Effortless With You Lizzy Charles 3 page

I swallow. “Yup.” Justin raises an eyebrow. “It’s all I need. Seriously, I’ll be fine.”

Justin shakes his head and turns off the engine.

“Um, are you listening? Let’s go. I’m fine.” It’s only been three minutes and already I want to strangle him. He never listens.

Justin jumps out of the truck, bee-lining it for my front door.

“What are you doing?” I jump out, following.

“Getting you lunch.” He looks me up and down, shaking his head. “You won’t survive the day without it.” He pushes open my front door and walks right in. The nerve. I run in behind, reaching the entryway only a few seconds later. Justin isn’t waiting for me. I throw the kitchen door open and want to die.

Justin’s shaking Mom’s hand. “Yes. Mrs. Zwindler. It’s great to finally meet you. My mom reads GardenLush.com every spring to prepare for the flowering season. She loves your blog.” Justin smiles at Mom and she flushes. Even my mom falls for his fake charm.

It always surprises me when people say they are a fan of that blog. To me, the blog is just an extension of her gardening therapy, helping her recovery. It is a constant reminder of what my birth caused. Babies are supposed to bring their mothers joy. I just brought mine postpartum depression that turned into years of darkness.

But Justin’s compliment makes Mom glow. “Oh, she’s a fan? Would you like to take her some samples of a promotional product?” She reaches into a sack, not giving Justin a chance to say no. She pulls out three palm-sized, moist bags. “These are tulip bulbs wrapped in a rich new fertilizer. They use cow and goat manure as well as catfish eggs.” She hands the three lumps to Justin. He looks down at his hands, now holding tulip bulbs and poop. He raises his eyebrows at me. Mom doesn’t notice; she’s oblivious as to how weird her gardening fascination is.

“Tell your mom to plant them this fall. They will be the most beautiful tulips next year,” Mom explains. Justin flashes Mom a thankful smile. Fearing what he’ll say, I jump in.

“Justin,” I almost growl at him. “Let’s go.”

“Lucinda, be polite.” She takes a slow, therapy breath. “I apologize for her rudeness. She’s not normally so frank.” Justin nods, occasionally glancing down at the bags in his hand. He’s actually speechless. I grin and make a mental note: To make Justin shut up, add poop bags.

Mom continues, “You see, this job is not exactly her choice … but her father and I believe it will do her well.” I cringe as Mom tells way too much information.

“I understand, Mrs. Zwindler.” Justin recovers, now holding the bags of poop like hacky sacks. He casually starts to juggle them. “I promise I won’t judge her character off this first week alone.” He flashes his crooked smile.

“Thank you.” Mom pats my back as if she’s done me a favor. I go stone cold, hating her touch on my shoulder. It takes all my strength to not shove it off. She turns back to Justin, her hand still resting on my shoulder. “So, what can I do for you?”

“Lucinda needs a lunch.”

Did Justin want me to hate him for eternity? Only my parents have the right to call me Lucinda. And even then, I hate it.

“Heavens.” Mom opens the fridge, pulling out my lunch bag. “I tried to get her to take it, but she refused.” She hands the bag to Justin. “Thank you for thinking of this. Her father will know she is in good hands when I tell him.”

“Mothers always know best,” Justin responds with another flashy smile. Mom smiles back, not understanding that he’s mocking us from our fight the other night. Justin looks at me. “Okay, Lucinda. Let’s roll.”

“Sure.” I quickly grab Justin’s arm and try dragging him through the door. He finagles his way out of my grasp, returning to thank her for the tulip poop bags. I can’t listen anymore. I storm out of the house, seeking refuge in his crappy white truck.

Why did he have to meet Mom? Why did she have to give him poop?

This was the cherry topping of my humiliation. I knew I’d get a call from Marissa asking how I let Mom give Justin poop. How does anyone explain that?

Justin opens the door, chuckling.

“Well,” Justin begins as he turns the ignition. “That was fun. When my uncle called and told me who I was picking up, I was thrilled. After your little show Saturday night, I knew I needed to meet your Mom. She’s famous, ya’ know?” He tosses me a poop bag. “And that! What a great welcome gift.” He laughs as the truck clanks down the driveway.

I refuse to look at him. I act more interested in the crack in the windshield.

Justin turns on the radio and, to my surprise, he stops bothering me. We listen to JSTP’s morning show. A woman calls in and complains about having a fat bridesmaid. I hate listening to any talking on the radio. Isn’t the radio for music? But I endure it. At least it makes him stop bothering me.

