Roll with It

by Jamie Sumner

  She’s not wearing a jacket, and her velvet sleeves are puffed up to her ears. How is she not cold? Maybe she’s a robot.

  “You’re Lily, right?”

  How does she already know that? It’s like my wheelchair sends out the Bat-Signal for kids far and wide to come take a look.

  “It’s Ellie.”

  “Well, that’s a riddle of a name, Lily-slash-Ellie.”

  She leans in, so I catch a whiff of hair spray, the kind that’s probably illegal because it burns a hole in the atmosphere.

  “I heard my grandparents talking about you and your mama. They spotted y’all’s van pull in yesterday. Nice wheels.” She taps the racing stripes on my chair.

  “Who’re your grandparents?” I say. I don’t remember ever meeting her when we’ve visited before. And I think I’d remember.

  “They live next door—in the trailer with the pit bull. Don’t mind Daisy, though. She’s a scaredy-cat of a dog. It’s the cockatoos you have to worry about.”

  Somebody shouts over the fence and I flinch, but Coralee acts like she doesn’t even hear it.

  “What cockatoos?”

  I try to remember what a cockatoo looks like. Is she messing with me? I wonder if these are the neighbors who had to help Mema bust her window. I’m about to ask, but the shouting gets so loud, Coralee huffs and says, “Whoops, gotta run. Come over tomorrow or the day after and I’ll give you the grand tour. And hey, welcome to Trailerland.”

  “What’s Trailerland?” I ask, but she’s already disappearing behind the holly. And I’m a tiny bit glad and a tiny bit sad that she’s gone, because on the one hand, meeting new people wears me out, but on the other, I’m alone in the dark again.

  Mom pulls up in the van. Mema’s right behind her in their nicer, nondented Buick. Mema calls it their “church car.” Somewhere in between getting me buckled in and our pulling out onto Route 9, I decide I’m going to take Coralee up on her offer to come over. Because she wanted to know my name before she wanted to know about my chair. That’s saying something. And I want to see if those cockatoos are real.

  Bethlehem Methodist is a one-story brick building with a steeple stuck on the top like an afterthought, or a candle in a birthday cake. Everybody wants to shake the hand of the “sweet child” in the wheelchair in her Christmas dress. Despite the embarrassing meet and greets, I do love this church. It sits underneath a bunch of huge oak trees all shouldered together, and behind it there’s a creek and tables for picnicking in the summer.

  We make our way up the ramp on the side, and Grandpa claps the greeters on their backs like he’s the mayor. I see Mema rolling her eyes.

  “Well, hello, young lady. It’s nice to see you again,” says a woman in a hat covered in fur and berries. “I used to work with your grandma down at the bank in Midwest City.” She’s got bright red lipstick on her teeth.

  “They sure do get big quick, huh, Marianne? Oh, not that you’re big, darling. You’re just a tiny thing. Not that you’re small, not that I can tell. I mean . . .” She stops and lets the sentence dangle like the end of a rope. It’s kind of funny.

  “We’ll see you inside, Evelyn,” Mema says after a minute, and shuffles us forward. She leans over my shoulder and whispers, “The key to Evy is to smile and nod and nod and smile, and while she’s jabbering, just sing the theme to Sesame Street in your head.”

  Mom laughs into her collar and Mema winks. They both look nice in their satiny dresses, Mom in navy and Mema in cream. “Regal” is the word, and it’s not something we Cowans can pull off very often. I think I drag down our average with my racing stripes.

  We find a spot in the back row so I can sit on the end. The sanctuary smells musty but nice, like the way, way back of the closet, and the pews creak with everybody shuffling into place. They’ve got candles up by the altar and big red poinsettias off to the side. I wonder how the pastor’s going to maneuver between it all.

  “Ladies, my ladies!” Grandpa says, finally squeezing past me. Mema tsks at him for dawdling and then straightens the hankie in his jacket pocket.

  “Don’t you mother me,” he growls as he moves down the line of us, and it’s not like any voice I’ve ever heard, but the choir’s humming and there’s a shuffling of hymnals and there’s no time to think about it.

