struggles and she gives him her hand. He hesitates, then takes it. She pulls. The moment she registers how nice it is to be holding his hand, she lets go too fast and he almost keels over. “Sorry!” she says. Her neck heats as he stands on his own.
“So yeah, my dad,” she says, “he died of a stroke. By the time I got to the hospital, he was already brain dead. They unhooked his life support late that night.” She remembers how cold it was. And the nice guy in the corridor. Light snow flurries swirling beneath the tall hospital parking lot lights.
Tomorrow is December already. Seventeen days until the anniversary.
Moony’s looking at her. “I’m really sorry.”
“Thanks.”
Moony says nothing, but she can tell he’s listening.
“He would have lived if someone found him sooner,” she adds, thinking of Mom, never where she’s supposed to be. “He was unconscious in the bathroom for hours before anyone even realized.” Summer massages a dark tightness between her eyebrows, then turns it into a dozen bright snowflakes and sends them off.
“What about you?” she asks. “When did your folks split up?”
“After I got out of hospital. Was eleven.” Like a Brit, he doesn’t use an article before ‘hospital.’
“Really? What crap timing.”
He looks down at his deformed hand. “Accident was a huge strain.”
“That sucks.”
He nods but focuses on the game now. The other team is close to making a goal. “New goalie,” he says. “Got to get it out of there—whoa! See that?”
A PAIS player just kicked the ball and it’s soaring through the air deep into enemy territory. Moony bellows, “Go, Tobias!” as a guy heads it to Josh, easy as pie, who shoots it straight into the French team’s goal.
Everyone explodes into cheers. The guys body-slam each other and hoot. Moony jumps and waves his cane. Even Summer claps and high-fives Moony.
Now it’s one to zero.
She dares to ask, “Were you … ever afraid … that you wouldn’t get better? Be able to walk again, and all?”
Moony says, “No. I knew I’d get better. Could stand any pain, was a matter of when I’d be back to normal.” He pauses. “Not quite there yet.” The corners of his mouth turn up. “Once I could walk without help, like eighteen months after the accident, then I had mental problems.”
“You still do.”
He laughs for real. “I know.”
“I’m kidding. But why then?”
“Not unusual. At all. You’ve recovered, but reality sets in. Realize you’re always going to be a gimp. Have pain, memory, bowel problems.”
“Thanks for sharing.”
“Certain things forever out of reach.” He says all this so evenly, she realizes he’s working hard not to sound down. How does he keep so positive and energetic about school and activities, she wonders. About life.
It’s raining by the time the ref blows his whistle. Game over. PAIS won, 1–0.
On the ride back, the boys discuss and rehash each play. Tired and sinking, Summer sits quietly and wishes the middle seat didn’t separate her from Moony.
Josh’s mom lets them off at the avenue Foch entrance into the É toile, across from the Arc de Triomphe. Summer observes the madness that is right-of-way in the six-lane, twelve-spoke roundabout and blurts out to Moony, “Want to … go have a coffee or something?” She doesn’t want the time with him to end.
“Got a doctor’s appointment,” he says.
She believes him, but her disappointment spasms like he just said she’s a fat, vicious liar and drunk and he never wants to see her again. Then tossed in a foul Sicilian curse on all her future offspring.
What is she thinking? It’s hopeless. She already knows she can’t do this. Be with someone. And find flipping purpose. It’s absurd. She can’t even keep a friend.
She will never get better.
Moony’s watching her closely. “I’ll limp you to your train,” he says. “And see you tomorrow. 16:00.”
She puts on a smile. “Oh, I’ll just
“So yeah, my dad,” she says, “he died of a stroke. By the time I got to the hospital, he was already brain dead. They unhooked his life support late that night.” She remembers how cold it was. And the nice guy in the corridor. Light snow flurries swirling beneath the tall hospital parking lot lights.
Tomorrow is December already. Seventeen days until the anniversary.
Moony’s looking at her. “I’m really sorry.”
“Thanks.”
Moony says nothing, but she can tell he’s listening.
“He would have lived if someone found him sooner,” she adds, thinking of Mom, never where she’s supposed to be. “He was unconscious in the bathroom for hours before anyone even realized.” Summer massages a dark tightness between her eyebrows, then turns it into a dozen bright snowflakes and sends them off.
“What about you?” she asks. “When did your folks split up?”
“After I got out of hospital. Was eleven.” Like a Brit, he doesn’t use an article before ‘hospital.’
“Really? What crap timing.”
He looks down at his deformed hand. “Accident was a huge strain.”
“That sucks.”
He nods but focuses on the game now. The other team is close to making a goal. “New goalie,” he says. “Got to get it out of there—whoa! See that?”
A PAIS player just kicked the ball and it’s soaring through the air deep into enemy territory. Moony bellows, “Go, Tobias!” as a guy heads it to Josh, easy as pie, who shoots it straight into the French team’s goal.
Everyone explodes into cheers. The guys body-slam each other and hoot. Moony jumps and waves his cane. Even Summer claps and high-fives Moony.
Now it’s one to zero.
She dares to ask, “Were you … ever afraid … that you wouldn’t get better? Be able to walk again, and all?”
Moony says, “No. I knew I’d get better. Could stand any pain, was a matter of when I’d be back to normal.” He pauses. “Not quite there yet.” The corners of his mouth turn up. “Once I could walk without help, like eighteen months after the accident, then I had mental problems.”
“You still do.”
He laughs for real. “I know.”
“I’m kidding. But why then?”
“Not unusual. At all. You’ve recovered, but reality sets in. Realize you’re always going to be a gimp. Have pain, memory, bowel problems.”
“Thanks for sharing.”
“Certain things forever out of reach.” He says all this so evenly, she realizes he’s working hard not to sound down. How does he keep so positive and energetic about school and activities, she wonders. About life.
It’s raining by the time the ref blows his whistle. Game over. PAIS won, 1–0.
On the ride back, the boys discuss and rehash each play. Tired and sinking, Summer sits quietly and wishes the middle seat didn’t separate her from Moony.
Josh’s mom lets them off at the avenue Foch entrance into the É toile, across from the Arc de Triomphe. Summer observes the madness that is right-of-way in the six-lane, twelve-spoke roundabout and blurts out to Moony, “Want to … go have a coffee or something?” She doesn’t want the time with him to end.
“Got a doctor’s appointment,” he says.
She believes him, but her disappointment spasms like he just said she’s a fat, vicious liar and drunk and he never wants to see her again. Then tossed in a foul Sicilian curse on all her future offspring.
What is she thinking? It’s hopeless. She already knows she can’t do this. Be with someone. And find flipping purpose. It’s absurd. She can’t even keep a friend.
She will never get better.
Moony’s watching her closely. “I’ll limp you to your train,” he says. “And see you tomorrow. 16:00.”
She puts on a smile. “Oh, I’ll just
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