But how do I do that without him recognizing me? I was certain the mere sight of me would freak him right out.
Thanks to Linda, a plan began to form, and I set off on a shopping trip. The outcome was now tucked under my arm. I climbed our front steps, opened the door to our warm, welcoming home, and was immediately assailed by squeals of little voices and laughter. A row of miniature shoes and boots lined the brightly painted hall and small winter coats hung from hooks above them. Not yet five o’clock, Mom’s home daycare was still in full swing. I hung my wet things on the coat rack to drip dry and headed for the kitchen. Thinking of a hot drink, I dropped my backpack and shopping bag onto the kitchen table.
Even though Mom was busy inside the daycare area, she heard my arrival and had mentally tracked me to the kitchen. She called out, “Hi, Ashla. Could you unload the dishwasher while you’re in there? And put the lasagna in the oven? Three fifty, please. Thank you . . .” I filled the kettle, turned it on, and then pulled a package of hot chocolate from the cupboard.
Neither of my parents had spoken to me about the whole Whistler ski disaster or the fact that I had misled them about it; so now, I was packing around a ton of guilt and felt like a total jerk. When I asked to borrow Mom’s car to go to the mall, she had refused without explanation, so maybe that was my punishment, or maybe she was following doctor’s orders.
A young voice interrupted my thoughts. “Buy me something?”
I swung around to see five-year-old Anika standing behind me. She was a miniature likeness of our father with his dark hair and eyes. Fortunately, she had inherited his calm, complacent nature as well as inquisitive ways. Her pudgy fingers probed my plastic shopping bag.
“Anika! Don’t sneak up on me like that.” Feeling suddenly neglectful for forgetting her treat, I knelt down and hugged her. “I didn’t bring you anything this time, Sweetie, but I promise that I’ll bring you two bags of gummies tomorrow.”
Her pretty little lips turned upward, the smile lighting up her button face. “Two,” Anika said, and held up two fingers. “Okay, Ashla,” she sang happily and planted a kiss on my chin before turning and racing off.
As I stood, I caught sight of my grandmother, a skeletal apparition hovering inside the kitchen door. The older woman had ghosted into the kitchen and was standing rock still in the far corner of the room, her white curly hair—once my color, was wild around her head. Her eyes, like pinpoint lasers, were honed in on me. She held Crossbow, her white Siamese cat. Even he appeared to be sneering at me. Hoping to miss whatever caustic remark she was about to fire my way—something she did with relish—I snatched my things off the table and started out of the kitchen.
“Hold it!” The screech sent shivers up my spine. “Get back in here and do what your mother said. Now!”
I froze, my nerves jangling. My maternal grandmother had moved in with us a year ago, after my grandfather passed away. Her presence in our household had been absolute agony. She was an ornery, nasty, vile, unhappy—oh, I could go on—woman whose disposition left her friendless. Her acerbic remarks could empty a room faster than a fire. We never took her out with us, and since her arrival into our home, we no longer had guests over. I turned away, my own sharp tongue, probably inherited from this woman, was forming a forbidden phrase. I bit down on my lip.
“You hear me?” she shouted.
Silently, I dropped my pack and slid the lasagna into the oven. Firing a dirty look her way, I opened the dishwasher door and carefully put everything away, throwing a glance in her direction as I finished. She was still there, like a prison guard, watching over me. I grabbed my bags and tried once again to escape.
“Oh, no you don’t. The table needs setting. It’s time you took some responsibility and helped out around here. Your mom has taken on five more kids and an assistant to help her in the daycare. Your dad is working two hard jobs just to cover your darned hospital bills. You’re the plague, you are.”
I stared at her. The words stung. I knew the hospital bills were going to be a burden and today I had applied at numerous places for an after school job. Even if I did get one of those positions, the pay wouldn’t contribute much, but it was the best I could do.
Dad no longer had his old job at the engineering firm and with it had gone all our health insurance and other benefits. He had worked there faithfully for over twenty years. I didn’t know what had gone wrong. Mom just said he was missing too much work. Hard to fathom as he was never home. With money so short, I knew this would be my last year with the swim club. “No cash for extras,” Dad had sadly declared. Worse, if the ski resort decided to bill us for the rescue, I had no clue how we would pay it.
With the dining room table set for five—how I wish we were still four—I grabbed my bags and dashed upstairs to my bedroom. My private space was comprised of a loft built into the attic. I loved having this area to myself, along with my own bathroom.