Justin pulls into the driveway of a small rambler house. I breathe a sigh of relief. One story—I won’t be dying today. Part of the house is a dirty, pale yellow while the other part is a rich grey. I hope the new color is the grey. The yellow looks like pee. Five guys sit on buckets in the driveway, all my age and relatively attractive.

Justin stops the car and touches my arm. My instincts yank it away. “Sorry.” He seems offended. “I just wanted to let you know that I’ll help you out today.”

“Why?” My voice is a bit too harsh.

He replies, meeting my tone. “Well, I assume you know nothing about painting and you’ll need my help.”

“I don’t want your help.”

“Fine.” He climbs out, leaving me alone in the truck. Not wanting to look lame, I force myself to follow. I trail him toward the group of guys. They all stand as I approach.

“This is Lucy,” Justin begins. I wait for him to provide further introductions. He doesn’t. Instead he ditches me, grabbing paint and a bag of brushes before walking away and setting up at the front door. I stand alone in front of a group of cute guys. Marissa’s dream. My nightmare. They eye me and I know I’m being judged. But I don’t have to be. I have Zach. I stand up straight, meet each gaze without a smile, and their eyes dart away. Message sent—I’m taken.

“Hi,” I say as they examine the asphalt. The tallest guy is the first to recover from being caught in total assessment mode.

“Hey.” He walks forward, extending his hand. “I’m Troy, project manager.” Got it. My boss. He points to each of the other guys. “That’s Luke, Emmanuel, Jake, and Alex.” Jake shoves Alex off balance. After the brief introduction, Troy tells them to get started. They all gather supplies from the truck and go separate ways. Troy walks right past me.

Am I supposed to grab stuff to start or wait for instruction?

“Um, Troy?” I ask, forcing myself to follow him like a helpless puppy.

“Right, sorry. You’re working with Alex.” He scans the yard. “I think he’s in the back. You’ll be his protégé.” A sigh of relief slips from my lips. A protégé’. I can handle that. I'll be like Alex’s assistant or something. Troy grabs a ladder from the truck bed and easily tosses it over his shoulder. “I’ll bring your ladder down for you.” I eye him as he tosses the clunky metal over his shoulder. Is he going to help me move it all summer?

When we reach the backyard, Troy drops my ladder, waving Alex down. Alex hops off his ladder from much too high, keeping his ear buds in as Troy gives an instruction in whispered tones. He nods, still bouncing to the music, until Troy leaves.

With Troy gone, he bounds over to me, taking out his ear buds. “I’m Alex. I’ve never gotten a protégé’ before.” He’s upbeat, holding up his hand for a high five. I give him a hesitant slap back. “I can’t believe they trust me with this.”

My confidence soars.

“Not that you should be worried … I’m awesome.” He smiles at me, and it is genuine. He can’t be over fifteen.

“Thanks. Where can I start? Near the ground?”

“Ha. No way, girl. If I start you there, you’ll never get up that ladder.” He nods to the humongous metal structure leaning against the house.

“I’ll be fine,” I lie. “It’ll be nice to just get the feel of the paintbrush before climbing up that thing, you know?”

“Nope. I watched Troy make that mistake with Luke. Look at him, always clinging to the ground.” Luke stands, grounded, painting the edge of a lower windowsill. “He only paints up high when he’s forced. He’s a slacker.” He puffs out his chest. “My protégé won’t be a slacker.” Tapping the ladder, he lifts his eyebrows. “You know you want to.”

I take a deep breath. I can already feel my feet flying through the air.

“Come on.” He motions with his hand.

I take a step back. Nope. I’m not getting up on that thing. It’s over fifteen feet tall.

Alex watches me, his fingers tapping his lips. “Okay. What if I can promise that the ladder won’t move and there’d be someone here to catch you if you fall?”

“Alex, there’s rarely anyone to catch you when you fall,” I say matter-of-factly.

He looks at me blankly, not quite understanding if I’m talking about falling or life. His face scrunches up. He’s thinking too hard. I can’t have that.

“That’s why they call it a fall. If people caught you, wouldn’t they call it a catch?” I try to lead him astray. He smiles. It works.

“Okay. Then, at worst, you’ll have a catch today.” He beams and holds out his hand. He has a little dimple in his right cheek. “Come on … please? The boss’ll be pissed if I don’t get you on that ladder.” Alex is so sweet and too young. I can’t make him suffer. I take a breath and walk up to the ladder. I can at least try.

