Ella leaned her hip into the kitchen counter. She wanted to scream. Everything about her mom seemed phony and shallow, and for what? Her dad was too busy trying to hold onto yesterday. Meanwhile they’d lost friends like the Harris family. So what did the fake tan and Botox and endless workouts really amount to?
“Okay.” Her mother turned and put her hands on her waist. “You’re quiet. Is there a reason?”
If she didn’t say something, she would explode. “I have a question.” She spoke each word deliberately and controlled.
Her mom raked her pale blonde hair off her face and exhaled, more weary than tired. “Ask it.”
“Why did we stop being friends with the Harris family?”
It took a few seconds for the realization to register on her mother’s face. At first she opened her mouth like she might ask which Harris family, or for Ella to explain herself better. But then her lips closed again and she lifted her chin. The defensive tone in her eyes cast an awkward feeling over the moment. “You mean Holden Harris’ family?”
“Of course I mean Holden Harris.” She released a short burst of air. Then she thrust the scrapbook in her mother’s direction. “The Holden Harris who was my best friend when I was three.”
“Don’t shout.” Her mom filled her glass of water again. She was stalling, for sure.
“I’m not shouting, I’m asking.”
“You’re asking very loud.”
“Because I want the answer.” Ella was definitely shouting, but she was too angry to admit it. She lowered her voice. If she pushed any harder, her mom would walk away without another word. It happened all the time.
Her mother took a long sip of water and set her cup down on the black granite countertop. “What … you were bored, so you looked through our photo albums?”
Of course I’m bored, she wanted to scream. Instead she remained motionless, desperate to keep control. “You didn’t answer me. Why did we stop being friends?”
“We went different directions.” She studied her manicured fingernails and barely glanced at Ella. “That happens sometimes.” She crossed her arms and leveled an impatient look at Ella. “You had lots of friends growing up.” The defeat was back in her tone. “How come you don’t ask about them?”
“Because Holden goes to my school.” There. She’d said it. She watched again while the surprise hit.
“He goes to Fulton?” For the first time that afternoon, her mother looked concerned about something other than herself. “So he’s … he’s in regular classes?”
“Of course not.” She tried to keep the acid from her voice. “He’s autistic.”
A momentary sadness filled her eyes. She looked down at the stone floor. “I know that.” She sounded embarrassed. “I just thought …”
Ella let the statement hang uncomfortably for a long moment. “So … answer my question.” Ella waited until she had her mother’s full attention. “Why did we stop being friends with them?”
The doorbell rang, and her mother snapped into action. “I told you, Ella.” She jogged off toward the front door, and Ella watched her go. Her mother wasn’t wearing much, as usual. Tight dance pants and a bright blue tank top. Whatever delivery guy was at the door, he was bound to be surprised.
But instead of returning to the kitchen, Ella heard her mother bound up the front stairs.
Ella thought about letting the issue slide. She already knew the answer, right? Holden slipped into autism, and the Reynolds family slipped out the back door. What else could it be?
But this time she wanted to hear the words from her mother’s mouth. Or maybe from her heart. She wanted to see her mom squirm and dodge the issue until she had to face the fact that maybe Holden wasn’t the only one to go through a change fifteen years ago. Ella darted up the stairs, every step intentional. Being the wife of a major-league baseball player came with certain expectations, right? Her heart hurt as the reality became even clearer. The daughter of Randy and Suzanne Reynolds couldn’t possibly have an autistic friend. How would that look?
Ella walked quickly down the hall and flung open the door of the upstairs office at the west end of the house. Her mom was sitting at the computer on Facebook. Once again Ella wanted to scream. What was she doing here, when she knew Ella wanted to talk? Before she could say anything, she noticed something. Her mom had tears on her cheeks. Ella hesitated. She searched her heart and found a scrap of compassion for her mother. “Did you think,” her tone was kinder than before, “I wouldn’t come looking for you?”