Alone now, I could dig into my shopping bag. The items I had bought were the key to my plan, but I needed to test it. I pulled out the black wig I had purchased from a sa
lon going bankrupt, a pair of dark brown contact lenses from Walmart, and a hospital uniform from the thrift shop.
Putting the wig on first, I walked over to the wall mirror. The short black hair stood on end in a spiky way. This was not the look I’d imagined. So . . . I lathered on curl release and style gel and gave the wig a second critical examination. Still spiky, but the truth was I didn’t look anything like myself, so in that regard . . . I’d succeeded.
Next, I tried to put in the brown contacts. Who would have thought it would be so difficult? It took a while, and when I finally got them in, I performed another inspection. Red, watery eyes, but not too bad. Standing back, I stared at the stranger in the mirror. The uniform could wait for tomorrow when I would try out the complete look. I had talked Celeste into driving me to Harborside Medical Center. I needed to see how Justin Ledger was doing…without him seeing me.
It had grown quiet downstairs. The children were gone for the day. The headlights of Dad’s car appeared on the drive, so flaunting my new look, I headed down to the kitchen.
Mom was crossing the room with a bottle of salad dressing in her hand when I walked in. She stopped short, the bottle hit the floor, and raspberry vinaigrette splashed around her slippers. “Ashla!” she screamed. Her mouth gaped long after the scream stopped. At that exact moment, Dad stepped into kitchen from the garage and froze, his eyes bugged. “Ho-ly!”
Anika popped through the other door and looked up at me shyly. No recognition at all. Although I knew from their reactions I had successfully acquired an entirely new look, I wasn’t sure this was the result I wanted. “It can’t be that bad.”
My father shook his head slowly, at a loss for words. The answer came from my grandmother, who had once again slipped into the kitchen from behind. Nasty habit of hers. “You look like a hussy,” she hissed. I turned around and stared at her, wondering where she dug up these expressions.
“What’s a hussy?” Anika wanted to know.
“Hussy,” Mom choked, doubling over with laughter. Finally, she composed herself enough to add, “Ashla, it’ll never matter what you do to yourself, you’ll always be gorgeous.” She stifled another gale of laughter. “It was a shock, that’s all,” she explained. “You look so different. But I don’t think black hair really works for you, and the contacts are covering up your fantastic eyes.”
“She looks like a hooker,” my grandmother barked. “And how’d you get brown eyes all of sudden? They make dye for them too?”
“What’s a hooker?” Anika demanded.
I turned back to my father. “Dad?”
He cleared his throat. “I’m no judge of these things, Ashla, you know that. I like you just the way you are. Why the getup?”
“It’s just a look I wanted to try. No biggie.” I hated myself for this, but they would never understand how important it was for me not to be recognized by Justin Ledger. It was the only way I could walk right up to him without him recognizing me.
“She’s pretty,” Anika declared, staring up at me with adoration. I scooped her up. “A fan. That’s good. So, let’s clean up the salad dressing and have dinner.”
Celeste
CHAPTER SIX
Ashla had been out of the hospital almost three weeks when she talked me into driving her to Harborside Medical where Justin Ledger was currently in residence. It was Saturday, so Seattle traffic wasn’t bad, for Seattle, that is. We fought for a parking spot, paid, got lost in the hospital, and headed up an elevator toward what we hoped was the right floor in the right building. Ashla had done her homework and phoned to find out where he was. Now, we had to summon the courage for her to do what she felt she had to do; but first, we had to check in with Linda Murphy and pick up our volunteer badges and the magazine cart.
Pleased to have fresh volunteers, Linda plucked our volunteer badges—no names thank goodness—from her desk and stood up to pin them on each of us. “Wonderful to have young people giving back,” she panted as she dragged the cart out from behind a bookstand and maneuvered it over to us. We pushed the overloaded cart into the elevator, and as it rose up the shaft, I glanced at my lifelong friend, barely recognizing her.
Ashla adjusted and readjusted the black wig. Then, she pulled out a tattered tissue and wiped her eyes. Having never worn contacts, they made her eyes and nose run incessantly.
“Feels like I’ve got miniature saucers in my eyeballs,” she sniffled. “He’s going to think I’m contagious.”
“Maybe, but he won’t recognize you,” I said to console her. Not only was her fantastic hair being hidden by a black matte of short, straight hair, but her lovely green eyes were now teary brown. She had applied pink foundation over her fair skin to diminish the freckles and nasty bruising from the accident. “You’re shaking,” I said, looking at the magazines quaking in her hands. She had bought him an array of guy-type magazines without a clue what he was into, other than hockey. Ashla cast a sideways glance in my direction. “So are you,” she retorted, “and you’re not even going into his room.”