I reach up, grabbing the middle of a rung. Alex moves my hands to the side rails. “It’s easier this way. Don’t worry. I’ll stand at the bottom all day if I have to.” His voice drops to a whisper. “Don’t tell anyone, but I hated the ladders in the beginning too.”

I like Alex. He is good people.

“Okay.” I clear my mind with the same deep breath I used to take before every free throw. “Here we go.” I start climbing. I don’t need to be told not to look down. Thankfully Alex knows better than that. But I can totally imagine him staring at my butt. Good kid, but still a guy.

“Great,” Alex says. “Now stop. You’re halfway. How does it feel?”

“Ugh, okay.”

“That’s as high as you have to go today.” My stomach relaxes. I can deal with this. “Tomorrow we’ll work higher up.” I let myself look down. At most, it’d be like an eight-foot fall. Not fatal, just a broken arm.

“Now come back down and I’ll set your supplies up nice.”

I take extra caution stepping back down the ladder. I can hear Alex behind me, taking supplies out of a huge bucket and moving around the base of my ladder. When I get down, the ground has transformed. Large drop cloths cover the grass. A variety of brushes and rollers are arranged on the ground. He grabs one and hands it to me. He shakes his head and grabs another. I hold it and he nods. Alex assesses the remaining supplies. He knows his stuff.

“How old are you?” I have to know.

“Fourteen. Almost fifteen.”

Younger than I thought.

“You look older than that,” I offer. He straightens his shoulders, making them broader. He’s kind of adorable. “You know a lot about this painting stuff, huh?” I give him a little ego boost. I need an ally.

“Of course I do.” He hands me a small bucket of paint while he climbs up my ladder. He holds out his hand, and I hand up the bucket. “I’ve been with the company since it started.”

“When was that?”

“Two summers ago.” I must look confused because he continues to explain, “Family connection. At first I just hung around watching. Then I got so annoying they had to give me a brush … and then a paycheck.” He laughs as he hooks the paint holder to the underside of the ladder. “Not many thirteen-year-olds can purchase their own HD flat-screen TV.” He tightens the paint holder. “Now I’m saving for a car. I’m technically only allowed to work five hours a day so I help out the other three.”

“You want to work full time?” I blurt. My cheeks burn. This is my first job and I already dread every hour.

“Absolutely. An outdoor gig, hanging out with friends, listening to music, building muscle without thinking about it, and getting paid? Sweet deal.” He climbs back down the ladder, switching places with me. I climb back up. He hands me the brush. “Dip the bristles in only a third of the way.” I do. “Yup. Now gently wipe the excess off on the inside lip of the bucket. Now brush with the grain of the siding. Not up and down, but side-to-side.” I do. The grey paint goes on smoothly. I smush the paint into a crack in the board, covering up all traces of the ugly yellow. Perfect.

This isn’t as bad as I thought. It's kind of hypnotizing. Alex shuffles his feet at the base of my ladder. I bet holding my ladder all day is probably as miserable for him as me being on one.

“Alex, you can let go.”

“Really? Are you sure?”

“Yup.” I nod to the ladder set up a few yards away from mine. “You won’t be far. I’ll holler when I need help with a refill.”

“Awesome. You’re already doing great. A natural. But don’t tell anyone that. Tell them I taught you everything there is to know, okay?”

I laugh, gripping the ladder. “As long as you keep me alive, consider it a deal.”

“Can do.” He winks playfully and bounds away. The kid has energy. He scales his ladder to the top, with supplies in hand. He steadies himself, plays with his iPhone, and puts in his ear buds. Mental note: bring music tomorrow. He bobs his head in rhythm. A smile seems permanently glued to his face. He really does love this job.

Assessing the siding in front of me, I carefully re-dip my brush while clutching the ladder. I reposition my grip and begin to cover the wood. Back and forth. I let my mind slip into blankness. It feels nice.

Back and forth.

Progressing down toward the ground isn’t so scary. I manage to unhook the paint bucket and move it with me. This isn’t too horrible.

The sun gets hotter and the air stickier. Alex takes more frequent water breaks and eventually takes off his shirt. My tank top glues itself to me. I want to just wear my sports bra but there’s no way I’d put myself on display here. And, worse, they’d probably think I thought I was super hot or something. I’d just be embarrassing myself.

The heat gets more suffocating with each stroke of my brush. We’re on the sunny side of the house. My only solace comes from knowing that eventually the sun will pass over and our sunny side will turn to shade.

