something that would bring them all back to the real world, and tell them that life was going to be again what it had been before. It had been that way for ten days now, ever since Michelle had been brought back from the hospital in Boston, riding into town in an ambulance, making the kind of entrance she would have loved only a month ago.
But something inside her had changed. It was more than the accident — it had to be.
At first she had refused to get out of bed at all. When June, backed up by the doctors, had insisted that it was time for her to begin taking care of herself, they had discovered that she could no longer walk by herself.
She had been given every examination possible, and as far as the doctors could tell, there was nothing wrong with her except for some bruises that had long since begun to heal.
Her left hip hurt her, and her left leg was nearly useless.
They had given her more tests — X-rayed her brain and spinal column again and again, injected dyes into her bloodstream, tapped her spine, checked her reflexes — gone over her until she wished she could simply die. Still unable to determine the cause of her lameness, they had brought in a physical therapist, who had worked with Michelle until, ten days ago, she had finally been able to walk by herself, though painfully, and only by leaning heavily on a cane.
So they had brought her home. June told herself that time would make the difference.
In time, Michelle would regain herself, would begin to recover from the shocks and indignities of the hospital, would begin dismissing her lameness with the same humor with which she had always dismissed whatever problems she had faced.
Michelle was taken up to her room and put in her bed.
She asked for her doll.
And there, for ten days, she lay, the doll tucked in the crook of her arm, staring idly at the ceiling. She responded when she was spoken to, called for help when she needed to go to the bathroom, and sat uncomplainingly on a chair for the few minutes it took June to change her bed each day.
But for the most part, she simply stayed in bed, silent and staring.
June was sure there was more to it than even the accident, the pain, or the crippling. No, it was something else, and June was sure it had to do with Cal.
Now, on Saturday morning, June glanced across the breakfast table at Cal, who was staring into his coffee cup, his face expressionless. She knew what he was thinking about, though he hadn’t told her. He was thinking about Michelle, and the recovery he claimed she was making.
It had started the day after they had brought her home, when Cal had announced that he thought Michelle was getting better. And each day, while June was horribly aware that nothing was changing for Michelle, Cal had talked of how well she was doing.
June knew the cause of it — Cal was convinced that whatever was wrong with Michelle was his fault. For him to live with himself, Michelle had to get better. And so he insisted that she was.
But she wasn’t.
As June watched him, she found herself becoming angry.
“When are you going to stop this charade?” she heard herself saying. As Cal’s head came up and his eyes narrowed, she knew she had chosen the wrong words.
“Would you like to tell me what you’re talking about?”
“I’m talking about Michelle,” June replied. “I’m talking about the fact that every day you say she’s better, when it’s obvious that she’s not.”
“She’s doing fine.” Cal’s voice was low, and June was sure she could hear a desperation in his words.
“If she’s doing fine, why is she still in bed?”
Cal shifted, and his eyes avoided June’s. “She needs to get her strength back. She needs to rest—”
“She needs to get out of bed, and face life! And you need to stop kidding yourself! It doesn’t matter what happened, or whose fault it is. The fact is she’s crippled, and she’s going to stay that way, and both of you have to face up to it and get on with things!”
Cal rose from his chair, his eyes wild, and for a split second, June was afraid he might hit her. Instead, he moved toward the hall.
“Where are you going?”
He turned back to face her.
“I’m going to talk to Josiah Carson. Do you mind?”
She minded. She minded very much. She wished he would stay home, and if he did nothing else, at least finish the reconstruction of the butler’s pantry. But Cal was spending more and more time with Josiah, hanging on to him, and she knew there was no way to stop him.
“If you need to talk to him, talk to him,” she said. “What time will you be back?”
“I don’t know,” Cal replied. A moment later, she heard the front door slam as he left the house.
June sat alone at the table, wondering what to do. And then it came to her. Today she was going to get through to Michelle, make her see that her life was
As she was about to start upstairs, there was a soft rapping at the kitchen door. She opened it to find Sally Carstairs and Jeff Benson standing on the porch.
“We came over to see Michelle,” Sally announced She seemed slightly uncertain, as if she wasn’t sure they should have come. “Is it all right?”
June smiled, and some of the tension left her. Every day she had hoped Michelle’s friends would come. For a while she had toyed with the idea of calling Mrs. Carstairs, or Constance Benson, but each time had rejected it — visitors forced to come would be worse than no visitors at all “Of course it’s all right,” she said. “You should have come a long time ago.”
She settled the children at the kitchen table, gave them each a cinnamon roll, then went upstairs.
“Michelle?” She kept her voice soft, but Michelle was awake, her eyes, as usual, fixed on the ceiling.
“Um?”
“You have visitors — Sally and Jeff are here to see you. Shall I bring them up?”
“I–I don’t think so” Michelle’s voice was dull.
“Why not? Don’t you feel well?” June tried to keep her irritation out of her voice, but failed. Michelle peered at her mother.
“Why did they come?” she asked. She sounded frightened.
“Because they want to see you. They’re your friends.” When Michelle didn’t respond, June pressed the issue. “Aren’t they?”
“I guess,” Michelle replied.
“Then I’ll bring them up.” Not giving Michelle time to protest, she went to the head of the stairs and called down to the children below. A moment later she ushered them into Michelle’s room. Michelle was struggling to sit up in bed. When Sally made a move to help her, Michelle looked at her angrily.
“I can do it,” she said. Summoning all her strength, she heaved herself up, then flopped against the pillows, wincing at the strain.
“Are you all right?” Sally asked, her eyes wide as she realized the extent of Michelle’s injuries.
“I will be,” Michelle said. There was a pause. “But it hurts,” she added. She looked from Sally to Jeff, an unspoken accusation in her eyes.
June hesitated in the doorway, watching the interplay among the three children. Perhaps it was a mistake — perhaps she shouldn’t have brought Sally and Jeff upstairs. But Michelle had to face them, had to talk to them; they were her friends. Without a word, she slipped out of the room, pulling the door closed behind her.
There was an awkward silence after June left, as each of the children waited for someone else to speak first. Jeff shuffled restlessly, and avoided Michelle’s eyes.
“Well, I’m not dead, anyway,” Michelle said at last.
“Can you walk?” Sally asked.
Michelle nodded. “But not very well. It hurts, and I limp something awful.”
“It’ll get better, won’t it?” Sally sat carefully on the edge of the bed, trying not to shake Michelle.
Michelle didn’t answer.
Sally’s eyes filled with tears. It just didn’t seem fair. Michelle hadn’t done anything. If anybody should have gotten hurt, it should have been Susan Peterson. “I’m sorry,” she said aloud. “Nobody meant for anything to happen to you. Susan was only teasing …”
