Chapter 7 Ella #2
Again, I put myself in his shoes. How would I balance my desire for a social outlet with trying to work through a monumental pile of emotional baggage?
I had absolutely no idea. My life had been a wonderland of bliss and serenity compared to Ben’s.
My siblings were all alive and healthy. My family was uncommonly tight-knit.
And I was just now realizing that I had the privilege of privacy, security, and safety that came with being a “no one.”
I wasn’t really the religious type, but I paused for a moment and said a prayer to whoever may have been listening that Ben would be able to take his time and find what he was looking for up here.
Closure, or maybe acceptance. Whatever it was that he needed.
I prayed that he could find a healthy balance.
That no one leaked where he was. And later, once he was ready to go back to the real world, that he wouldn’t be sidelined by TBI or CTE.
That he would be free to lead whatever life he chose to, and that he found peace and happiness and fulfillment in it.
“Amen, or awomen, or aseveralbeings. Whichever it is,” I said when I was done, glancing up at the bright blue sky.
I put the truck into drive and headed out.
As soon as things died down, I was going to sort through these feelings and find a way to help, because, like I said, prayer wasn’t typically my thing.
In my experience, actually standing up and doing something beat well-wishes and positive thoughts every day of the week.
For starters, I could donate to the brain injury non-profit that Ben and his parents had set up in Zach’s name.
Another thing I could do was protect Ben’s privacy and well-being with the sulfuric wrath of a mother dragon.
I clutched my steering wheel and snarled.
I am Ella, belcher of flame, safeguard of superstars. Woe be to those who pry.
***
My parents’ house was thirty minutes away, on the south side of the valley.
The terrain was more hospitable where they lived, with gently rolling hills covered in broadleaf forests, dotted here and there with farmland.
Their house sat on the eastern slope of one of those hills, with expansive views of the surrounding countryside.
It was a bucolic setting in the summer. Their front porch looked out upon a hundred-year-old apple orchard, a tree farm, and one of the northernmost vineyards in the country.
My mother was an avid gardener. Her flower beds were extensive, and the smell of them in full bloom was something I still looked forward to every year.
The sound of the breeze rustling through the nearby willow, paired with the buzzing of insects and cacophonous birdsong was the soundtrack of my youth.
In the colder months, that all faded away.
Without many coniferous trees to balance them out, the bare branches of the oaks, hornbeams, maples, and apples that surrounded their house were rendered skeletal against the background of dreary gray winter days.
I was thankful that last night’s storm had cleared and the sun was out now.
It gave me an unobstructed view of the nearby mountains, coated in white.
There was movement in front of the house as I drove up.
The dogs raced after a frisbee. Stacey stood nearby, filming their antics with her phone.
In the middle of the yard, a snowman came to life under the careful guidance of Jane and my nephews.
Their progress appeared somewhat hampered by Willow, who lobbed snowballs at them from behind a nearby stone fence.
The dogs rushed over to greet me when I climbed out of the truck, Corgnelius bringing up the rear.
The cute aggression I felt whenever I looked at him was as strong as ever, and I had to fight the urge to scoop him up and smoosh him.
Stacey was likewise having difficulty controlling herself.
She walked behind him, bent over at the waist as she recorded the way his little nub of a tail blurred back and forth in excitement.
“He is just the cutest,” she said.
Dancer, my parents’ springer spaniel, dropped the frisbee at my feet. I picked it up and flung it as far as I could, not wanting them underfoot when I unloaded presents. I could see myself tripping over one of them and breaking something.
They tore off after the neon-green disc. Stacey continued to film, giggling under her breath. She and Megan really needed to get a new apartment. One that allowed dogs.
“Auntie Ella!” Evan, Jacob’s youngest at just four, yelled in his little boy voice as he came flying around the truck. He looked a lot like photos of his dad from this age, only with skin a few shades lighter and a little less curl to his short-cropped locks.
I had just enough time to brace myself before he crashed into my legs and wrapped his arms around my waist in a vicelike grip.
I gave into The Squeezes and leaned down to hug him back.
