“Afraid of what?”
“Well . . . afraid she would fall.”
“But she did!”
“Yes, she did. And then she was okay. It was an important step for her to take—to be independent and feel like herself again—and you took it with her. That’s a big thing, sweetheart.”
“I was out-of-my-mind scared,” I admitted, remembering the crash and the noise and the diaper. Remembering how I thought I had hurt her . . . again. “Um, well, there is one more thing. . . .”
Aunt Mo stopped walking and hung her head dramatically. “Go ahead.”
“Well, I . . . um . . . threw Riley’s phone at her. I was going to give it to her today and then I got so upset, and my adrenaline was pumping, and then . . . well . . . I just sorta hurled it at her.”
“Wow, she is really gonna be mad at you now,” she said. “You didn’t hurt her, did you?”
“No, I missed,” I said, feeling ridiculous. “But, I may have also broken it. It kinda bounced off Riley’s headboard?” The rain continued, and we walked faster toward the hospital. “I know you must be really mad. . . .”
“About a phone?” She gave me a really? look.
“You were so mad when we cracked it a few weeks ago!”
“That was then. This is . . . now.” We were coming up on Third Street, but even the handball courts were almost deserted—just a few stragglers, packing up their folding chairs. They didn’t seem to mind the rain.
“Yeah, now is . . . now.” The wind was picking up and it made me even colder. I leaned in closer to her to warm up. “Do you think he’ll come see her? Riley really wants him to.”
“I’ll talk to him,” she promised. “And then I’ll talk to Riley. I don’t know if he’s in any shape to come see her,” she added. Then she stopped and looked around. “I don’t really know where we are.”
“I do,” I said. “We’re just past the handball courts, and we turn left at the onion smell. I know the way.”
DAY 14 9/10
Aunt Maureen let me go up to see Riley on my own. Sand squished and scratched in my sneakers. Sophia was in her bed, the curtain open, talking quietly to Riley in Spanish. She stopped when I came in. Someone had picked up the ORB and put it back on Riley’s tray table.
“Hey,” I said to Riley.
“Hey.” She didn’t look up.
I took the chair closest to the door. And then I went for it, Sophia there or not. “I need to talk to you about your father,” I said. “I’m upset. . . . I’m upset that you lied about him. I know it might not seem as bad as a secret boyfriend, but I was really worried about you. Because I didn’t know it wasn’t a boyfriend who was way too old and dangerous! You didn’t tell me!”
Riley didn’t say anything.
“I called your father,” I admitted. “I thought I was calling your boyfriend—to tell him off—but it was your dad . . . and I was so surprised . . . and I really blew it.”
Riley was looking at me now, waiting for more. Anxious.
“He’s been worried about you. Trying to reach you.” I didn’t tell her that he cried, because I didn’t want her to worry about him, and I knew she would. That wasn’t the toughest part, though. I steeled myself for the hardest part, hearing Marisol’s voice in a hard run, Stay with me here.
“I told your mom, too.” I expected a stronger reaction, but she barely blinked. I think she was relieved, at least a little bit. She still wouldn’t look at me, but she’d been nodding slowly here and there, so I knew she was listening.
I stopped talking and she stopped nodding and we were in that terrible quiet place, until, in perfect English, Riley said softly, “Come here?” She swallowed hard.
“Your dad? I don’t know.” I paused. I decided it wasn’t for me to explain. “You should probably talk to your mom about it.” Riley didn’t reply. “I’m sorry I threw your phone.”
She shrugged. I guess Aunt Maureen wasn’t the only one who didn’t think the phone was so important anymore.
“Mad you.”
“I know. You’re mad that I gave you a stroke. I . . . understand that. And you have every right.” I said it. I finally said. It. Even though Aunt Maureen told me that wasn’t true, it was still true to Riley.
“No.”
What? No? What did she mean, no? Then what was she mad about?
“Meh tell you.” She tugged the notebook toward her, turned the page to the family page, and then flipped the pages, going back and forth, like she was planning ahead what she wanted to say.
“Do you want help?” I reached for it. “I’m going to make you index cards with the words, so you don’t have to turn the pages—it will be easier. You can line them up in a row . . . build a whole sentence instead of flipping back and forth.” I had gotten the idea yesterday, in fact, but hadn’t wanted to help her then.
“No, is okay.” She began:
I hadn’t seen that one before. It was on Sophia’s page. “Boo? Like a ghost?” I asked.
“Afraid,” Sophia said from her bed.
“You’re afraid of me?” I flashed back to the moment I had thrown the newspaper in her face and then the phone.
“No.” She shook her head. She slid her hand over the page, like she was wiping it clean.
“Okay, starting over,” I said.
She nodded and pointed again.
“Riley afraid,” I repeated.
“Yes.”
Her hands were moving a mile a minute—she was struggling to find one specific word in a brain that held a jumble of them. Her frustration was growing—and her heart rate was going up with it.