  Everybody starts singing “It came upon the midnight clear” with about twenty-seven more syllables than necessary. I sneak my phone out from under my leg to Google pictures of cockatoos, but Mom whips her arm out and grabs it from my hand, mouthing, “Not in church,” and I mouth, “What?” like I’m confused.

  But now the song’s switched over to “O Holy Night,” and Mom leans into Mema, and Mema puts an arm over my shoulder. Even though it’s hot as Hades in here, it’s also kind of nice in the glow of the candlelight. I sing a little.

  When the song ends, the pastor comes up front and the choir files out. Only one poinsettia takes a nosedive. Pastor Clark, in a brown tweed suit and a little red bow tie, looks to be eight hundred years old. But when he speaks, his voice booms.

  “Turn to your neighbor, and let’s wish each other a merry night before Christ’s birth!” He claps and it’s like thunder cracking, and we all startle a bit and turn in half circles. I wheel a little backward behind the pew and hide behind Mom.

  “So, Alice, you’re looking well.” It’s Lipstick Teeth, in the row in front of us, and she’s leaning too close to Mom now.

  “Why, yes, you too.” I can feel Mom trying not to lean back. There’s about a hand’s width between them.

  “My niece tells me you’re going to be substituting for us over at the high school.”

  “What’s that, Evy?” Mema steps forward, and now they’re all so close it looks like a huddle.

  Oh boy.

  “Mother, I just called the school to see—” Mom starts.

  “Well, Marianne, I thought you knew? Spring semester, my niece tells me. She works over in the office at Lakeview Middle now. Got her secretarial degree just last summer. I told her it’d be better to go to a four-year up over in Norman, but who is she to listen to her old aunt? I said . . .”

  Mema isn’t paying her one bit of attention. She’s turned her head toward Mom like a hawk eyeing a mouse. To Mema’s credit, Mom does look a little mousy right now. I think she’d hide behind me if she could.

  Next to me, Grandpa wanders out into the aisle just as the pastor calls for everybody to be seated.

  “Mom—”

  “Not now, Ellie.” Mom takes a breath that shakes her silky dress. “Mother, I thought it would be best, given the situation, if Ellie and I came to help you out for a bit.”

  “Given the situation? Help me out? Who asked you, young lady?” They’re still standing, and they’re getting louder. There are bright spots on Mema’s cheeks, and she’s gripping the back of the pew like she’ll pull it up in one go.

  I can’t see Grandpa anywhere.

  “Mom—”

  “Not now, Ellie. Mother, let’s talk about this later, at home.”

  “What home? You mean my home that I have managed to run just fine without you for the last twenty-five years?”

  Something’s happening near the altar. I hear the front row gasp. But half the congregation’s still standing and I can’t see.

  “Who did it? I want to know which one of you liars and thieves did it!” The angry voice comes from the front of the church.

  I grab at Mom’s elbow. I know that voice.

  The crowd goes silent and shifts and I can finally see what the commotion’s all about.

  Grandpa’s by the altar, holding a poinsettia under his arm like a football. My stomach twists.

  Mom and Mema turn slowly, like clocks ticking, to face him.

  “Who’s the man that stole my wallet?” He’s sweating, and swaying like he’s still hearing the music. The pastor inches closer, but I’m not sure what he’s aiming to do. Tackle Grandpa, maybe. I try to roll forward but I’m stuck, and I’m frustrated for t
he zillionth time that I can’t just get up and shove my way through.

  “Jonah, come on now.” Mema walks up the aisle. She holds out her hand like you do to a strange dog to let it sniff you and know you’re friendly. But Grandpa’s having none of it.

  He’s waving the poinsettia in front of him like a sword. “Get away from me, woman. This isn’t your business.”

  “Jonah, I got your wallet back home. You didn’t bring it. Remember? It’s tucked nice and safe in the dresser where you left it.” Mema has one foot on the bottom step. Anything could happen now. I start to rock back and forth.

  I feel Mom’s hands on my shoulders.

  Grandpa looks confused, and then he looks at Mema and back toward me and Mom.

