As I sipped the sherberty punch, I gazed about the Fitzpatricks’ sprawling farm for a comfortable spot to sit. It was the Fourth of July, and summer heat waves rippled across the cow pastures behind the barns. The Fitzpatricks, our neighbors, were giving a party. I could see my older brother Wesley trying to climb up the knotted rope that hung from a newly constructed tree house. I could do that, I thought. Easily. That is, if I ever got up the nerve to climb fifteen feet above the ground. I glanced about the party and spied my best friend Tracy, sitting on the porch steps. She waved to me, and I started toward her. “Holly!” someone shouted. I jumped. Oh, it was only my brother Wesley, calling me from the tree house. “What?” I shouted back. “Why don’t you come on up here? You wouldn’t believe the view!” I said nothing. Suddenly another person popped up beside Wesley, grinning freckledly down. My punch got caught in my throat somehow. It was Henry Fitzpatrick. He was wiry and freckled, maybe one or two years older than my fourteen-year-old brother, with a head of thick red hair. I looked hard at my paper cup. “C’mon, Holly, give it a try,” he urged. “OK,” I said as nonchalantly as possible, setting down my trembling cup. After all, I didn’t want to look like a sissy. My loose chestnut curls bounced against my shoulders as I crossed the distance between the porch and the giant maple. I was under the rope now, gazing at it. I had to do it now. Oh, how had I gotten myself into this thing? I was under the rope now, gazing at it. I had to do it now I looked up. Both of them were staring down at me. Henry smiled encouragingly. I simply couldn’t mess up in front of him. “Don’t worry,” Wesley yelled. “You’ll make it. Everybody else did.” I took a deep breath and swung onto the first knot. It wasn’t that hard. Getting up the second one was a bit more difficult. I was on the sixth knot, almost done, when I glanced down to make sure my feet were secure. I didn’t even notice my feet. All I saw was how far away the ground was. Was the rope whirling, or was it just me? “Holl, are you OK?” Henry had asked me something, but I wasn’t thinking clearly. I felt someone grab my hand. I forced myself to look up, and felt my feet giving way. I wanted to scream but I couldn’t. I felt for the rope, but it wasn’t there. I felt my hand slipping rapidly out of the hand that was holding mine. I let out a scream as our hands parted. The last thing I remember were two very white faces, one of them with freckles, getting farther and farther away. I opened my eyes. They felt strangely heavy and hard to open. All I saw was white. Maybe I’m in heaven, I thought vaguely. Slowly my vision was clearing. No, it wasn’t clouds I was seeing. It was a clean, sterile, flat white—one that reminded me of hospitals. Hospital! Of course. That would make sense. I had probably hurt myself falling from the tree house, and had been taken to a hospital. Strange that nothing hurt on me. I felt tired, though—very tired. I wondered how long I had been lying here. Probably since yesterday. My vision was now sufficiently cleared to take in my surroundings. There was a window, but there was a blind drawn on it. There was a bulletin board, on which there was a very yellowed card that said “Get Well Soon, Holly, with love, Mom, Dad and Wesley.” There was a clock over the door, which read 1:34 PM on its plain face. It was then that I noticed the machines. There were a lot of them, lined up next to each other in complex rows. They were connected to . . . me! I looked cross-eyed at my nose. There were tubes coming out of it. Eeuw, I instinctively thought. I tried to move my head. It took some energy to do it, and I lay back on the pillows again, exhausted. There was nothing to do. I wished there was a magazine left on the cot. I slept. I wakened to the sound of a door creaking open. I glanced at the door. A nurse was coming in with a needleful of clear stuff and a clipboard. She stopped in front of my cot and wrote something down on her clipboard. She looked nice, about twenty years old. She raised her eyes for the first time to mine. I made an effort to smile, though it was difficult and hurt a bit. What followed was very unexpected. The nurse gasped, and she dropped her cargo with a resounding clatter. She backed quickly out of the room, staring at me all the time. I frowned slightly. What was the matter with her? The next moment a doctor entered, looking very confused and flustered. Behind him the nurse