Like Alex, I start taking sips of water between each board I paint. I don’t know what causes me to sweat more, the sun or climbing up and down because of my thirst. Staying hydrated is a work out in itself. My progress slows.

I sigh as I take my last sip of water. Dehydration, not a fall, would kill me.

Just as I debate asking Alex for a sip, Troy comes around the corner. “Break time, take twenty,” he shouts. There is a gas station a few streets away. I can run there, buy more water, and be back in time. I nearly jump off my ladder, surprising both myself and Alex.

“Whoa. Careful!” Alex calls as he climbs down his ladder. “Overconfidence can destroy you.” I think of Justin. Yes, that sounds about right.

I don’t waste any time. “Right; I’ll remember that.” I pick up my water bottle and jog past Alex. “I didn’t bring enough water. I’ve got to run to the gas station.”

“But you won’t have time to eat something.” He has run to reach my side. He motions to the other guys, all sitting on the lawn eating out of their lunchboxes. I look down at my watch.

“It’s ten. When do we eat lunch?”

“One.”

“I can make it. I’ll be fine.” My stomach growls in protest.

“Lucy, you should eat. You’ll get hungry.”

“I can last three more hours. Water is way more important.”

Alex motions toward the house’s hose. “Use that, water’s in our contract.” I scrunch my nose. “Come on, like when you were a kid, remember?”

The thought of the metallic taste grosses me out. Plus, a trip to the gas station helps me avoid Justin. “No thanks. I’ll just make a quick run. I’ll be back.” Alex doesn’t say anything. He stops running, shaking his head. Troy approaches him. Alex explains, “She wants to go to the gas station. I can’t stop her.”

“Well, she better come back.”

“She will.” Alex says confidently.

Wow. The idea hadn’t occurred to me to just leave. Why not? I hold the answer to that question in my hand: my phone. GPS. I’ll be back because I have to be. I bet Mom is watching where I am right now and wondering where I'm going, about to jump out of her computer chair and get in the car and chase me down. I start to jog. Mom now has total control, everything she wanted.

I arrive back as Troy shouts, “Back at it, men!” He looks at me as I pass him. “And Lucy.”

How nice to be included.

I drink half of one of the water bottles on the way into the backyard. I’ll definitely be using that hose in the next couple of hours. I climb up my ladder where Alex has already prepped my supplies. My stomach growls again. Ugh, this will be a long three hours.

I brush back and forth, grey over yellow. My stomach growls just enough to distract me from hitting a rhythm. I climb up and down the ladder to grab sips of water. Alex has somehow clipped his water to his ladder, saving him from going up and down. I’ll have to ask him about that during lunch. The sun is right over us now. In only an hour or so it will move to the other side of the house. Shade. The front and back of my tank top are soaking wet. It is unusual for me to sweat so much. I’ll bring two tops tomorrow.

The water finally settles my stomach. I fall back into my painting rhythm and my mind drifts to Zach. Should I call and apologize for my mom at the party and explain her crazy need for control? He’d agree and comfort me. Maybe he’d even stop over to sit with me outside and talk? I can already smell his cologne.

The back of my throat burns; I’m thirsty again. I climb down the ladder. My head feels a bit fuzzy. I take a long sip, feeling sleepy and unusually relaxed. I take another sip, closing my eyes for a bit. My stomach seems to turn over. I drank too much. My hands start shaking.

I bend over, my hands on my knees. Collect yourself, Lucy. Too late. The water comes back up. My eyes go fuzzy.

“Lucy?”

The ringing in my ears drowns Alex’s voice.

CHAPTER SIX

Water. Water everywhere. Wet. My eyes jolt open.

Justin stands over me, spraying me with a hose. “She’s awake.” Justin leans down. He puts one arm around my shoulder and the other under my knees and swiftly picks me up.

“Put me down.” I push away from him but he holds on. The world turns. “Now,” I insist.

Justin refuses. He throws me in the front seat of the truck, reaching over and buckling me in. The truck lurches as something lands in back. Alex. My whole body trembles. A Pixy Stick is dangled in front of my face. “Eat this.”

“No.” I move Justin’s arm away. “I’m not hungry.” My stomach stings. Who can eat when they feel like this?

He pushes the Pixy Stick back in my face. I snatch it and throw it out the window. There. My head pounds, I bury it in my knees. My stomach heaves and yellow liquid follows.

Justin groans.