Evan was one of those children whose parents shouldn’t bring him out in public.
He said please and thank you to everything.
He had a habit of waving hello and goodbye to everyone.
He asked the most innocent, adorable questions.
Every now and then he would look at one of us and say, “You know what?” When we said, “What?” back at him, he answered with, “I love you.”
I’d warned Jacob and Sofia that couples probably met him and thought, “My God, what an adorable little boy. Isn’t he so well behaved? We should have one of our own!” And then they went off in their little bubble of hormonal bliss and made a Willow.
I could hear her on the other side of the truck. Her laughter had gained a familiar, troubling edge. A second later, there was a loud splat, followed by an ear-splitting roar of outrage.
Michael, Evan’s eight-year-old brother, hightailed it around the front of the truck and ducked down in the shelter of the wheel well, breathing heavy.
“How you doing, bud?” I asked, straightening as Evan released me.
Michael’s eyes were wide. “She just threw a snowball filled with dog poop at Auntie Jane.”
I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. It wasn’t funny. Really, it wasn’t.
“She called it a poopsicle,” Michael said.
Stacey made a choking sound from nearby.
I couldn’t look at her or I’d lose it.
“You are in so much trouble, young lady!” Jane yelled.
I heard stomping and chanced a look through the windshield of the truck to see her marching up the front walk. Willow, laughing uproariously, was slung over her shoulder like a sack of potatoes. As I watched, she stretched out her small arms and started pinching her mother’s butt. Hard.
Jane yelped and almost dropped her. “Ow, stop that.”
They disappeared inside the house, and I finally looked over at Stacey. We doubled over laughing.
Between us and the boys, we got my truckful of presents safely unloaded.
I said a brief hello to Grandma Jones, who was in the living room helping Jane calm Willow down.
Charlie was laid out on the couch nearby, sleeping through our niece’s tantrum in a way that only combat vets and college students could.
My parents’ house was large, to accommodate for our sprawling family, the downstairs even more open than my cabin.
I could see clear to the kitchen. Dad and Jacob, both doctors, both wearing sweaters over button-down shirts, both with thick-framed glasses perched on their noses, sat in the breakfast nook, deep in conversation.
I couldn’t hear them, but from the looks on their faces, they were either talking politics or debating a recent article published in one of the medical journals they both subscribed to.
I made a mental note to speak with them about brain injuries later.
Sofia, Jacob’s wife, was Italian. Every holiday season, she transformed from clinical psychologist into master-chef.
She and Grandma Pritchard had taken command of the kitchen.
The center island was dusted with flour, and the two women chatted and laughed together as they rolled out dough for pie shells and bread.
I was tempted to join them, but as I started to take my coat off, Jane gave me a look that froze me in my tracks. She clearly hadn’t forgotten the candy cane incident, and her death glare made it obvious that she hadn’t forgiven me for it either.
I zipped my coat back up and beat a hasty retreat outside, where Stacey, Evan, Michael, and I got down to the serious business of building snowmen. We kept at it until the sun started to slant in the sky and my aunt and uncle arrived, their car laden down with still more presents and baked goods.
Pat and Jim never had children, so they spoiled us as only doting relatives could.
Both were now retired, Pat having been a lawyer, and Jim the owner of a small contracting firm.
They did well during their careers. Our summers growing up were spent crawling over the ruins of ancient Greece, meandering up the Scottish coast, or, when we got older, hiking parts of the Pacific Trail alongside them.
This summer vacation, they were taking Charlie and Anabel to Norway for two weeks. The lucky little brats.
Pat turned to me once we were all inside. “I meant to tell you the last time we talked that I saw one of your calendars in an article in Marie Clare.”
I paused for a second in the middle of taking off my jacket. “Do you remember what month they featured it in?”
“September. It was the calendar with the endangered species theme. They made a point to mention that a large portion of the proceeds go to the World Wildlife Fund.”
I shrugged out of my coat and hung it up, thinking back. This explained the early uptick in calendar sales. Every so often, I’d have a huge spike in online traffic for one line of products or another, and could spend weeks trying to track down where it came from, all to no avail.