LJ Idol: Week 1
The silence in the car could be cut with a knife. Five long heartbeats later, eyes wide and incredulous, she blinks and shakes her head.
“He is what?”
Her father’s eyes are full of sadness when he looks at her, briefly, before focusing back on traffic. He tells her the whole story twice, three times before she believes him. Her eyes are still wide and she can’t look at him, stares instead out at the scenery passing by, home again, finally. But her eyes are not seeing, the familiar landscape a blur, muted browns and grays and none of the vibrant countryside she remembers from her childhood.
They ride on in silence, neither of them knowing what to say.
When they drive into town she asks him to stop at the old church. It looms, like a guardian, on a small hill, just slightly above the homes of the people she’s known her whole life. He doesn’t question her, doesn’t try to stop her or talk to her, simply places a reassuring hand on her shoulder and says “Come home when you’re ready,” before he drives off.
Slowly, she walks up the steps that lead to the courtyard. They, too, are gray, worn from thousands of feet clambering up here for hundreds of years. Feet tripping excitedly on the way to a wedding, and feet dragging over the stones towards a loved one’s funeral. It is a beautiful church, most days. The muted yellow of the outside walls and the reflecting, multicolored windows inviting people to stop and marvel for a moment, watch the lights and the movement of lone shadows across the glass. Saints and peasants alike looking down at the town, day in and out.
It has been a long time since she last walked up these steps, stumbled over the uneven stones and felt the smooth wood of the handrail under her fingertips. It has been a long time since she looked up at the Saints in the windows, sparkling in the midday sun. And, if she’s honest with herself, it’s been a long time since she’s been to any church at all.
She doesn’t enter the church; instead, she sits down on one of the flower pots, with her back against the old stones and cries.
”Fergus has been in an accident.” Her father’s voice is slow, too quiet. “He went out to the lake and when he ran into the water, he slipped. It wasn’t anything big, he was already nearly waist deep and just dove in.” He pauses to look at her before he hesitantly continues. “Nobody was quite sure what happened, didn’t think anything had happened at first, but then they saw him floating face down, not moving. They got him out before he drowned, but he couldn’t move.” The hand on her knee feels heavy where his shaking fingers rest. “I’m so sorry, sweetie, we didn’t want to tell you while you were away. They got him to the hospital in time, but he’s paralyzed. They don’t think he’ll aver walk again.”
On and on her father’s words circle in her head. Paralyzed. Nearly drowned. Will never walk again. The words don’t match up with the images in her head. Her friend of a lifetime, running around in the garden at his 6th birthday party. Playing floor hockey in the school team, always the first on the field, the last one off, their captain, their leader. Hours of handball practice with nothing stopping him. Not even the broken shoulder he got when his team mates mauled him after he’d won them the championship. She can’t remember a time when he wasn’t running around, can’t think of a sport he didn’t try and was great at. Always the heart of the team, the motivator.
She tries to imagine him quiet. Sitting still, not moving around.
She can’t.
Slowly, her hand reaches out and touches the church wall. It feels warm, alive, not just heated by the sun, but inviting like a living creature, trying to comfort her. She closes her eyes to stop the tears, breathes in deeply and leans against the comfort of the old building. When she opens her eyes again, they are still moist but full of hope, as she lifts her gaze and stares into the blinding sun.
Her voice is hoarse from crying, the prayer unpracticed. There is no finesse in the pleas she sends towards the skies: “Please, let him walk again. Please, I’ll give you anything you ask. He doesn’t deserve this. Of all people, please don’t take this away from him. Please. Please let Ferg walk again.” Quietly she breathes out and closes her eyes again as she leans her forehead against the wall. The last “please” is just a breath caught in the shadow of her body. She lingers like that for a while, just breathing, resting her body as her thoughts race.
There is Ferg, running around the garden with her, barefoot, him around the flower bed on the left and her on the right on that day when they both got stung by a bee at the same time. She still smiles when she thinks about how their mothers had always told them to wear shoes because there could be bees. Next thing they’re sitting on the old wooden bench together, each with an ice pack on their right foot and the tears have long turned into giggles that intensify every time his mother glares at them.
She only gets up as the sun starts to set, casting long red shadows on the yellow walls of the church. The walk home is short, but she takes her time. Savors every step. Feels the uneven stones of the church steps beneath her feet once more and the rolling of the gravel underneath her shoes in the park. Eventually, she takes of her shoes, tiptoes over the stones, pinching the usually protected skin of her feet. When she gets to the grass, the sensation is overwhelming. The oversensitive nerves relish the soft caress of the long blades, the tickling of a lone dandelion on her arch and she has to stop for a moment, dig her toes into the ground and just feel. Her gut clenches and she squeezes her eyes shut, tries to stop her fingers from trembling. And in an instant she is back on that summer day, feels the bee sting her and starts to hobble to the back porch. Her eyes catch Ferg’s again, as he hops towards her and through the pain she has to laugh at how ridiculous he looks.
