Read Online Waiting For Sarah by James Heneghan - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: James Heneghan
Tags: JUV000000
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two thousand bodies ... Kosovo ... mass graves.â
Death and destruction.
Chaos and turmoil.
A normal day. He reached up to the kitchen shelf to switch off the radio, but the shelf was too high and he overbalanced and fell to the floor, cursing. By the time he was back in his chair and had switched off the radio he was sweating from the effort.
His room was small. All the co-op rooms were small, and many had leaks or damp patches, including Normaâs room, which had a swath of ugly gray-green stains on its outside wall and ceiling. But Mikeâs room was okay; there were no damp patches and he appreciated the handicap aids, like his roomâs automatic pocket door and the special frame over his bed and the extra handrails in the bathroom.
The buildingâs tenants were okay too, not that he ever spoke to any of them much except he usually said hello to the Dhaliwals across the hall â Dolly and her husband, a big man with a beard and turban, and their two small children whose names he didnât know â and a man in a wheelchair on the main floor whose name was Chris Telford. Mike usually just kept his head down, and if anyone tried to start a conversation he did his scowl-and-growl routine; thatusually shut them up. If this failed he simply turned his back on them, swiveling his chair rapidly away; that always worked.
Chris Telford drove an old Lincoln with special hand controls because his legs were paralyzed. Chris still had his legs, even though they were no good to him. Dead-weight, like a ball and chain, thought Mike, who considered himself better off than Chris because without the weight of his lower legs he could swing himself about and lift himself up more easily. Even though there was a twenty-year difference in their ages Mike and Chris were friends. Chris had already given Mike several driving lessons, but progress was slow: it would take hundreds of repetitions, Chris said, before the hand controls would become instinctive. Not that there was ever any immediate hope of Mike owning his own car. But some day maybe...
He gripped the steel bars over his bed, pulled himself up out of his chair, and swung on to his bed. His arms and shoulders were getting stronger. It was always good to lie down, for his behind was always sore by the end of the day from the constant sitting. Some of that soreness often developed into blisters, like bedsores, and he had to be careful they didnât become infected.
Norma had gathered up most of the junk from his old room and put it aside instead of storing it with everything else, so that Mikeâs co-op room was decorated with his old airplane posters. Hardly any actual wall or ceiling showed; there was everything from CF-18 to B-29, Messerschmitt to Mustang,Stealth to Spitfire, Hurricane to Wellington, F16 to Hawker Harrier. There were even ultralight posters heâd obtained from the manufacturers: a Weedhopper, an Avenger and an Aero-Lite 103.
The rest of the room, though, was untidy: a torn and damaged map of Tolkienâs Middle-earth hung askew under a Sopwith Camel biplane poster; CDs and cassettes, escaped fugitives from plastic cases, lay scattered about the floor; a collection of
Clarions
and a couple of yearbooks from the archives decorated the furniture â the chest, a chair, and bookshelves, which were also messy with sci-fi and fantasy paperbacks in heaps and framed snapshots of Mom and Dad and Becky. At least there were no dirty socks, he thought, and no shoes; he wouldnât be needing footwear anytime soon. âSome people are just naturally disorganized,â he had once explained to Robbie, who always kept his stuff neat.
He was tired. He closed his eyes and, as usual, thoughts of his lost family came to mind. Becky laughing and happy, just the way she was seconds before the crash. The sounds came back to him: soprano on the car radio; Becky giggling and singing. His motherâs voice, âBecky!â Blackout.
He
Death and destruction.
Chaos and turmoil.
A normal day. He reached up to the kitchen shelf to switch off the radio, but the shelf was too high and he overbalanced and fell to the floor, cursing. By the time he was back in his chair and had switched off the radio he was sweating from the effort.
His room was small. All the co-op rooms were small, and many had leaks or damp patches, including Normaâs room, which had a swath of ugly gray-green stains on its outside wall and ceiling. But Mikeâs room was okay; there were no damp patches and he appreciated the handicap aids, like his roomâs automatic pocket door and the special frame over his bed and the extra handrails in the bathroom.
The buildingâs tenants were okay too, not that he ever spoke to any of them much except he usually said hello to the Dhaliwals across the hall â Dolly and her husband, a big man with a beard and turban, and their two small children whose names he didnât know â and a man in a wheelchair on the main floor whose name was Chris Telford. Mike usually just kept his head down, and if anyone tried to start a conversation he did his scowl-and-growl routine; thatusually shut them up. If this failed he simply turned his back on them, swiveling his chair rapidly away; that always worked.
Chris Telford drove an old Lincoln with special hand controls because his legs were paralyzed. Chris still had his legs, even though they were no good to him. Dead-weight, like a ball and chain, thought Mike, who considered himself better off than Chris because without the weight of his lower legs he could swing himself about and lift himself up more easily. Even though there was a twenty-year difference in their ages Mike and Chris were friends. Chris had already given Mike several driving lessons, but progress was slow: it would take hundreds of repetitions, Chris said, before the hand controls would become instinctive. Not that there was ever any immediate hope of Mike owning his own car. But some day maybe...
He gripped the steel bars over his bed, pulled himself up out of his chair, and swung on to his bed. His arms and shoulders were getting stronger. It was always good to lie down, for his behind was always sore by the end of the day from the constant sitting. Some of that soreness often developed into blisters, like bedsores, and he had to be careful they didnât become infected.
Norma had gathered up most of the junk from his old room and put it aside instead of storing it with everything else, so that Mikeâs co-op room was decorated with his old airplane posters. Hardly any actual wall or ceiling showed; there was everything from CF-18 to B-29, Messerschmitt to Mustang,Stealth to Spitfire, Hurricane to Wellington, F16 to Hawker Harrier. There were even ultralight posters heâd obtained from the manufacturers: a Weedhopper, an Avenger and an Aero-Lite 103.
The rest of the room, though, was untidy: a torn and damaged map of Tolkienâs Middle-earth hung askew under a Sopwith Camel biplane poster; CDs and cassettes, escaped fugitives from plastic cases, lay scattered about the floor; a collection of
Clarions
and a couple of yearbooks from the archives decorated the furniture â the chest, a chair, and bookshelves, which were also messy with sci-fi and fantasy paperbacks in heaps and framed snapshots of Mom and Dad and Becky. At least there were no dirty socks, he thought, and no shoes; he wouldnât be needing footwear anytime soon. âSome people are just naturally disorganized,â he had once explained to Robbie, who always kept his stuff neat.
He was tired. He closed his eyes and, as usual, thoughts of his lost family came to mind. Becky laughing and happy, just the way she was seconds before the crash. The sounds came back to him: soprano on the car radio; Becky giggling and singing. His motherâs voice, âBecky!â Blackout.
He
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