Roll with It

by Jamie Sumner

  “But I’ve got school! I missed my history test!” I try to sit up farther now, but the pillow slips and I can’t find the button on the side of the bed.

  “Ellie, we will figure all that out later. For now, you rest. Look. They brought a few DVDs up from the lending library.”

  I flip through them. Frozen. Hannah Montana. The Muppet Christmas Carol. I am six again.

  A few days later and there’s a knock on the open door. Mema and Grandpa walk in with a dozen giant balloons shaped like cupcakes. They float up to the ceiling and bob along in the breeze from the air vent.

  “There’s my girl!” Mema says, and leans over to hug me, and thankfully it doesn’t hurt.

  “Hi, Mema. Hi, Grandpa.”

  “Ellie, love, you gave us quite a scare,” Grandpa says.

  They’re in their church clothes, and Grandpa’s got a bit of tissue stuck to his chin from cutting himself shaving. He smells like Dial soap and leather. I start to cry.

  I’m just so tired of all of this, and I don’t mean the hospital. The wheelchair thing I can handle. But I hate it when the rest of me doesn’t work. That’s what nobody gets—the CP isn’t only about not being able to move my body; it also makes my whole system weak. I get sick more than most people. I get worn out more than most people. I get ambulance rides and hospital stays for stupid reasons. And I hate it.

  “Okay, you two, why don’t you go down and get me some coffee. Ellie and I need another minute,” Mom says, and they shuffle out the door.

  I wipe my eyes on the blanket.

  “Ellie.” I look up. Mom’s in advocate mode and I don’t like it. “We need to talk.”

  “What about?”

  “We need to talk about our situation.”

  “What situation?”

  “I spoke with your father.”

  The word “father” lands at my feet like a rock through a window.

  “Why?”

  “He’s concerned. Wait—let me finish. I am too. Honey, this place just isn’t as equipped to meet your needs.”

  “No.” I wave my hands at her even though it hurts with the IV. “No. We’re not going back. And since when is Dad concerned about anything having to do with me?”

  “Ellie—”

  “No!” I hit the call button on the bed.

  Not two seconds later a doctor comes in with a clipboard.

  “Ms. Cowan. Lily. Here are your discharge instructions. We’re sending you home on oral antibiotics, but remember, you’ve also got a follow-up appointment in one week here at the hospital.”

  She sets everything on the counter by the little metal sink and my pink water jug.

  “If you’ll just sign here? And I’ll have a nurse come in and get that IV out for you, and you’ll be good to go.”

  I look over at Mom—her mouth is still open with all her unsaid argument behind it, but she moves to sign, and I’ve bought myself just a little more time.

  11

  Pageants and Court Cases

  Spring snuck in while I was sleeping. Daffodils and crocuses shoot up underneath the empty trees. I can see green, too, on some of the bushes outside the bedroom window.

  I don’t think I realized just how terrible it is not to be able to move. I mean, I know. Of course I know. But at least with my chair, I can get around if not move around, if you know what I mean.

  I’ve been sitting in this bed and staring at the wood panels running up the walls for five days now. It’s almost March and outside the sun is showing off. But I’m stuck in here listening to the squirrels and watching reruns of Cupcake Wars on my iPad. I can’t practice for the Bake-Off. I can’t do much of anything. But I did get Bert to text me homework, and I’m already caught up. Mom sees me doing it and doesn’t say anything. She hasn’t brought up going home again, but that doesn’t mean she’s changed her mind. Mom never changes her mind.

  Unluckily for her, I don’t either.

  I turn onto my side and grab the stretchy bands Hutch brought over yesterday. Apparently, he’s the one who found me in the gym and called the ambulance, which is so humiliating—that image of me slumped over in the chair, probably with puke on my chin. I wrap a green band under my foot and pull. All those days in the hospital ate away what little muscle I had. I look down at my legs, skinnier than ever, like scraggly tree branches, and pull harder.

  My phone buzzes.

  ellie stop ignoring me

  im sorry

  i didn’t mean it

  ur my best friend

  ok fine

  im txting until u txt back

  txt

  txt

  txt

  And then she sends every emoji in the list.