It is a while before she gets home that night; the first stars are already visible and her feet cold and dirty.
~~~
It is another couple of days before she can go and visit Fergus. The drive to the hospital filled with dread and anticipation. She doesn’t know how to comfort her friend, doesn’t know what to say. They told her “Don’t cry. Don’t make him feel worse.” And she understands, wants, with all her heart to be strong for her friend.
But when she walks through the door, her feet slow and heavy, reluctant to step over the threshold, it’s all she can do not to cry out. Her feet feel stuck to the barren linoleum floor and her fingers clutch tightly around her bag. She doesn’t make a sound, breath frozen in her throat, but she can’t stop her eyes from involuntarily filling with tears at the sight before her. He looks tired and so unbelievably small in the sterile white bed, starched sheets covering his legs and stomach and when their eyes meet, his, too, fill with tears.
She unfreezes then, rushes towards him, and envelops him in a hug. It’s familiar, the smell and feel of him muted, but not obliterated, by the too clean smells of hospital and sick. When his arms come up to wrap around her, it’s an automated response, practiced in years of friendship, celebrating together and comforting each other and she presses her face against his neck, breathes in the smell of him and just lets the tears flow. She can feel him shake beneath her, can feel the uneven puffs of his breath against her hair as he pulls her closer. They stay like that for a long time, crying and holding each other, trying to come to terms with a life invariably changed, before she lifts her head up and looks at him.
Her eyes are red, but she smiles at him, the first genuine smile in days and even with everything happening, she is just happy to see her friend again. When she brushes the stray hairs from his forehead, fingers lingering on his cheek, he smiles back.
“I missed you, Kay!”
~~~
Weeks in the hospital turn into months of rehabilitation, months of struggle and every success is invariably followed by another fall. She holds his unmoving fingers in her hand the day the doctors send him home and watches the fear and determination in his eyes as he wheels out the door to face a new life. Her quiet “Please” lingers in the empty room until long after they have left.
~~~
There have been many times in her life when she prayed. But never before, and never since, had she prayed for someone to walk. Not over water, not miraculously, no, just walk. Like all of us do every day. Like we take for granted. And never even think about. Never had she yearned so much for a prayer to be heard and never been more disappointed when it wasn’t answered.
But she hasn’t given up hope. And every time she walks by a church, no matter which country or religion, she stops for a moment, lets her feet feel the solid ground and her hands caress the walls and sends a prayer to whoever is willing to listen. For her friend to walk.
“He is what?”
Her father’s eyes are full of sadness when he looks at her, briefly, before focusing back on traffic. He tells her the whole story twice, three times before she believes him. Her eyes are still wide and she can’t look at him, stares instead out at the scenery passing by, home again, finally. But her eyes are not seeing, the familiar landscape a blur, muted browns and grays and none of the vibrant countryside she remembers from her childhood.
They ride on in silence, neither of them knowing what to say.
When they drive into town she asks him to stop at the old church. It looms, like a guardian, on a small hill, just slightly above the homes of the people she’s known her whole life. He doesn’t question her, doesn’t try to stop her or talk to her, simply places a reassuring hand on her shoulder and says “Come home when you’re ready,” before he drives off.
Slowly, she walks up the steps that lead to the courtyard. They, too, are gray, worn from thousands of feet clambering up here for hundreds of years. Feet tripping excitedly on the way to a wedding, and feet dragging over the stones towards a loved one’s funeral. It is a beautiful church, most days. The muted yellow of the outside walls and the reflecting, multicolored windows inviting people to stop and marvel for a moment, watch the lights and the movement of lone shadows across the glass. Saints and peasants alike looking down at the town, day in and out.
It has been a long time since she last walked up these steps, stumbled over the uneven stones and felt the smooth wood of the handrail under her fingertips. It has been a long time since she looked up at the Saints in the windows, sparkling in the midday sun. And, if she’s honest with herself, it’s been a long time since she’s been to any church at all.
She doesn’t enter the church; instead, she sits down on one of the flower pots, with her back against the old stones and cries.
”Fergus has been in an accident.” Her father’s voice is slow, too quiet. “He went out to the lake and when he ran into the water, he slipped. It wasn’t anything big, he was already nearly waist deep and just dove in.” He pauses to look at her before he hesitantly continues. “Nobody was quite sure what happened, didn’t think anything had happened at first, but then they saw him floating face down, not moving. They got him out before he drowned, but he couldn’t move.” The hand on her knee feels heavy where his shaking fingers rest. “I’m so sorry, sweetie, we didn’t want to tell you while you were away. They got him to the hospital in time, but he’s paralyzed. They don’t think he’ll aver walk again.”
