Gingerly, Margie sits down beside me. “Hey, you okay?” I feel her warm hand push my hair back from my brow; it’s one of those sweet comforting gestures that make you want to cry. Sprawled in the canoe, I close my eyes. I make myself feel the sun bake my face and listen to the water lapping underneath. With all my will, I rein in my limbs. I can’t force myself to relax, but I reestablish the tension and countertension that will stop the crazy movements and let me look calm. I open my eyes to the cloudless sky, bend my knees, pull up my back, and sit up. I note the position of the shore. I am ready to go.

The canoe glides across the lake. The surfer explains how the Indians made canoes with burned-out tree trunks. I try to be interested. I try at least to act interested. If I try hard enough, maybe I can enjoy the ride.

However, even my special knack for contentment can’t quite carry me. I dread the lift out of the canoe. I don’t want that cute guy to wrestle me like a wild animal. I don’t want to kick him again.

Maybe I should have refused to get in this effing canoe. I censor the bad word in my thoughts.

Maybe. But too late now.

Maybe getting out won’t be so bad. I’ll be handed up to a solid place. That will be much better.

But they’ll have to catch me first.

My mind turns on the best way to get back in my chair. They can roll me out of the canoe into the lake; I’ll float back to the shallow water and they’ll walk me to my chair on the shore, just as they do every day after swimming. But this is a silly idea. A shower and change aren’t in the schedule.

The surfer guy demonstrates paddling techniques and hands the paddle to Margie. Margie plies the paddle from side to side with real grace, but every so often she steals a sideways look at me. I flash a big grin at her and then at the surfer guy. I want to say everything is fine, but I don’t speak. Something like fear, something like shame, holds me back.

We turn back to the dock. There is the weathered ladder-backed chair that serves as Sara’s easel, and beside it is the empty wheelchair. My chair. My comfortable place, loyally waiting for my return.