  I turn off my phone. I haven’t talked to Coralee since that day in the cafeteria. It’s not that I’m mad. Okay, I am mad, but she’s also right.

  I’m not normal.

  I had eight days in the hospital and a million hours in this bed to think about it. I’m never going to be like everybody else. I’m never going to run the mile in gym. I’m never going to walk without the gait trainer. I can’t even reach the fountain drinks at McDonald’s.

  But I don’t need Coralee to remind me.

  Dear Dad,

  Thank you for the flowers and the card. Mom says you’ve been worried about me, so I’m writing to tell you I’m fine. You don’t need to fly out here. I promise I’m better.

  I’m still stuck in bed, though, so the iPad’s come in handy. So thank you again for that, too.

  It sucks because I haven’t been able to bake since I’ve been home, but Mom promises a few more days and I can get back to it. I guess I’ve never told you that I like to bake.

  Maybe next time I see you, I’ll make my oatmeal raisin cookies. Mom says those used to be your favorite. I kind of like them too.

  Ellie

  “Knock, knock.”

  “Hi, Mema.”

  “I brought you one of my sudoku books. Thought you might be bored of staring at the wall and giving your mama the silent treatment.”

  She hands me Jumbo Sudoku and a sharpened pencil. She’s got on her gardening shoes and smells like turned-up earth.

  “I’m not giving her the silent treatment.”

  “Oh, all right. The teenage treatment, then. One syllable at a time.”

  “She can’t make me go home.”

  “Oh, honey.” She pulls my hair back and starts to braid it in a fishtail like she used to when I was little. It feels good.

  “Your mama just wants to do right by you.”

  “Don’t I get a vote?”

  “Of course you do, love. But we’ve got to keep you healthy, and maybe this isn’t the place to do that.”

  “So you’re kicking me out?”

  I pull away from her hands and look at her.

  “What? No. I would never kick a member of my family out. Unless they criticized my cooking, and you would never do such a thing.”

  “God wouldn’t want you to give up on me.” It’s a sneaky move, throwing God at her.

  She’s not fooled. “Don’t you throw the Good Book at me, Lily Belle Cowan. God knows I am not giving up on you. And you do too.”

  She lets my hair go and stands.

  “You and your mama need to talk. Woman to woman. Work this out.” She picks up the pink jug that the hospital let me take home. “I’m putting sweet tea in this thing, see if it can’t sweeten you up.”

  After a week at home, Mom and Mema finally let me off bed rest. They help get me back in my wheelchair, and I take a slow tour of the trailer. It is sweet freedom to roll down these halls and into the kitchen.

  My arms are shaking by the time I get there, but I let the kitchen fill me with its yellow glow. It feels like the first time I’ve breathed since the pneumonia.

  I’m digging in the fridge for lemons when Mom walks in and leans against the counter.

  “What are you making?”

  “Lemon poppy seed scones.”

  “Sounds
delicious.”

  “I wanted something springy, and lemon is Grandpa’s favorite.”

  “I think they’ll be a hit, but you might want to tell him they’re biscuits. I don’t think he’s heard the word ‘scone’ in his life.”

  “Thanks for the info.” I shut the fridge hard and the lemons roll off my lap.

  Mom sighs and picks them up.

  “Ellie, we need to talk.”

  “Then talk.” I know I’m being rude, but I don’t care.

  I start sifting the flour and sugar together.

  “You’re not going to look at me?”

  “I’ve got work to do.” I’m making up a lemon custard in my head—thinking about that for the Bake-Off, thinking about anything but this conversation. May feels so close and I need to focus.

  “We came here to help out with your grandpa, because that’s what families do. But, Ellie”—she stops my hand from mixing, takes the bowl, and kneels down in front of me—“you have to understand something. You are my first priority. I have never been so scared in my life as I was when they called me from the ambulance. You weren’t conscious, honey. You were barely breathing. I can’t lose you, Ellie. I can’t.”