The stinging in my stomach ends. I lean back to rest my eyes. Better. I don’t want to deal with Justin anymore. I’d rather sleep.

***

“Mild hypoglycemia and moderate dehydration.” I wake to a deep voice. A line of tubing disappears into my hand. Wires lead from my chest to squiggles on a computer monitor. I’ve watched enough of Discovery Health Channel to know it is my heartbeat. An older man stands with his back to me at the foot of the bed, my bed, I guess. A stethoscope hangs around his neck. My parents sit on chairs in the corner. “She’ll wake up shortly and probably feel woozy and exhausted the rest of the day.”

The room spins. He’s got that right.

“Will she be okay?” Mom asks.

“Oh sure,” he chortles. “We will observe her the rest of the day. If she’s stable, she can be discharged this evening.”

“I’m sorry. I wasn’t expecting this.”

“It’s okay, Sarah,” Dad says. “It’s not your fault. The boy said she refused to eat.”

Justin. Of course he’d tell my parents this was my fault.

“Dehydration and a little low blood sugar can come on very fast in this heat, especially when you aren’t used to working in it,” the doctor offers the information to Mom as comfort. I’m sure it just makes her feel worse. “Now if it wasn’t for that boy, she would have been in much worse shape.” The doctor chuckles again. “Did you know he poured a Pixy Stick into her mouth while she was passed out?”

What? I don’t remember that.

“He’s a smart guy. He may have saved her from a seizure.”

Mom gasps. Great job, doc. You successfully gave her a new reason to manage me. Dad places his hand on Mom’s shoulder. “We’ll thank Justin. Maybe have him over for dinner?”

“No.” The word flies out of my mouth. All three turn toward me. Mom rushes to my side, grabbing my hand. I jerk my hand away from her. I don’t need her fakeness right now.

“Honey. You’re awake.”

“Obviously,” I say.

The doctor continues, “Another side effect you may notice is some additional attitude and aggression. She apparently hit that boy rather hard across his face when he carried her into the emergency room.” He winks at me. “If you could have heard what she yelled at that boy …”

“I can imagine.” Mom stands up from my side and glares at me as she crosses the room. She's given up fake appearances. Good.

“Of course, this all may just be a side effect of being a teenage girl, too.” He looks at me and winks. I don’t like him. I hate when people attribute actions to “being a teenager.” Anyone who views someone as a life stage instead of an individual with thoughts pisses me off.

“Excuse me?” a female voice says.

“Come on in, Esther.” The doctor pulls the curtain open and an older, plump nurse walks in with a small box.

“Hi, Sweetie.” She puts the box on my bed. “I just need to poke your finger to test your blood sugar, okay?”

I wince. I hate needles.

“It’ll be quick. Promise.” She puts a small little box against my middle finger. Click. A sharp dagger digs into my flesh. She squeezes out a drop of blood onto a small pink paper. “Done.” She places the paper into the machine. It beeps. “Seventy,” she says to the doctor. Then she turns back to me. “How about some juice?”

My mouth does feel dry. “Ok.” She leaves the room. Her steps are soft on the hard white floor.

“Well, Lucinda,” the doctor looks down at me. His white bushy eyebrows bounce as he speaks. “We’ll watch you closely, probably let you go home later tonight. How would you like that?” He pats my hand. I suppress the urge to ask him to stop. He turns to my parents. “She’s going to be just fine.”

“Oh thank you, Dr. Forts. Thank you so much.” Mom shakes his hand. She gives him too much credit.

I look down at the line in my hand, vaguely remembering a strong hand holding my arm down while a needle jabbed my skin.

“She needs a bolus, now.” Esther’s voice filters through my memory. She’s the one who took charge.

Now, my parents stand at the foot of my bed, looking down at me. “I’m fine.” I roll my eyes.

“Why didn’t you eat?” Mom asks, her sweet tone she had around the doctor now gone.

“I wasn’t hungry.”

“We can’t even trust you to take care of yourself. Why don’t you think?”

“Sarah, maybe not now.” At least I have one compassionate parent.

“Yeah, Mom. How about we wait until I get out of the hospital?”

Dad pats my foot. “You too, Lucinda. Not here.”

“May I come in?” Esther peeks around the curtain. Dad eagerly pulls it open for her. Esther walks in with three containers of juice in hand. “Cranberry or apple?”

“Cranberry please.” She hands it to me. “Thanks.”

