houseâsemiprivate, really, because anyone on the outside could hear what was happening on the inside. When Dad took a long shower after work and sang all the colorful verses of âBarnacle Bill the Sailor,â Mom made us play out behind the swamp.
Even though I knew the bathroom was about as private as covering myself with a bedsheet in the middle of the living room, it was the place I retreated to when I needed to cry. I knew everyone could hear me sobbing away, but I just didnât want them to see my face. When I cried, my face got all screwed up like a washcloth being
wrung out. Iâd rather be seen naked and smiling than dressed and crying. It just seemed that crying in public was asking for troubleâespecially with Betsy around. Whenever I was at my weakest, she became an even bigger bully than normal.
I was crying, not because of anything that had happened in my family, but for what had happened in trailer number two, where Mr. Hancock lived. He was divorced and had a son, Elliott, who lived with his mom on the mainland. From time to time Elliott came to visit. He was in a wheelchair and his dad always drove him around in the bed of his pickup truck. Thatâs how Elliott liked it. His dad built a little ramp to wheel him up where Mr. Hancock could secure him in a special rack. After the ride he could wheel Elliot down. Elliott was very pale and thin and his arms always seemed to quiver for an awkward moment before he kind of jerked them into motion, like he first needed an electric shock to get himself going. The same with his speech. It was as if his lips were out of sync with his thoughts, and he could only talk one syllable at a time, as if the words had been snipped apart with scissors. He had always been in a chair and, from what we knew, wasnât doing very well. Word got around that there was some chance he was going to die and so his dad had me and Julian over to the house to be Elliottâs friends for a day. We both understood we were supposed to be extra nice
and, regardless of all my momâs warnings, we were. We had great fun playing Wiffle ball indoors and rubber-band warfare and game after game of ticktacktoe. That was Elliottâs favorite game, and when he started first there was no beating him. It was the one thing he had going for himself, and he was proud of it. He knew he beat us fair and square, unlike when we played Wiffle ball and gave him as many strikes as he needed. Then after he hit the ball, one of us would drop it, while the other one would wheel him around the living room for an inside-the-park home run. He flopped around in his chair and laughed, but there was some understanding in his eyes that told me he knew we were faking. Or maybe he just always knew whatever fun he was having was temporary because soon it would all be over with.
Still, we all enjoyed the visit. It was fun being especially nice and by the end of the day we really liked the kid. And when he said goodbye he whispered the word as though he didnât want to wake it up. That was the last time I saw him alive.
So earlier in the day, when Elliottâs dad knocked on our door and stepped inside and quietly told me that Elliott had died, I was really struck by the news. I didnât know what to say. I just kept repeating, âIâm sorry. Iâm so sorry. Iâm so very sorry. Iâm so very, very sorry.â I couldnât stop myself from adding an extra very each time I expressed just how sorry I was. And I couldnât
keep my mouth shut because I knew as soon as I stopped talking, I would be sorry and all the pain of it would hit me and I wanted to hold that pain off for as long as I could. So even after Mr. Hancock left, I kept saying, âIâm so very, very, very.â With each very I took a step down the hall until, after twenty verys, I was in the bathroom with the door closed against my knees. I thought of Elliott and right away my chin quivered and
Even though I knew the bathroom was about as private as covering myself with a bedsheet in the middle of the living room, it was the place I retreated to when I needed to cry. I knew everyone could hear me sobbing away, but I just didnât want them to see my face. When I cried, my face got all screwed up like a washcloth being
wrung out. Iâd rather be seen naked and smiling than dressed and crying. It just seemed that crying in public was asking for troubleâespecially with Betsy around. Whenever I was at my weakest, she became an even bigger bully than normal.
I was crying, not because of anything that had happened in my family, but for what had happened in trailer number two, where Mr. Hancock lived. He was divorced and had a son, Elliott, who lived with his mom on the mainland. From time to time Elliott came to visit. He was in a wheelchair and his dad always drove him around in the bed of his pickup truck. Thatâs how Elliott liked it. His dad built a little ramp to wheel him up where Mr. Hancock could secure him in a special rack. After the ride he could wheel Elliot down. Elliott was very pale and thin and his arms always seemed to quiver for an awkward moment before he kind of jerked them into motion, like he first needed an electric shock to get himself going. The same with his speech. It was as if his lips were out of sync with his thoughts, and he could only talk one syllable at a time, as if the words had been snipped apart with scissors. He had always been in a chair and, from what we knew, wasnât doing very well. Word got around that there was some chance he was going to die and so his dad had me and Julian over to the house to be Elliottâs friends for a day. We both understood we were supposed to be extra nice
and, regardless of all my momâs warnings, we were. We had great fun playing Wiffle ball indoors and rubber-band warfare and game after game of ticktacktoe. That was Elliottâs favorite game, and when he started first there was no beating him. It was the one thing he had going for himself, and he was proud of it. He knew he beat us fair and square, unlike when we played Wiffle ball and gave him as many strikes as he needed. Then after he hit the ball, one of us would drop it, while the other one would wheel him around the living room for an inside-the-park home run. He flopped around in his chair and laughed, but there was some understanding in his eyes that told me he knew we were faking. Or maybe he just always knew whatever fun he was having was temporary because soon it would all be over with.
Still, we all enjoyed the visit. It was fun being especially nice and by the end of the day we really liked the kid. And when he said goodbye he whispered the word as though he didnât want to wake it up. That was the last time I saw him alive.
So earlier in the day, when Elliottâs dad knocked on our door and stepped inside and quietly told me that Elliott had died, I was really struck by the news. I didnât know what to say. I just kept repeating, âIâm sorry. Iâm so sorry. Iâm so very sorry. Iâm so very, very sorry.â I couldnât stop myself from adding an extra very each time I expressed just how sorry I was. And I couldnât
keep my mouth shut because I knew as soon as I stopped talking, I would be sorry and all the pain of it would hit me and I wanted to hold that pain off for as long as I could. So even after Mr. Hancock left, I kept saying, âIâm so very, very, very.â With each very I took a step down the hall until, after twenty verys, I was in the bathroom with the door closed against my knees. I thought of Elliott and right away my chin quivered and
Similar Books
