Soul Fire (9 page)

“Are you listening, Ashla?”

“Sorry, Mom, what did you say?”

“I asked if you knew how badly Dell felt about everything?”

Again, I shook my head. I hadn’t seen Delta since Wednesday, the ill-fated day of my near demise.

Mom curled her hands around her teacup and took a sip. “He seems a nice enough kid even though I wanted to throttle him for what he did. To his credit, he hung out at the hospital with us and didn’t leave in spite of the fact that my claws were showing. Poor fellow paced the floor worse than I did. Kept saying how sorry he was. Anyway, about two in the morning, when the doctor told us you were going to be okay, Dell went home saying he’d left his mom alone much too long.”

“I didn’t know any of that,” I replied, realizing I had totally misjudged Delta.

Mom put her teacup down thoughtfully. “I was thinking . . . you might want to stop by his house and say a few words to his mom. Perhaps apologize.”

Ahh, that’s where this conversation was going. She was right, of course. I should probably dig up enough courage to do that. I could hear how it would go: ‘Hi, Mrs. Anderson, I dropped by to apologize for having a drug induced medical emergency in your back yard.’

The trouble with screwing up was that it seems to come back and hit you in the face again and again. Whatever happened to the old idiom, let bygones be bygones? I got up from the table anxious to end the tête-à-tête.

“You didn’t drink your tea.”

“Later, Mom.”

I sat alone in my upper bedroom window watching wind-driven rain pelt the road. Rivers of water rushed into the storm drains. Our oak trees were bent in misery. For the millionth time, I wondered about Justin. I had found a photo of him online, printed it out, and then tucked it away in my drawer. Every once in a while I pulled it out, like now. The paper was so worn I’d soon need to print another photo. It was likely taken outside his home. Nice place. He wore jeans and a t-shirt. What a bod—tall, slim, powerful shoulders and upper arms. He was so off the chart good-looking. A guy like Justin could have any girl he wanted. I ran my finger over his face. Strong angular jaw, square chin, straight nose, and an off the cuff smile. He was a real hottie before I plowed into him. Literally.

Where was he now, I wondered. Still in Harborside Medical Center? Or was he home? On impulse, I googled the phone number for Harborside and reached for my cordless, as I still had no cell. The woman I spoke with searched her records and told me Justin was no longer listed as a patient. I went online and looking through recent news stories, I learned that he was receiving care on an outpatient basis.

So, he had gone home. I imagined him in huge plaster casts, unable to move, the days ticking slowly by. For a guy used to being on the ice and super active, immobility must be absolute torture. I wondered how he got around.

I remembered Justin saying:
When the casts finally come off, he’ll be months in rehabilitation.

Rehab. Hmmn.

That was a subject I knew something about. An idea began to form. I tapped my nails on the ledge. Would it work? I called Harborside again and asked for Rehabilitation, then inquired about their program for patients who’d had both legs broken. The answer was what I’d expected. Hydrotherapy.

Next, I called Celeste. Her bedroom window was at an angle to mine so if we stood tight against one side of our bedroom windows we could see one another. She waved as she picked up the phone. “I’ve got a plan,” I told her and she arrived minutes later.

“You must be joking!” She stared at me dumbfounded. “We worked with little kids last summer, not an extreme hockey player.”

“What’s the diff? A body’s a body.”

She blinked. “Oh yeah, and his is large,” she paused and I could see her visualizing Justin Ledger. “And freaking hot.”

I laughed. “We could control ourselves.”

“Not me,” she said matter-of-factly. “The thought of being anywhere near that guy and my legs give out. I can picture it. Big hot hockey player gets hydrotherapy from little ol’ me. I’d drown the minute I touched him.”

“I can do it.” I said.

Celeste chewed her knuckle as she rolled that thought around. She pondered the idea for the longest time. Finally, she lifted her head, a smile playing on her lips. “You’re right. You could take him on while I help someone else. At least that way we’d be in the pool at the same time, you know, for moral support. But how can you be sure they’re going to put him into hydrotherapy?”

“I called. It’s standard rehab for broken legs, just like it was for the little kids we worked with.”

“So we need to sign up again,” Celeste said thoughtfully.

“Right away,” I added. “But there’s one problem.”

“What?”