On and on her father’s words circle in her head. Paralyzed. Nearly drowned. Will never walk again. The words don’t match up with the images in her head. Her friend of a lifetime, running around in the garden at his 6th birthday party. Playing floor hockey in the school team, always the first on the field, the last one off, their captain, their leader. Hours of handball practice with nothing stopping him. Not even the broken shoulder he got when his team mates mauled him after he’d won them the championship. She can’t remember a time when he wasn’t running around, can’t think of a sport he didn’t try and was great at. Always the heart of the team, the motivator.
She tries to imagine him quiet. Sitting still, not moving around.
She can’t.
Slowly, her hand reaches out and touches the church wall. It feels warm, alive, not just heated by the sun, but inviting like a living creature, trying to comfort her. She closes her eyes to stop the tears, breathes in deeply and leans against the comfort of the old building. When she opens her eyes again, they are still moist but full of hope, as she lifts her gaze and stares into the blinding sun.
Her voice is hoarse from crying, the prayer unpracticed. There is no finesse in the pleas she sends towards the skies: “Please, let him walk again. Please, I’ll give you anything you ask. He doesn’t deserve this. Of all people, please don’t take this away from him. Please. Please let Ferg walk again.” Quietly she breathes out and closes her eyes again as she leans her forehead against the wall. The last “please” is just a breath caught in the shadow of her body. She lingers like that for a while, just breathing, resting her body as her thoughts race.
There is Ferg, running around the garden with her, barefoot, him around the flower bed on the left and her on the right on that day when they both got stung by a bee at the same time. She still smiles when she thinks about how their mothers had always told them to wear shoes because there could be bees. Next thing they’re sitting on the old wooden bench together, each with an ice pack on their right foot and the tears have long turned into giggles that intensify every time his mother glares at them.
She only gets up as the sun starts to set, casting long red shadows on the yellow walls of the church. The walk home is short, but she takes her time. Savors every step. Feels the uneven stones of the church steps beneath her feet once more and the rolling of the gravel underneath her shoes in the park. Eventually, she takes of her shoes, tiptoes over the stones, pinching the usually protected skin of her feet. When she gets to the grass, the sensation is overwhelming. The oversensitive nerves relish the soft caress of the long blades, the tickling of a lone dandelion on her arch and she has to stop for a moment, dig her toes into the ground and just feel. Her gut clenches and she squeezes her eyes shut, tries to stop her fingers from trembling. And in an instant she is back on that summer day, feels the bee sting her and starts to hobble to the back porch. Her eyes catch Ferg’s again, as he hops towards her and through the pain she has to laugh at how ridiculous he looks.
It is a while before she gets home that night; the first stars are already visible and her feet cold and dirty.
~~~
It is another couple of days before she can go and visit Fergus. The drive to the hospital filled with dread and anticipation. She doesn’t know how to comfort her friend, doesn’t know what to say. They told her “Don’t cry. Don’t make him feel worse.” And she understands, wants, with all her heart to be strong for her friend.
But when she walks through the door, her feet slow and heavy, reluctant to step over the threshold, it’s all she can do not to cry out. Her feet feel stuck to the barren linoleum floor and her fingers clutch tightly around her bag. She doesn’t make a sound, breath frozen in her throat, but she can’t stop her eyes from involuntarily filling with tears at the sight before her. He looks tired and so unbelievably small in the sterile white bed, starched sheets covering his legs and stomach and when their eyes meet, his, too, fill with tears.
She unfreezes then, rushes towards him, and envelops him in a hug. It’s familiar, the smell and feel of him muted, but not obliterated, by the too clean smells of hospital and sick. When his arms come up to wrap around her, it’s an automated response, practiced in years of friendship, celebrating together and comforting each other and she presses her face against his neck, breathes in the smell of him and just lets the tears flow. She can feel him shake beneath her, can feel the uneven puffs of his breath against her hair as he pulls her closer. They stay like that for a long time, crying and holding each other, trying to come to terms with a life invariably changed, before she lifts her head up and looks at him.
Her eyes are red, but she smiles at him, the first genuine smile in days and even with everything happening, she is just happy to see her friend again. When she brushes the stray hairs from his forehead, fingers lingering on his cheek, he smiles back.
“I missed you, Kay!”
~~~
Weeks in the hospital turn into months of rehabilitation, months of struggle and every success is invariably followed by another fall. She holds his unmoving fingers in her hand the day the doctors send him home and watches the fear and determination in his eyes as he wheels out the door to face a new life. Her quiet “Please” lingers in the empty room until long after they have left.
~~~
There have been many times in her life when she prayed. But never before, and never since, had she prayed for someone to walk. Not over water, not miraculously, no, just walk. Like all of us do every day. Like we take for granted. And never even think about. Never had she yearned so much for a prayer to be heard and never been more disappointed when it wasn’t answered.
But she hasn’t given up hope. And every time she walks by a church, no matter which country or religion, she stops for a moment, lets her feet feel the solid ground and her hands caress the walls and sends a prayer to whoever is willing to listen. For her friend to walk.