I wrapped my arms around myself, trying to find some sense of calm. “I still don’t understand why you’re doing this. The whole thing is nerve wracking. And I don’t get the disguise thing. Why not just walk into his room, as yourself? Tell him you came by to see how he’s doing.”
“Oh yeah, right. I’m the last person he wants to see. I caused his accident, remember? Truth is, he probably wants to exterminate me.” Ashla sniffed, swiped at her eyes, then pocketed the tissue. “All I want to do is see how he’s doing without him throwing me out. And—” She hesitated.
“What?”
“I can’t leave things the way they are. I have to do something for him.”
I could understand that feeling, but doing anything for Justin Ledger was going to be a challenge. “Like what? Bring him magazines?”
She gave me a disgruntled look. “Whatever. I’ll think of something, but I have to see him for myself so I can figure it out. This whole thing has been driving me crazy. I can’t sleep, can’t eat, can’t even think straight.”
I pointed at the wig, “But going into his room like this is such a charade. What’s the worst that can happen if you walk in looking like yourself? What’s he going to do? He has to be bed ridden. It’s not like he’s going to jump up and toss you out. Besides, how do you know he isn’t wondering about you? After all, you almost did him in. That doesn’t happen to a guy every day.”
“Thanks for that.”
“Well, I’m just saying.”
Ashla scratched the uninjured side of her forehead. The wig had bangs, something she wasn’t used to, but at least they covered the big, purple egg on her forehead with the longer hair hiding the stitches on the side of her scalp.
“Besides,” Ashla added, “any thoughts Justin Ledger has about me as he lays in his hospital bed day in and day out are sure to be lethal. Trust me. This is the only way. I want to make sure he’s going to recover from this.”
“The guilt thing.”
She gave me an icy look. “You of all people should understand that.”
Touché, I thought.
The elevator door opened and I pushed the car into the busy corridor near the nurse’s station. “Which way?” I whispered, turning left and looking for room numbers.
“Other way,” Ashla said, yanking the cart around. We turned and headed down the corridor determining that his room was near the end of the hall. We ghosted by his open door, rubber necking as we went. Wow. Nothing prepared me for seeing Seattle’s best hope for the NHL laying in a hospital bed, both legs in half casts half bandages, supported by pillows. I stopped and stared. Ashla yanked me from the doorway and dragged me to the end of the hall. “You’re right,” she breathed. “This is a bad idea, Celeste. Let’s forget it.”
“Did you see him Ashla?” I gasped. “He’s wrapped like a mummy!”
She paced a circle around me, arms crossed with her fingers tapping away furiously. Suddenly, she gripped my arm. “Okay,
let’s go.” She shoved me back down the corridor. This time we were racing by his open door when suddenly Ashla stopped dead, her eyes bugged, and she stood frozen in place and stared at him. Fortunately, he was on the phone and looking out the window, so he didn’t see her.
A nurse brushed by, “Need some help?”
I sputtered, “Uh, no. We’re good.” She nodded and continued on. I grabbed Ashla’s arm and dragged her and the darned cart back down to the end of the hall. “We’ve come this far, Ashla. Just do it.”
Her watery eyes were wide with fear. “Can’t,” she mumbled.
“Do it the way we’d planned. Walk in. Offer him some magazines. Ask how he’s doing. Then get out. Assessment finished.”
“Right.”
But she didn’t move.
I waited. She was starting to hyperventilate. “Ashla!” I whispered harshly. “Pull yourself together. It’s not that hard. You’re Miss Incognito…totally unrecognizable, remember?”
Her eyes refocused. “That’s right. I’m not myself.”
No kidding, I thought. She gripped my arm with icy fingers and we started back toward his room again. This time she bolted inside. Whew. I’d never seen Ashla like this. She was always so sure of herself, so confident. She succeeded at most everything—aced exams, won swimming and skating competitions, and had a wall full of medals to show for it. She had always breezed through life without a care—the girl everyone liked. Miss Popularity.
Was it Justin Ledger or the accident that had caused this nervous insecurity and outright panic?
I peeked around the doorframe. She had made it to the foot of his elevated bed and stopped, her eyes riveted on his face. Justin was still on his cell, seemingly unaware of her.
“Psst.” I tried to get her attention. I was out of his line of sight, but Ashla could see me. Trancelike, she turned to look at me. I motioned her to walk closer to him. She shook her head violently, her eyes so wide with fear that I wondered if the brown contacts would pop out. Then I heard him speak to her, and she whipped her head back to look at him.