“I don’t want him to know it’s me helping him.”

“Oh, jeez, Ashla. That’s more than a problem.”

“I’d have to use my middle name,” I suggested.

Celeste’s forehead wrinkled. “But your training courses and certification are under
Ashla
Cameron.”

My hair fell across my face and I used both hands to push it out of my eyes. “I’ll tell them I go by my middle name now. Janine. The pool badge only shows first names anyway.”

“That’s true. But there’s this little issue of him remembering what you look like.”

I smiled. “I’ve got that figured out too.”

I stepped outside the school and threw on my jacket, and then flung my backpack over one shoulder. It was a relief to be out of there. This had been my first day back since the big OD. Things had altered, or perhaps ‘shifted’ is a better word. Something had caused a change in the way most of the kids now reacted to me. The name-calling, whistles, and dirty looks had stopped. Now, no one looked at me. Instead, they all turned away. I simply didn’t exist. I was a
non-being . . .
an outcast. I supposed that was an improvement.

On the lunch break, I had seen Tara and Brenna talking and laughing as though life were completely normal. I guess it was for them. Tara spotted me, our eyes met for a split second, and then she yanked Brenna around the corner.

I learned to put my head down as I walked the corridors. Same in class. I lived in a self-created survival bubble and wondered if life would ever be the same again. Would this go on forever? I couldn’t endure this much longer.

Heavy clouds had moved in from the Pacific immersing north Seattle in the familiar gray gloom of early spring. As I walked, the afternoon grew colder, and the unseasonably icy air was soon infused with heavy wet snow blowing horizontally on the wind. Normally, this time of year I could get away with wearing just a hoodie or sweater. No respectable Seattle teenager covered her clothes with a jacket except on rare days like this. I stuffed my hands into the pocket slats and hurried down the sidewalk, the tread of my Nikes leaving fresh tracks beside Delta’s. He was just ahead of me and must have sensed me behind him. He half turned without stopping and glanced over his shoulder. No smile. No greeting. Just a cold stare. I should tell him about the shrink.

Instead, I said, “Hey, how’s it going?”

“Crappy.”

Oh-oh. Was that because of me and my OD, I wondered, suddenly choking on more guilt. “Not because of me, I hope.”

“Partly.”

I blinked the snow out of my eyes and glanced up at Delta, or Dell, I guess it was.

“Your mom must be pretty pissed,” I panted, jogging to keep up with him.

“Yeah. Had a hell of a lot of explaining to do.” He obviously wasn’t going to stop and chat.

I touched his arm trying to make eye contact. “I’m really sorry, Delta. I’m a total wreck, I guess.”

“Ya think?”

The least he could do was accept my apology. After all, the grass was his, the Ecstasy was his, and the idea was his. “I want to apologize to your mom as well.”

He stopped and looked at me like I’d grown two heads. “You crazy? Forget it. B’sides, she doesn’t like visitors. You’d be intruding. Big time.”

I hadn’t thought of that. I brushed the snow off my hair and pulled my hood out from under the collar. Weather was getting worse, and standing here, talking, seemed like a dumb idea. I pulled the hood up over my head and blinked the snowflakes out of my eyes. “I really need to apologize. I can’t leave it like this.”

His boot scuffed the newly fallen snow. “Let’s say you apologize. Then what? You’ll feel better, right?”

“Not likely.”

“Well, neither will I or my mom, so forget it.” He turned around and continued up the sidewalk. I stood there uncertainly and watched him disappear into the storm. I started toward home and then stopped. This was something I
had
to do. Quickly, I turned back and tried to catch up to him, but he was gone, eaten by swirling snowflakes.

None of the landmarks looked familiar. It was impossible to read the street signs without getting right up to them. Where was Vine Street? Had I passed it? I kept going, and eventually the street sign appeared. I turned right hoping I would somehow recognize Delta’s house. Putting my head down into the wind and stuffing my hands deeper into my pockets, I wondered again why I was doing this. I must be crazy, like Delta said.

First of all, there was a big snowstorm in the forecast, which means Seattle and surrounding areas will likely lose power. That’s what usually happens when we get a dump of heavy wet snow, which isn’t often. Second, I had no idea which house was Delta’s. I remembered it being on the right side, but everything looked different in this world of whirling white. And third, I was not welcome. I had made a horrible fool of myself once by almost croaking in their back yard. Why remind Delta’s mom of that? Best forgotten, right? I sighed and forced myself on.