Her mother’s teary eyes looked defeated. “I thought we were finished talking.”
“We weren’t.” Ella kept her tone level. “I still want an answer. About Holden Harris.” She took a step closer, her eyes never broke contact. “Why did we stop being friends?”
Her mother opened her mouth like she might rattle off a quick answer, the kind she’d given Ella earlier. But then she dabbed at her eyes and stared out the window. A sigh came from what sounded like a very deep place in her soul. A forgotten place. When she turned to Ella again, her eyes looked softer than they had in a long time. “We loved Holden. He was … the sweetest little boy.” Her smile didn’t take the pain from her eyes. “We used to talk about the two of you growing up and …” She swallowed and gave a brief shake of her head. “None of us saw it coming, Ella. It was like … like we lost him overnight.”
Ella had guessed as much from the photos. “So why?” She lowered her voice, sad for Holden and all he’d lost. “Why aren’t we friends?”
Her mother’s shoulders sank. “He stopped laughing and singing. Before we knew it he wouldn’t dance or play or run around with you the way he used to.” Her sorrow became more of an embarrassment. “He started … stacking things and lining up your toys when we were together.”
“So you separated us?” Her anger was back, and Ella had to work to contain it. She tossed her hand in the air. “Because he was quiet? Because he stacked things?”
“It bothered you, Ella.” Her voice held more passion than before. “You would … you would walk up and tap his shoulder and try to get him to run around and play with you or sing with you.” She pinched the bridge of her nose and closed her eyes, as if she might not finish her explanation. When she looked up, her expression was hard again. “I don’t expect you to remember. But after a few weeks he wouldn’t even … he wouldn’t look at you. He wouldn’t talk at all. Not a word.” She leaned back in her chair. The past was written into her expression. “Sometimes you’d cry because you wanted him … the way he used to be.”
Ella didn’t understand everything about autism, but she knew this much: therapy had to start immediately. The earlier the better. “So I could’ve stayed in his life. We could’ve been part of the solution for him, but instead … what? It was too awkward, Mom, is that it?”
Her mother pushed back from the desk and stood, clearly finished with the conversation. “Yes, it was awkward.” She crossed her arms. “Is that what you want to hear? Fine. We stopped being friends because it was too awkward.” She met Ella’s gaze head on. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’m taking a shower.”
She stormed past Ella and down the hallway to her room. Ella didn’t move. She looked out the window and let the truth settle. She and Holden had been best friends, but when he changed, when autism set in, things became awkward and her parents went their own way. Everything beautiful about the little boy Holden once was had been dismissed and forgotten. The way a person might forget about losing a favorite camera or a cell phone.
She reminded herself to breathe.
What ways might Holden have come out of his private world years ago if only the two of them had been allowed to continue their friendship? Certainly their connection was a strong one back then. That sort of childlike bond would’ve been very helpful in reaching him, right?
Ella took hold of the back of the computer chair and looked at the Facebook page still up on the screen. Her mother spent way too much time here, looking for o
ld friends and even guys she used to date. It was her way of escaping, Ella figured. Even on an afternoon like this when she knew Ella was trying to talk to her. Instead she’d come up here and gone looking for what? For a way to—
Her heart suddenly slammed into a strange rhythm. She stared at the Facebook search window, not believing her eyes. “There’s more to the story,” she whispered. “Isn’t there, Mom?”
There must have been. Because for all her mother’s attitude and avoidance of the topic of Holden Harris, she clearly cared. She’d been crying, after all. So maybe the loss hurt more than she wanted to let on, or maybe the separation was more difficult than she was leading Ella to believe. Something must have touched her mother’s heart or moved her, and this new understanding reduced Ella’s anger to an ocean of sadness. For the first time in a long time, Ella didn’t hate her. Because she and Holden weren’t the only friends who had lost each other fifteen years ago. The words in the search window told her that much.
Her mother had typed in “Tracy Harris.”
