Read Online Learning to Stay by Erin Celello - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Erin Celello
Tags: Fiction, Family Life
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asked Sondra, not wanting to be a bother or impose any constraints on her time, but something about that megamall fascinates me. For starters, how did they get a whole amusement park inside? And what kinds of people shop there? I’m intrigued by the potential people-watching.
I’m deep in thought about the feasibility of having whole stores dedicated only to baseball or trains or magnets—in Minnesota, of all places—when I see it: a note, handwritten, and next to it a printout of some sort, like a travel itinerary.
Elise—
I’m so sorry to do this, but I was right last night. I just can’t go in there again. I’m done; I think I knew that all along, but I thought it would be different once I actually got here. It wasn’t. I’ll be on my way to California to visit my family for a while by the time you read this. I’ve purchased you a planeticket home tonight for your trouble, and I’ve prepaid your cab fare to the airport. Please forgive me. I’m so sorry.
—Sondra
I look at the printout. My flight leaves at five nineteen tonight. It’s not even eleven o’clock yet. I try to call Brad to let him know there’s been a change of plans, and I leave a message when his voice mail picks up. Then I call a cab.
Seven
The corridors of the Minneapolis VA Polytrauma Rehabilitation Center all look alike, awash in bland beiges, greens, and grays. The brain injury unit is quiet and many of the soldiers in it look like they don’t have a thing wrong with them. Then I pass people missing limbs, hands, eyes—big chunks of their bodies that should otherwise be there and are now disguised with gauze. Some are in wheelchairs. Some are trying out new prostheses. Some sit and stare absently, off into a future that looks nothing like the one they were supposed to be living.
I walk and walk and walk—past physical therapy rooms as big as basketball courts and occupational therapy rooms with stairways to nowhere, kitchenettes, and brightly colored mats and giant exercise balls; past bustling nurses’ stations; past the gift shop and snack counter; past patient rooms with the ambient sounds of daytime game shows and low moans. The walking feels good, as though I have a purpose.
And then a name on the board outside one of the rooms catches my eye: A. THOMPSON .
It could be Alex Thompson, or Andrew, or Austin. It’s a ridiculouslycommon name. Yet, somehow, even before I look in and see a bald, handsome man missing both his arms at the shoulders, I know this is Sondra’s husband.
He is sitting in a chair by his bed, staring out the window. He turns and looks when I knock on the doorframe. He smiles as he gestures with his chin for me to come in, but his brow is knit.
“Antony?”
He nods.
“It’s nice to meet you. I’m a friend of Sondra’s. I’m Elise.” I go to reach out my hand as I introduce myself. Thankfully, I stop my hand just in time and hook my fingers in my pocket to keep it there.
“Aw, yeah,” Antony says, “of course. She mentioned you. Nice to meet you, too.” He gives a definitive nod of his head—his new handshake.
I can’t tell if he’s telling the truth, or just trying to be nice. But I see instantly that this is the kind of guy Antony is. He wants to put people at ease.
“Come on in and have a seat,” he says. I lower myself into a stiff plastic chair near the foot of his bed. “It’s been boring around here lately. They cancelled my PT today, and I lost my roommate yesterday. It’s nice to have a visitor.”
I smile at Antony. I’m happy to break up his day. But I hadn’t actually thought this through before I knocked on his door. Was that visitor remark a dig at Sondra? Does he know she’s gone? Does he not? What am I supposed to tell him? How much?
But Antony’s a talker, and he’s off and running with conversation. I bet he can work the hell out of a cocktail party. We discuss our childhoods, why he loves the Army and Iraq, what he thinks is going to happen in
I’m deep in thought about the feasibility of having whole stores dedicated only to baseball or trains or magnets—in Minnesota, of all places—when I see it: a note, handwritten, and next to it a printout of some sort, like a travel itinerary.
Elise—
I’m so sorry to do this, but I was right last night. I just can’t go in there again. I’m done; I think I knew that all along, but I thought it would be different once I actually got here. It wasn’t. I’ll be on my way to California to visit my family for a while by the time you read this. I’ve purchased you a planeticket home tonight for your trouble, and I’ve prepaid your cab fare to the airport. Please forgive me. I’m so sorry.
—Sondra
I look at the printout. My flight leaves at five nineteen tonight. It’s not even eleven o’clock yet. I try to call Brad to let him know there’s been a change of plans, and I leave a message when his voice mail picks up. Then I call a cab.
Seven
The corridors of the Minneapolis VA Polytrauma Rehabilitation Center all look alike, awash in bland beiges, greens, and grays. The brain injury unit is quiet and many of the soldiers in it look like they don’t have a thing wrong with them. Then I pass people missing limbs, hands, eyes—big chunks of their bodies that should otherwise be there and are now disguised with gauze. Some are in wheelchairs. Some are trying out new prostheses. Some sit and stare absently, off into a future that looks nothing like the one they were supposed to be living.
I walk and walk and walk—past physical therapy rooms as big as basketball courts and occupational therapy rooms with stairways to nowhere, kitchenettes, and brightly colored mats and giant exercise balls; past bustling nurses’ stations; past the gift shop and snack counter; past patient rooms with the ambient sounds of daytime game shows and low moans. The walking feels good, as though I have a purpose.
And then a name on the board outside one of the rooms catches my eye: A. THOMPSON .
It could be Alex Thompson, or Andrew, or Austin. It’s a ridiculouslycommon name. Yet, somehow, even before I look in and see a bald, handsome man missing both his arms at the shoulders, I know this is Sondra’s husband.
He is sitting in a chair by his bed, staring out the window. He turns and looks when I knock on the doorframe. He smiles as he gestures with his chin for me to come in, but his brow is knit.
“Antony?”
He nods.
“It’s nice to meet you. I’m a friend of Sondra’s. I’m Elise.” I go to reach out my hand as I introduce myself. Thankfully, I stop my hand just in time and hook my fingers in my pocket to keep it there.
“Aw, yeah,” Antony says, “of course. She mentioned you. Nice to meet you, too.” He gives a definitive nod of his head—his new handshake.
I can’t tell if he’s telling the truth, or just trying to be nice. But I see instantly that this is the kind of guy Antony is. He wants to put people at ease.
“Come on in and have a seat,” he says. I lower myself into a stiff plastic chair near the foot of his bed. “It’s been boring around here lately. They cancelled my PT today, and I lost my roommate yesterday. It’s nice to have a visitor.”
I smile at Antony. I’m happy to break up his day. But I hadn’t actually thought this through before I knocked on his door. Was that visitor remark a dig at Sondra? Does he know she’s gone? Does he not? What am I supposed to tell him? How much?
But Antony’s a talker, and he’s off and running with conversation. I bet he can work the hell out of a cocktail party. We discuss our childhoods, why he loves the Army and Iraq, what he thinks is going to happen in
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