  And like a switch flipping, he starts to cry. I’ve never seen him cry in my entire life. Not even a tear when he tore his thumbnail off hammering rusted nails out of the fence. His crying hurts me worse than seeing all the bruises and bandages.

  “Come on now,” Mema says.

  He takes her hand.

  The pastor takes the poinsettia. But something happens in the shuffle and somebody knocks into the candles.

  There’s a spark, and a root of flame shoots up the side of the podium like ivy.

  Evelyn screams.

  Somebody near the exit pulls the fire alarm.

  A man in a green plaid jacket—I recognize him as one of the greeters—runs in with the fire extinguisher and douses everything and everyone: the podium, the poinsettias, Grandpa, Mema, and the pastor. The air’s full of smoky chemicals and it smells like wet carpet.

  Even though the fire’s out, everybody files into the night in a cloud of smoke and dust. My grandparents are white from head to toe like ghosts.

  When the fire engine finally arrives, it’s got nothing to do but wail its sirens. Its lights turn the crowd red, then white, then red again. We could be a scene from The Walking Dead.

  Mom looks like she’s about to cry.

  “ ’Tis the season,” I say to distract her, but my voice cracks at the end.

  It works, though. She shakes her head and rolls us out of the spotlight and to the van.

  “Too soon, Ellie. Way too soon.”

  5

  Merry Christmas

  Dear Mr. Pépin (May I call you Jacques?),

  Jacques, I recently tried to make your Country Apple Galette from a copy of Food & Wine magazine. Only I used peaches because that’s all we had, and you do say that the dish can be filled with any fruit. Other than that, I did everything just like you wrote, including using the wildflower honey.

  And so, I was wondering, since I respect you very much as a chef and like the idea of a dessert that is “both beautiful and rustic,” why did mine turn out so soggy? Was it because the peaches were frozen? Did I not cut the butter small enough into the dough? Sorry about the butter thing if that was it—sometimes my arms get tired from all that rolling and kneading!

  I wouldn’t bother you with this under normal circumstances, but I am hoping to be a professional baker one day, sir, and so I’d like to get this right. Also, my family could really use a pick-me-up and I’m trying to find the perfect thing.

  Your fan and fellow baker,

  Ellie Cowan

  The thing about fighting with family is that you can’t get away from them. You’re stuck until it’s fixed or broken for good.

  Mom and Mema didn’t say a word to each other when we got home last night, and Grandpa had forgotten the whole thing happened by the time we pulled down the gravel drive.

  So basically, merry Christmas to all this morning!

  It’s cold and gray and brown. So much for a white Christmas. Mom has to help me every time I go to the bathroom here, which is just humiliating, but the trailer bathroom is tiny, like airplane-bathroom tiny. My wheelchair doesn’t even fit through the door.

  “Turn on the water.”

  “Oh, Ellie, I’m not listening.”

  “Turn on the water!”

  “All right, all right.”

  There’s nothing like sitting on the toilet with your mom one foot away behind the sliding door. Did I mention all the doors in the house slide? The whole place might as well have shower curtains for doors, because you can hear every footstep, every cough . . . and every visit to the toilet. This is why it’s not a good idea to fight with people living in such close quarters.

  “Will you bring in the bath chair?”

  This is another thing I cannot do by myself here. Mom has to lift me naked like a baby into the tub and Velcro me into the bath chair, which is basically exactly what it sounds like—a chair I sit in in the tub, with a seat belt so I don’t slip down in the water. It runs on batteries, and I flick a switch and it lowers me in like a giant Easter egg. At home I can at least get myself into the tub, even if sometimes I need help getting the straps fastened. But one of these days we’ll get a real handicapped shower that I can roll straight into and wash myself. It’s a tiny thing no one else thinks about, the privilege to wash yourself without help.

  When you’re like me, you get used to seeing your body as a separate thing. Leg one. Leg two. Muscles and hair and a heart that beats. It makes it all a little less embarrassing when people are always putting their hands on you.

  Once I’m strapped in, Mom leaves me to it. I hear the floors creak when she walks back to our bedroom. She’s hiding from Mema.

  I soak.