Thirteen
TRACY MISSED THE OLD HOLDEN MOST ON FRIDAYS.
The last day of the school week, there was always some reason for her to stop by Fulton High before school let out. Paperwork in the office, or a meeting with his teacher, a quick consult with the school therapist. Something. And on those days Holden would skip the bus and drive home with her.
Tracy punched the clock in the Walmart break room and left an hour early, the way she did most Fridays. I’m picking my son up from school, she told herself as she walked to the back of the crowded parking lot and slipped behind the wheel of her ’98 blue Honda. And for the entire ride she felt like any other mother, doing what any other mother might do. That was the problem, of course. The reason she missed him so much on Fridays.
The other days when he stepped off the special bus there was no denying her reality. Holden battled the private world of autism, Dan battled the Alaskan seas, and Tracy battled her despair before God on her knees—begging Him every day for a sign or a breakthrough. Praying that one day Holden might look at her or talk to her, or that she might hug him again or hold his hand. She missed so much about Holden, but maybe she missed his touch most of all. The touch of his smile and sparkling eyes, the feel of his little-boy, long-lost self, safe in her arms. The brush of his fingers against hers when they crossed a parking lot or read a book at night.
So much missing that usually she did better to keep herself grounded in the moment.
But on Fridays she couldn’t stop herself from thinking back.
The craziest thing was that he and Ella had reconnected. Tracy had been sure they would never see each other again. There were dozens of high schools in the greater Atlanta area. Only God could’ve led them both to Fulton. Like some divine plan being set into motion, one Tracy couldn’t fully comprehend. But something miraculous was happening, because not only were they at the same school, but Ella had actually befriended him. Gone to bat for him with Mr. Hawkins, the drama teacher. And she’d done that before she even realized they’d been friends when they were little.
Suzanne Reynolds’ daughter … What were the odds?
The light turned green and she kept up with traffic. There were no harsh words or terrible fights to mark the death of her friendship with Ella’s mother. It had died like so many other relationships, friendships tossed in the trash heap of life. The more days passed, the more it didn’t seem right to call or contact Suzanne. And Suzanne must’ve felt the same way because the phone never rang.
A breeze brushed against her damp cheeks as she turned left on the main highway that led to Fulton. Dear God, sometimes I still miss her. I miss her the way I miss Dan and Holden and everything that used to be. She blinked back fresh tears. Most days she was too busy at Walmart or working with Holden to think about all she’d lost. But times like this the burden felt like more than she could bear. Please, God … speak to my former friend and her husband … and thank You for her daughter. She wiped at another tear. Ella had grown up to be very kind. Like her mama used to be when they were in high school. Seeing Ella made her miss Suzanne the way she hadn’t missed her in more than a decade. She sniffed and tried to gather her emotions. She couldn’t cry as she pulled into Fulton High. She had a meeting with Holden’s PE teacher today. So, Father, I don’t know what You’re doing, but I can feel it. Something’s happening. Isn’t that right, God?
My precious daughter, I am doing a new thing! Now it springs up … do you not perceive it … I am making a way in the desert and streams in the wasteland. I love you, my daughter … you are not alone. Not now or ever.
Tracy almost pulled off the road. The answer was so clear, so strong she caught herself glancing in the rearview mirror. As if the Lord were sitting in her backseat. This was the verse she’d prayed so many times over Holden. The verse from Isaiah 43:19 about God making a way through the wilderness, streams in the desert. But never—not once since she’d been praying that verse —had she ever felt the Lord speak it back to her.
Until this moment.
She was almost at the school, driving the last few miles on the highway, when a memory came to life, crisp and real from fifteen years ago. She and Suzanne were sitting in the Reynolds’ kitchen drinking sweet tea and Suzanne was saying something about the lemons being better than usual and suddenly from the backyard came the sheer limitless laughter of Holden and Ella.
The memory was so real and vivid she could smell the lemon, feel the cool glass in her hand. And she could hear the laughter of their children, ringing in her heart and soul and mind, like it did that long ago day.