  Now she’s crying into my lap like a little kid, which makes me start too, because everything makes me cry these days. I wipe my nose on the dish towel and hand it to her, and she does the same. Something cracks in me and I know I can’t win this. Nobody fights fair when it’s family.

  “What about Grandpa?”

  “We’ll come back in the summer. See how things are. There’s no rush to make any decisions about his care yet.”

  I nod into her shoulder.

  “It’s not forever. It’s just for now.”

  She leans back and we both just sit.

  “If I might interrupt this Hallmark moment,” Mema says, coming in from the living room, “you have a visitor.”

  Coralee walks in wearing a puffy gold ball gown. She has to turn sideways to get through the door.

  “Let’s take this out on the porch,” Coralee says after Mom and Mema leave.

  “Take what out on the porch?”

  “This. This thing between you and me. It’s sixty degrees and sunny, and your grandmama already said if we’re going to yell, we have to take it outside.” She puts her hands on her hips like something out of Gone with the Wind.

  “I’m not going to yell.”

  “Fine. It’ll just be me, then.”

  “What do you have to yell about?”

  “Come outside and I’ll tell you.”

  Out on the porch the sky is bluer than it’s been all winter, and when the breeze shifts, I get the smell of wild onions. Mema’s been digging in the garden.

  Coralee takes a seat on the rocking couch and her skirts fly up like a Hula-Hoop.

  “Lookit, we just drove in from the pageant,” she says, and I can’t believe I forgot that was today, but she doesn’t give me even a minute to feel bad about it. “And I had a bit of a light bulb moment when I was onstage, and I’ve come to tell you about it.”

  “Are you wearing fake eyelashes?”

  “Ellie, hush, and yes, and let me get this out.”

  I wait.

  “I know this might make you madder at me, or maybe you can’t get any madder than you already are. Either way, I’m going to say it anyway.” She takes a big breath like she’s about to sing the anthem again—“Ellie Cowan, you are not normal.”

  “Thanks. Can I go in now?”

  “No, let me say my bit. Ellie, you are not normal, but I wouldn’t want you to be for all the tea in China. And I would have told you that if you hadn’t stormed off, or if you had answered any of my texts.”

  She’s plucking at the torn seam in the couch and not looking at me. Not a single hair on her head moves in the breeze. It’s got that much hair spray in it.

  “I know that,” I say at last.

  “You do?”

  “Of course I do. But you listen to me”—I poke a finger into her hoop skirt so she’ll look at me—“Bert’s not the only one who needs to work on his filter.”

  “I know. I know. And I’m sorry you got sick.”

  “Yeah, me too.” I know I should tell her now that Mom is shipping us home. Instead I say, “So did you win?”

  “Nah, second. But Sierra didn’t even place, so I consider it a victory.”

  “Why aren’t you dancing a victory dance, then?”

  “Well, the thing is . . .” Coralee pauses for a moment, and for the first time I realize she looks a little sad, wilted around the edges despite the huge hair. “I thought my mama might come today. She said she would when she phoned last week, so I figured there was a fifty-fifty chance. But then the landlord from our old apartment called Dane today. Said she’d skipped out on the rent, disappeared.”

  Disappeared. We let the word hang there like a deflated balloon. I want Coralee to look at me, but she’s picking at the couch cushion like it’s her job. I’ve never had a close enough friend to feel like I let them down, until now. I should have remembered the pageant. I wish I could reverse time and be there, so when she looked up in the crowd and didn’t see her mom, she’d at least have seen me.

  “Do you know where she went?”

  “Nah. She’ll turn up, though. She always does.” The way Coralee says it, all low and slow like Eeyore, I can’t tell if that’s a good thing or a bad thing. Then she finally looks at me, and I have never seen her so serious in her life.

  “Listen, Ellie, that’s why I had to come over.” She puts a hand on my chair. “I don’t have a lot of people. Dane, Susie, Bert, and you. That’s it. And none of us is what you’d call ‘normal.’ But you’re my family.”

  Something inside me flips over like a pancake, and I know I can’t leave her.