  Soaking in the tub is almost my favorite thing, second only to baking. The heat and the water stop my legs from aching. You’d think my legs would never get sore, seeing how little I use them, but they do. I lean the chair back as far as it will go and let my ears sink under and my toes float up. Now the world is an ocean and I am weightless and it doesn’t matter that I can’t walk, because I can swim.

  “You smell like bubble gum.”

  Mema’s in the kitchen when I come in after the bath. She’s making some sort of egg casserole that is nine tenths sausage.

  “It’s the only body wash you had.”

  She pauses with her spatula in the air. It drips egg onto the counter.

  “Did you find it under the sink? That must be from when you were a baby.” She sniffs me again. “Nice, though.”

  “Thanks.”

  She hands me cups to fill with orange juice.

  Mom walks past us, right on through to the back door and outside.

  “We came because we wanted to help, you know,” I say once the door clicks shut.

  “I know, El.”

  “We came because you need help.”

  Mema turns her back to me. She lets out a quiet sigh. “Here. Stick this in when the oven beeps, and set it for half an hour.” She points to the casserole dish in the shape of a rooster and heads outside with two coffee cups. I peek out the curtains. I can see the back of both their heads and that’s about it. I can’t tell if they’re talking.

  But all the important talks in this house happen on the porch. So after the oven beeps, I shove the rooster in tail-first and take my chances.

  “Can I join?” I say, rolling out onto the porch. They both turn to me, and I’d guess that neither of them has said a word to the other yet. They look like they’ve been having a staring contest—both their eyes watery from not blinking.

  “Oh, Ellie, not with that wet head.”

  “Listen to your mama, honey. You’ll catch your death out here.”

  They’re in the orange-and-yellow–striped patio chairs on opposite ends of the porch, about as far away from each other as they can get. I move to the old rocking couch in the middle and grab the arm to pull myself over. Mom stands to help.

  “Correction,” I say firmly. “I am joining you.”

  I can see my breath and feel the ends of my wet hair turning crunchy with cold. But I lean back and let the couch rock me. This has been my favorite spot as long as I can remember—this big old ugly orange couch with springs that creak, and jiggle you back and forth like a baby in a bouncy seat.
r />   Mom and Mema blow into their coffee.

  Mom starts: “Mother, I only—”

  Mema holds up a hand. “Now, I know what you only, and I know you meant well. But you lied to me, Alice, and that is not how I raised you.”

  I shoot Mom a told you so look, and she does her eyebrow-waving thing at me.

  “You want to help? You came to help? Then you say from the get-go that’s why you came. None of this sneaking-around business. You hear me?”

  Mom nods.

  Mema nods at no one and takes a sip from her GIVE ME STRENGTH mug. She hasn’t told us to go. Not yet.

  My turn: “Last night—”

  “Ellie”—Mema holds up a hand again—“I do not want to talk about last night.”

  Now Mom again: “Mother, we have to. Ellie is just as worried as I am.”

  “Ellie is a child, Alice. Children do not need to worry about their grandparents. They need to be roaming the malls or falling asleep in class or tweeting or texting or whatever it is they do these days.”

  “I’m not much for the mall.”

  “Well, that’s good, because we don’t have much of one here. This place is for old people, honey. We’ve got the lake, the church, and a bowling alley, and that’s about it by way of entertainment.”

  “I like to bowl,” I say.

  “I’ve already taken a leave of absence,” Mom adds.

  Mema puts down her cup and holds up both hands.

  “Stop. I know you’ve already set your mind to it.” She looks back and forth between the two of us. “But here’s my rule: You get six months. That’ll get us to summer, and then it’s back to reality for everybody.”

  I’m not sure how she thinks summer is the magic cure for anything, but Mom and I nod like we’re entering into a secret pact right here and now. I feel the need to place my hand on a Bible or spit in my palm and shake on it.

  The oven timer goes off right then and we move to head in. Both of them have to help me into my chair because I’m so stiff from the cold. But it was worth it. I’m the glue to their glitter. They can’t help but stick around because of me.

  When we get inside, the kitchen is warm and smells like egg and sausage. Grandpa is sitting at the table with the newspaper and juice, and Elvis is singing “Blue Christmas” from the radio in the living room.