“Do not—” she says, and takes a breath and turns around to look at me, “ever call your grandfather crazy. He is sick and we are here to help him. And as for Bert, I think you should try to be a little more open-minded. Empathy and sympathy, Ellie. That’s what we all need. Empathy and sympathy.”

“Fine.” I point to the road. “Can we go now?” I don’t want the lecture. I just want to get out of here and forget this day ever happened.

She sighs but pulls back into the lane. I can see her knuckles white on the wheel, like she could crack the thing in two. I think about Grandpa clapping his hands over the little “walking Ellie” at the hospital. I think about what it means to be attractive and how I will never be.

Empathy and sympathy. I’m just fresh out.

7 False Start

“I am never going back.”

“Honey, you have to tell me what happened.”

Mom is sitting next to me in our bedroom. I’ve pulled myself onto the bed, but I’m too tired to drag the quilt over me. It’s yellow and covered in girls in bonnets. From this angle, it looks like they’re little Pac-Mans about to attack my legs—my skinny, stupid, useless legs.

“Please. I can’t make it better if I don’t know.”

Mom smooths the hair back from my forehead and pulls the cuffs of my jeans down where they were bunched up around my ankles.

“Stop fussing!”

“Well, start talking.”

I turn away from her and face the window. There’s a squirrel staring in. He’s holding half a walnut and freezes like he’s been caught stealing. I watch him put it in his teeth and scamper away. I stay quiet and slow my breathing so Mom thinks I’m sleeping. Finally I feel the bed shift when she gets up and leaves.

I’m just starting to doze off for real when the door slides open again.

“Come on, get up now. We’re going out to the porch.”

“No, Mema, it’s too cold.”

She drags the wheelchair up next to the bed and locks it in place. “You’re a tough girl. You can handle it.”

No, I’m not tough. I’m an invalid. In-valid. I want to say it, but I know she won’t listen. There are certain statements Mema refuses to hear.

Ten minutes later we are out on the porch wrapped in a blanket and holding hot chocolate that is already only lukewarm. The garden looks shriveled and sad, like it’ll never grow another living thing again.