Waiting For Sarah by James Heneghan Page A

‘It’s fine’?” — mocking his grumpy tone — “I pour my artistic talents into making this place bright and cheerful and organized and all you can — ”
    â€œAll right! It’s great. How’s that?”
    â€œâ€˜Great’ is better. Thank you.”
    Remembering Robbie, he said, “What’s your last name anyway?”
    She stepped down off the chair. “Francis. Sarah Francis. My mother’s name before she married my father was Frances Finkleheimer, but now it’s Frances Francis. Don’t you think that’s neat?” Without waiting for an answer she said, “I brought my paint box so I can paint you. I’m quite a good painter. You can sit for me.”
    â€œI don’t want to ‘sit’ for you.”
    She pulled a face. “What a sourpuss. I hope I’mnot like you when I get to be a senior.” She sighed. “Let’s not work today, Michael, okay? Look, I know a good game. I love movies — don’t you just love movies? — except I don’t get to go too often because of piano practice every day, early in the morning and then again later, in the afternoon, but I don’t mind, not really, I love the piano. The game is you pretend to be someone famous, like a movie star and I ask you questions and try to guess who you are, okay?”
    â€œLook, kid...”
    â€œSarah.”
    â€œI don’t have time for games. There’s a deadline. The yearbook committee is breathing down my neck. I’ve got to have this project finished for soon after Christmas. My history teacher wants a Carleton fiftieth anniversary research essay handed in as an assignment for his stupid course, get the picture?”
    â€œCould we talk, then, just for a little while, and then you can work?”
    Kids were a pain, especially girl kids; all they ever
did
was talk. His scowl didn’t even slow her down.
    â€œI want to ask you about fate. Do you believe in fate, Michael? Like two people meant to be together? Like Paris and Helen of Troy? Or Romeo and Juliet? I do.” She opened her eyes wide and stared into his. She put on a deep, husky voice, probably copying some screen actress. “You’re very good-looking, you know.”
    He blushed. “Cut it out!”
    She laughed. “But you are, Michael. You look like Harrison Ford. So stern and serious and cute. Did you see him in
Raiders of the Lost Ark?
He was so cool. I just loved him.”
    Before he could tell her to shut up so he could work, she said, “I saw it twice, the first time with my mom and dad and the second time with Jennifer Galt, my best friend.” She was silent for a moment, thinking. Then she said, “Michael, if I grow up as fast as I can, will you promise to wait for me?”
    â€œHuh?”
    â€œSo we can graduate together.”
    â€œOh, sure. I’ll wait for you,” he growled sarcastically, looking down at his legs. “I won’t be going anyplace.”
    She touched the places below his knees, the stumps. “Can you feel it when I touch you there?” She was serious now.
    â€œYes, of course I can.”
    â€œDo you miss the feelings you used to get in your legs?”
    â€œSometimes it feels like they’re still there, and I look, expecting to see them. I get shin pains. And sometimes I can wiggle my toes.”
    â€œBut that’s impossible!”
    â€œIt’s called phantom limbs. Sometimes my brain thinks they’re still there.”
    â€œDo you feel phantom limbs now?”
    â€œNo, only sometimes.”
    She trailed away from him to sit on the edge of the table, legs dangling, head tilted, face pale and suddenly melancholy. She opened her paint box, picked out a brush and ran a fingertip and thumb over its bristles. “How did it happen? The accident. Was that when you lost your parents and became an orphan?”
    The sun inserted a beam through the narrow