“I’m sorry, Riley. . . . I don’t know . . .”
She grabbed the marker and turned the page. I held the corners down as she drew:
“Letters? Is that script? Are you trying to write something or draw something? Is it Spanish?” I was spitting out my questions too fast. Slow down, I told myself. Wait for Riley. Listen to Riley.
She tapped her fingers on the table, deep in thought.
“Can I help?” Sophia’s voice was thin. She was struggling to get up. She had an oxygen tube—a cannula—running under her nostrils today. I hadn’t seen that before. That was new. Or had I just not noticed it? I stood in front of her, made sure Sophia’s feet were wide apart, and then helped pull her up. She was taller than me, but she felt small in my arms. She held on to my shoulders as I lowered her into her visitor’s chair and then pushed her closer to Riley. Her oxygen tubes were almost taut, so I repositioned her chair.
“¿Está bien?” asked Riley, looking at the tubes.
“Sí, gracias,” said Sophia. She looked down at the loops Riley had drawn, skipping past Riley’s obvious worry about her cannula. “Letters? School?” guessed Sophia. “Are you afraid to go back to school?” That hadn’t occurred to me at all.
“No.”
What could Riley be afraid of? Oh. Now I see it.
And I knew. I could say it for her, but she wanted to say it herself. It was her story. Not mine. I knew the word she needed, and it wasn’t in the notebook. It was in my backpack. I rushed to it and dug around. It was ripped and wrinkled and trapped by Abraham Lincoln. The page I had ripped out of her sketchbook when I saw it for the first time in the PICU family room:
Riley seemed mesmerized by it. Did she remember drawing it?
“You are afraid of the roller coaster?” asked Sophia.
“Yes.”
And then Riley made the sign of the cross.
“Really afraid,” added Sophia, smiling. She really did understand Riley.
“¡Sí!”
“Sí.” Then she pointed at me—a different kind of point, like her different silences and her different grunts. She pointed an angry finger. Hands can be just as angry as voices—and silence. You just learn to know the difference.
“Riley is afraid of the roller coaster. Nora . . . ,” recited Sophia.
“Not,” Riley said clearly and slowly, a deliberate “not.”
She was deep
in thought, raising and then lowering her hands. She couldn’t find a word or a way to explain it.
She was crying now.
“Not . . . care,” I said for her. “I didn’t care.” I was upset now too. “She told me so many times,” I choked out. “So many times . . .”
“I don’t get it,” Sophia said. “When?” Riley pointed at me, asking for help, telling me it was my turn. She needed me to string it together, to say it out loud for her. For me to hear.
“The night before we went to the amusement park, Riley and I had a fight—” Riley put her hand up and stopped me. I guess she didn’t want to share that part—it was private to her—and it was really about her father. Sophia didn’t need the details. She didn’t need to know about Code Name Georgina. She didn’t need to know that Riley tried to get out of the line and I blackmailed her. She didn’t need to know that riding the roller coaster was the last thing she did before she had a stroke. The details didn’t matter to her, or to Riley, or to me anymore either. It wasn’t about the phone, or Georgina, or even the stroke. It was so much simpler than all that.
“Riley was afraid, but I only cared about what I wanted.” Saying it out loud was awful.
“Fuz you,” Riley said.
“I know.” Tears were forming again. “You were so scared. . . . I didn’t listen to you. I’m so, so sorry.” And even though I knew it was coming and even though I knew I deserved it for being so selfish and so uncaring, when Riley exploded, when it actually hit me, it was almost too much to bear. She yelled and she cursed and her hands, her face, her eyes were so angry at me—so hurt by me. When I finally thought she was done—had said it all—I put my head down on her arm, and I cried. She pulled me closer and cried too.
* * *
We went on like that for a while, until Aunt Maureen came in from the hallway. It was her turn to talk now. She would have to find the words that Riley needed. Different words. I had no idea what they would be. But it wasn’t really any of my business. If Riley wanted to tell me later, she would. And if she didn’t, I would have to live with that, too. She might just share pieces of it. She might have even tried to tell me about her dad before, but I just wasn’t listening the right way. She might even forget all of it tomorrow—and remember it again in a week. I helped Sophia back to bed and then left Riley and Aunt Maureen, already deep in conversation.
* * *
The PICU family room was busy. Television on, coffee brewing, fish swimming. I had mixed feelings when I spotted Jack in his usual spot. Jeremy next to him now, looking slightly less shell-shocked. Jack looked up when I came in and waved excitedly. It had been a few days since we had seen each other. I detoured to the kitchen, poured Jack a cup of coffee, and picked out a chocolate-frosted doughnut for Jeremy.
I delivered both and sat quietly, reading Abraham Lincoln while Jack did impressions of both Phineas and Ferb to Jeremy’s continued guffaws. He was having such a good time that he renamed the fish—Phineas being the smaller, bright yellow one.