“Well, Sarah and Dan, I need to do some vital signs and a physical assessment on Lucy.” Esther looks down at me and smiles. “I bet Lucy wouldn’t mind some privacy.”

Mom interrupts, “Oh, it’s okay.”

No, it isn’t. I look to Dad, raising my eyebrows. He gets the hint. “Honestly Sarah, I’m hungry. How about we go grab a snack while Esther watches Lucy?”

Esther smiles. “Yes, don’t make more work for me, Dad. I don’t want another hypoglycemic patient today.”

“Good point. Come on, let’s find a candy bar.” He wraps his hand around Mom’s and leads her out the door.

“Do you know how much high-fructose corn syrup is in a candy bar?” Mom’s voice echoes down the hall. I roll my eyes and Esther chuckles.

Esther places a blood pressure cuff around my arm, squeezing it like a boa constrictor. “Thought I’d give you a break, honey.” She nods toward the door. “It’s hard being sixteen and in the hospital with your parents around.”

“It’s hard being sixteen in general.” I sigh, laying my head back on my pillow.

She pats my arm. “97/68.”

“Is that good?” I ask.

“Just fine for a woman your size.” I smile. A woman.

She places her fingers on my wrist, resting them where my blood bounces. “I’m actually surprised it’s so normal. I thought it might be a little high now that you’re remembering some things.” She whistles. “You made quite a scene in the ER.”

“Yeah, I’m sorry.” I hope I haven’t said something mean to her. She's nice.

“No apologizing. It was the best part of my day—listening to you call that guy names as you went in and out of consciousness. And that punch! Whoop! He didn’t see it coming!”

“Did I really hit him?” I try to hide my smile. At least I have that …

“Right across the face.” She nods while counting my pulse. “The best part though was when you woke with him sitting next to your bed. You looked him right in the eye and told him his head was so big it would explode.”

“It will someday,” I mutter. “Was he mad?”

She shakes her head. “Nope. He just laughed.” Of course he did, laughing at a girl in a hospital bed. He’s probably already texted everyone about it. I hate technology.

Esther pulls up a chair. “So, I know you can hold your own with the boys, but how’s everything else going?”

“Um, okay.” I lie. She raises her eyebrow, catching me. I am too exhausted to exaggerate on the lie. Honesty seems easier. “Okay, it’s crappy.”

She leans back in her chair, hands folded on her lap and ready to listen. “Tell me about it.” So I do. I tell her about everything: Marissa, sneaking out, the party, Mom’s yellow hat, Zach, and the new job. I even talk about basketball.

Esther nods along with my words. “That’s a lot to deal with. Hang in there. Sixteen can suck, but it can be oh so good too. More independence. Dating. Love. Knowledge.” She pauses. “Sixteen is really just the beginning of your journey.”

She gets it. Now why can’t Mom and Dad get it too?

CHAPTER SEVEN

A half-eaten bowl of Kung Pao chicken and an untouched orange juice rest on my bedroom floor. A nasty combination. I need to text Zach. We haven’t spoken in four days. I can’t really blame him after Mom’s show the other night.

Me: Hi Zach. Sorry about my mom the other night. She’s crazy. I did have fun at the party with you though. Want to hang out soon?

“Lucy?” Eric’s light voice calls through my door.

“Come on in.” My little brother is the only person I ever welcome into my room. But he has to ask first.

The door creaks open. Eric wears matching frog pajamas. With red jelly on the corner of his lips and blond hair in a curled mess, he looks like a five-year-old prince.

“What’s up, bud?” I swing him onto my bed. My right shoulder protests in pain. My wrist hurts even more. Crap. Wasn’t fainting, fighting, and the hospital enough? Of course the painting job gets the final say. I stretch out my shoulder as Eric looks at me with a scrunched nose; his thinking face.

“-othing up.” He stands up on the bed to poke at the Band-Aid on the back of my hand. “You got a shot?”

“A little one.” His lips turn into a frown. “But it didn’t hurt at all. It just helped me get better.”

“So you’re -ot sick?”

I give him my best reassuring smile and answer back overenthusiastically. “No, bud. I feel great!” I stand up and do our crazy dance, a complex set of movements that involves spinning and arm flailing. My shoulder muscles beg to be ripped off. He giggles and dances too.

“Good Lucy. -ot sick.”

“Good. Lucy is not sick.” I correct him. He has been working with speech therapy on annunciation and full sentences all year. I bend over and tickle him into a fit of giggles.

Date: 2015-02-16; view: 460