  I’m about to stir up a whole world of trouble. But I can’t help myself. I put a hand on Coralee’s satiny shoulder and say, “My mom’s moving us back to Nashville. And you’ve got to help me stop her.”

  The plan is simple and comes together over a three-way call between me, Bert, and Coralee. The next afternoon I’m out on the porch shelling peas with Mema when they both come around the corner and march up the steps. Bert’s got his dad’s laptop under his arm.

  “Afternoon, Mrs. Cowan. We’re looking for Ellie’s mom,” Coralee says. Today she’s wearing a pin-striped skirt and suit jacket, and her hair’s slicked back in a bun. Bert is right behind her in a suit and tie. They look like lawyers.

  Mema takes one look at them and winks. “I’ll just see if I can’t find her, then.”

  When Mom finally comes out and Bert leads her to the rocking couch, she eyes him like he’s a Jehovah’s Witness.

  “Would you like some water, Ms. Cowan?” He’s brought his own and offers her a bottle.

  “No, thank you. I’m just fine, Robert. Ellie, what’s this all about?”

  I put on my best poker face.

  “I’ve got no idea, Mom.”

  I can see Mema and Grandpa watching through the kitchen window. Mema slides it up slow and easy, so they can hear when Bert clears his throat.

  “Ms. Cowan. It has been brought to our attention by a source that would like to go unnamed”—I can feel Mom’s eyes slide toward me—“that you plan to take Ellie home to Nashville. And while we understand your concerns, we would like to ask for the chance to state our case.”

  He pauses, and we all wait for Mom to react, but she stays quiet. I let out a little breath I didn’t know I was holding.

  Bert hands Coralee the laptop, and she clicks it open to the PowerPoint we spent all of last night on.

  “We know Ellie’s pneumonia took a lot out of both of you, and you worry about her care while she remains here in Eufaula.”

  He nudges Coralee and she clicks the first slide.

  “But if you will take a look at the chart, you will see that the weather here averages eight percent less humidity than in Tennessee.”

  Coralee clicks to
the next slide and another chart pops up—this one a map of the Southeast next to a map of the Southwest. Bert pulls a laser pointer out of his pocket and points first to Tennessee, then to Oklahoma.

  “And because of the slightly later blooming season, our allergens tend to be a good deal tamer than in your typical Southeastern region.”

  Mom puts a hand up. “Wait. You two know I love you, but this is not about humidity and allergies. This is about Ellie’s safety.”

  “Mom, hear them out.”

  “No, Ellie. The closest children’s hospital is in Tulsa. Did you know that? And what about school? They don’t have a proper aide for you. You can’t even ride the bus, for heaven’s sake!”

  “Mom, the school’s fine! Riding in the van is fine! And I don’t need an aide!”

  I practiced this. Practiced it without yelling, but I can’t stop now. “You don’t understand! I have to stay. Home was so . . . lonely.” It’s a weak ending, but it’s true.

  A second passes while we stare at each other, and another passes while she swallows and blinks like she’s got something in her eye.

  “But you will always have me, honey?” Mom says, like it’s a question, and I take a breath and then answer it.

  “I know, Mom.” How do you tell your own mom she’s not enough? Or she is, but you want more than just enough? Luckily, I don’t have to, because our ringer comes whistling around the corner.

  “Hutch! Mr. Hutchinson!” I say, and wave like this is just such a crazy coincidence.

  “Jim! What are you doing here?” Mom stands up and tugs at the sides of her shirt.

  “Alice.”

  Apparently, sometime between the ambulance and now, Mom and Hutch got to be on a first-name basis.

  He takes the porch steps two at a time. Thankfully, he’s changed out of his tracksuit and into jeans and a button-down. Bert offers him the bottle of water, and he accepts with a smile.

  “Alice, I’ve had the chance to get to know your daughter pretty well over the last few months. She’s a determined girl, and I’ve seen what she can achieve when she pushes herself. She’s more motivated than half my students in gym.”

  “But pushing herself too hard is what got her sick in the first place.” Mom’s looking back and forth between all of us like she can’t tell where to aim her argument.