Two empty flower urns—one on each side of a driveway, brought me to a stop. I remembered walking between them that day, so I turned up the drive and knocked at the front door. When no one answered, I rang the doorbell twice. Still no response, so I persisted, ringing again. The door flew open and an angry Delta scowled down at me.
Oops
. “I’ll only stay a minute. I promise.”

“Get lost.”

“I’ll stand here all night if I have to.”

“Help yourself.” He slammed the door shut.

Determined, I rang two more times and again the door flew open. “Stop! Go home.”

“After I apologize.”

He re-considered. His dark eyes probed mine. He squeezed the bridge of his nose as though I’d given him a migraine. Then, he stepped back and motioned me inside. “Take off your wet shoes.”

I kicked them off, noting the shiny tile floor. When I looked back up at Delta, he was glaring at me. “Thanks to all the media coverage, everybody now knows where I live. Want to apologize for that too?”

Oh boy, it never ends, I thought. “I really messed it up for you.”

“No crap, Einstein.”

“Sorry, Delta.”

“Well, that’s it then.”

“What’s it?”

“You won’t be joining the Tarantulas.”

I threw my head back and laughed until I realized he might be serious, but looking up at his face, I’d swear he was holding back a smile.

I heard a sound down the hall and he turned toward it. I heard it again and tried to understand what it was. A buzzer?

Delta took off down the hall. I followed, finding myself staring into a bedroom decorated in various shades of pink. The floor was stark white tile. A small wooden table was against the far wall. On it was an open laptop. In front of the table was a large electric wheelchair. And in the electric wheelchair sat an emaciated woman. Her stick arms protruded from a gown and fingers encircled the armrests like talons. Her face was skeletal, her thin dark hair clung to her head like a scraggly cap, and her mouth hung open. A steel tube was suspended near her lips. Her dark eyes had found mine and they never faltered. A computerized voice said, “Hello.”

I stopped gaping and eventually found my own voice. “Hello, Mrs. Anderson,” I choked, “I’m Ashla Cameron.”

Nothing changed in her eyes. Did she know I was the one who left a mess on her kitchen floor and collapsed in her backyard? Did my name mean anything to her? Should I cut and run now, while I was ahead? What was I doing here? This poor woman, whose life must be sheer misery, hardly needed to deal with the likes of me.

The computer voice spoke again, slowly and distinctly, “I am glad you came. I hope you are fully recovered.”

She knew. Behind those eyes, I sensed a deep intelligence along with the uncanny ability to endure. I replied, “Physically, yes, but I still have a lot of work to do in other ways.”

Her brown eyes seemed to nod agreement. “My son, too.”

I’d almost forgotten that Delta was in the room. I flicked my eyes to him. He was staring at the floor, his socked foot sliding back and forth across a tile.

“He is deeply sorry for contributing to your collapse,” the voice informed me.

I shot Delta a look. Our eyes met briefly before he turned away as if embarrassed.

Mrs. Anderson continued: "He is a smart boy."

Smart? He had barely made it through his sophomore year, if I remembered correctly.

“He hides it. Doesn’t want the other kids to know that . . . or about me either.”

 Delta's dark eyes moved from her to me. Did she know her son was a Tarantula? Not likely. I doubted he would want her to know that.

When I looked back at the wheelchair, I could see Mrs. Anderson was tiring fast. Her colorless face drooped. I needed to say what I had to say. “Mrs. Anderson, I came to apologize for what I did here last week. I would like to make it up to you.” Those eyes never left my face for a moment. It was like she could read me, like she knew what I was going to say before I said it, as though she could hear my thoughts.

She breathed into the tube. “No need.”

“Please, let me.”

She shifted her look to her son, then her chin dropped, and her eyes closed. I began to think she’d drifted away, perhaps fallen asleep from exhaustion. Her frail head came back up. She breathed again. “Help my son.”

I walked through the door of the Trauma Rehabilitation Unit where Celeste and I had been volunteers in training for the past two weeks. Our job was to provide the patient with two additional therapy sessions to reinforce what was provided by the physiotherapy department.