“Thanks for the coffee,” Jack said, sitting after saying good-bye to Jeremy and small-talking with Jeremy’s parents. His jet-black hair was an unwashed mess. He did not smell like laundry detergent anymore. “Is everything okay? Your whole family was looking for you. How’s Riley?”
“She’s good,” I replied. She’s coming home. We had a fight. I called her father. “How are you?”
“Same. You know.” He shrugged, taking a sip of coffee.
“Yeah.”
“Jeremy is a funny kid,” he said.
“You really make him laugh.” I kept eye contact, but not as long as Monica, because I felt the beginning of tears in my eyes.
“Same age as Colin,” he explained. I watched as his eyes suddenly darted around the room. “Easy peasy.” Where do you go when you’re not here? Is your mom okay? Did she go back to work? How do you get here every day?
“He’s lucky to have you.”
“Yeah.” He held back a hint of a smile.
You can tell me more.
But you don’t have to.
Epilogue
A few days later Riley was home. She used the walker to make it up the brand-new ramp to the front door—quickly, I might add. Archie knew she was coming, too; his face was at the window as we pulled up. When Aunt Maureen helped Riley out of the car, that dog LOST HIS MIND. I thought he was going to break through the window to get to her. Dad knew to go ahead and put him on a leash so he wouldn’t knock Riley right off her feet. Not that she would have minded; that girl LOST HER MIND when she saw him, bursting into tears and forgetting for a minute that she didn’t quite have her old legs yet. Aunt Elayne held her up when she let go of the walker to wrap her arms around Archie. For a tiny woman, Aunt Elayne is crazy solid.
Elayne had checked out of the hotel and unpacked her suitcase in Grandma’s old room. We spent most of the time in the kitchen, or as we called it now, the family room, where we started the day and did most of our talking—and arguing, and apologizing. I promise you, Riley wasn’t the only one who used hand gestures and profanity. Although she did come to the table one morning with the UNO wild card taped to her forehead and absolutely nothing nice to say to anybody. Aunt Maureen was not having it.
The ORB kept its place in the middle of the kitchen table and was used so frequently, there was barely any room left in it—turns out everybody had different words and drawings they needed. My favorite one was this:
There was no label. But I know Riley’s wolf when I see it, 100 percent.
The End
(unless you have some words of your own to add)
Acknowledgments
I am deeply indebted to my editor, Caitlyn Dlouhy, and to my long-time publisher, Atheneum Books for Young Readers, for supporting this giant leap outside my comfort zone. (And in Caitlyn’s case, sometimes really pushing really hard [lovingly] and forcing me even further out!) Thank you to Sophie Hawkes and Grace Meis for their fantastic artwork.
A special thank-you to the NYU Langone Neonatal Intensive Care Unit, where, so many years ago, they held all of our hands; to the NICU nurses who taught us to watch the baby, not the numbers—a lesson that still holds true. And a special thank-you to Katherine Erbe, who had the toughest job of all.
Additional debts are owed to the nurses among my friends, who tirelessly answered my questions and shared their own experiences again and again and again, often leaving me in awe (and in tears).
Finally, to Julia and Abby, who get on all the scary rides with me and hold on tight.
About the Author
DOREEN CRONIN is the author of many New York Times bestselling books, including the Caldecott Honor Book Click, Clack, Moo: Cows That Type; Click, Clack, Surprise!; and the Chicken Squad series. She lives in Brooklyn, New York, and this is her debut middle-grade novel.
ATHENEUM BOOKS FOR YOUNG READERS
SIMON & SCHUSTER
NEW YORK
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ATHENEUM BOOKS FOR YOUNG READERS An imprint of Simon & Schuster Children’s Publishing Division 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, New York 10020 www.SimonandSchuster.com This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Text copyright © 2017 by Doreen Cronin Jacket illustrations by Debra Sfetsios-Conover Jacket and interior illustrations copyright © 2017 by Simon & Schuster, Inc. “Bonus drawings” by Sophie Hawkes and Grace Meis (top, right) Artwork of the Vidatak EZ BoardTM used by permission of Vidatak, LLC. Images of “Georgina” and binder background copyright © 2017 by Thinkstock All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. ATHENEUM BOOKS FOR YOUNG READERS is a registered trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc. Atheneum logo is a trade
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[email protected]. The Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau can bring authors to your live event. For more information or to book an event, contact the Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau at 1-866-248-3049 or visit our website at www.simonspeakers.com. Book design by Debra Sfetsios-Conover and Brad Mead The text for this book was set in Melior LT Std. The illustrations for this book were rendered with an iPad and in pencil. CIP data for this book is available from the Library of Congress. ISBN 978-1-4814-3525-3 ISBN 978-1-4814-3527-7 (eBook)
Doreen Cronin, Cyclone
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