She and Suzanne had both turned at the sound. “Can you hear it?” Suzanne smiled and the future shone in her eyes. “That’s the sound of the years flying by.” She snapped her manicured fingers.
“You’re right.” Tracy looked at their children. “Tomorrow they’ll be seniors in high school.”
“They’re the most precious kids.” Suzanne stared out the window again. “Look at them.”
Tracy looked. She was still looking, because the picture burned a lasting impression in her heart. Holden was holding a handful of dandelions as he chased Ella around the swing set and he was catching up to her, and Ella was spinning around and they were both laughing. Always laughing. And Tracy had her best friend across from her and the sun was shining on the faces of their kids and Holden was saying, “Half for you because you’re my Ella! Okay? Half for you.”
And Ella was holding out her hands and telling Holden, “Okay, give me half!” Holden was separating half the dandelions out and placing them in Ella’s little fingers and she was grinning at him and raising her blonde eyebrows and squealing, “Now what, Ho’den?”
“Now throw ’em!” And Holden was tossing the flowers in the air and Ella was joining in and doing the same, and they were giggling as the flowers rained down on their heads. A few dandelions stayed in their hair, and the sight hit a funny bone in both of them, because they were picking the flowers up off the ground and placing them on their heads until they looked like a couple of hippie kids. And they were laughing and laughing until they fell down on the ground, two towheads in a mix of dirty knees and dandelions.
The laughter faded first, and then the image of their faces, and finally like every other wonderful moment from the past, the memory slipped back to yesterday where it belonged. So much missing. So very much missing. Tracy ran her fingers beneath her eyes and dried her cheeks. But she could do nothing about the ache in her heart. Because yesterday only loaned out memories like that at times like this —when Tracy was doing the most absolutely normal thing.
Driving to Fulton High to pick up Holden.
Fourteen
ELLA WASN’T SURE, BUT SHE HAD A FEELING HOLDEN REMEMBERED her. He still flapped his arms in drama that afternoon, but he didn’t do any push-ups. Once when Mr. Hawkins told them to take a break, Ella looked back and caught him staring at her. Not past her or through her, but right straight at
her. The way he had a couple times now. His eyes shifted almost as soon as she saw him, but that didn’t change the fact. By the end of their third full theater rehearsal together, Ella had a hunch about Holden.
He understood more than the kids at Fulton thought.
Class had just ended, and Ella went to Holden’s side. He was still sitting, rocking slightly and looking into his backpack. Probably for his flash cards. “Holden, I’m Ella. Do you remember me?”
He stopped rocking and sat straighter. Then in a way that was slow and clearly on purpose, Holden lifted his eyes to hers. This time he didn’t look away. Instead he stayed connected to her and she didn’t have to hear his answer. His blue eyes told her everything she needed to know.
Yes, he remembered her.
She wasn’t sure how, because fifteen years was a long time. But Holden remembered, she was sure. And standing there in Mr. Hawkins’ class with the rest of the kids already gone, somehow Ella remembered him too. Not just from the photos in the scrapbook she’d brought to school that day. But him … the heart behind his amazing eyes.
There was a noise behind her, and Ella turned toward the sound. Holden’s mother stood in the doorway. Their eyes met, and the woman smiled. But still her eyes were sad. “Hi, Ella.”
“Hello, ma’am.” Ella looked back at Holden. He was staring at his backpack again, the connection they’d shared a moment earlier gone. “I was just …” Her eyes found Mrs. Harris. “I was talking to Holden. I asked if he remembers me.”
“Hmmm.” She didn’t seem in a hurry like the other day. “You’re very nice to him, Ella. I pray all the time that Holden will find a friend. I pray for a miracle for him. I just didn’t think …”
“You didn’t think it would be me.” Ella heard the disappointment in her voice. If only her mother would’ve given Holden a chance. She managed a quick smile. “I talked to my mom about it.”