who acted so oddly followed. “Y- you see, doctor, she is alive and awake and she even smiled a bit at me—see for yourself, doctor! And after all these years!” The doctor stared at me for what seemed like an eternity. I cleared my throat. Finally, he told the nurse to bring him a folding chair. When she got back he lowered himself into it. He looked at his hands for a long time. Then he spoke. “Holly, can you tell me a little bit about yourself?” “Sure,” I said. My voice sounded deeper and raspier than usual. “My name is Holly Fullbright and I’m thirteen years old. I have one brother Wesley, who’s fourteen, my mom and dad, three cats and my pet parakeet Phoebe. Can you tell me why I’m here?” The doctor looked at me weirdly. “This is
July/August 2001
Grandma
I saw a hot air balloon this morning And immediately thought of you Every time I am on the hill I yell “Hi Grandma!” As loud as I can I look at the ancient hilltop tree How its branch is pointing To all the land you loved I look at the vineyards And I remember How much you treasured them When I climb the hill I still remember Scattering your ashes How they blew on me in the wind And I didn’t brush them off I think of you quilting Even in intensive care When it was hard for you to breathe And when you wanted off life support But stayed alive until we were ready I remember playing cards Listening to classical music and Spending Christmas mornings with you Now I can listen to your voice On the life story tape And sleep under your quilt Whenever I want But that is still nothing Compared to your love for me Mark Roberts, 10Windsor, California
A Narrow Escape
“What a lovely place for a summer vacation,” sighed my twelve-year-old cousin Allison, as we stood on the bluffs of the Maine coast. I nodded as my eyes swept over the glass-like water in the bay with numerous islands scattered beyond it. My gaze rested on the lighthouse erected on the edge of a steep rocky cliff connected to the mainland. A clatter of stones above made us turn to see Allison’s sister, ten-year-old Jenny, skipping down the slope to meet us. “Good morning!” she cried. “I thought I would find you here. Whatcha want to do? We have the whole day free.” “What about rowing our boat out to the lighthouse?” I suggested. The idea was met with favor and we descended the rest of the way down to the beach. There a sleek red-and-white boat, the Bonnie Belle, lay pulled up on the beach. Allison and Jenny quickly clambered into the boat as I shoved it into the calm waters. Grabbing the oars, I set out at a leisurely pace toward the lighthouse. Allison manned the rudder and Jenny sat at the prow of the boat. The lighthouse was about two miles away and it was hardly a chore to row the boat. All the same I readily consented to Jenny’s request to row the boat “just a little distance” as she had said because, for her age, she was great at handling the oars. I leaned over the front of the boat, dangling my fingers in the water, not at all expecting the nightmarish experience that was to come. I leaned over the front of the boat, not at all expecting the nightmarish experience that was to come We were about one-fourth of a mile away from the lighthouse when, to my surprise, Allison began turning the boat back the way we had come. Jenny let out a wail of protest and I said sharply, “What do you think you are doing, Allison?” “I’m turning back, Rebekah!” she said, just as sharply as I did. Jenny, hoping to avoid a quarrel, said, “You’re not afraid of a little wind, are you?” for a gentle breeze had been blowing. “No,” answered Allison. Then pointing southeast she continued, “But are you afraid of that?” We looked and my heart almost stopped beating. An immense black cloud was forming out at sea and rapidly heading our way. I yelled at Jenny to get out of the way and, grabbing the oars, began rowing for shore at a pace which would have won any race I ever entered. “Why not head for the lighthouse and beach the boat? We would be safe there, wouldn’t we?” questioned Jenny. “No, Jen,” I answered. “There’s no place to beach the boat because the lighthouse is on a cliff. Remember?” Jenny didn’t bother talking anymore. Foamy whitecaps danced on the sea which had been so calm barely an hour before. “Better put your life vests on!” Allison advised. Without hesitating Jenny reached under her seat and pulled out three life vests. She buckled one on, then handed one to Allison who, putting the tiller between her knees, quickly did the same. Rowing feverishly, I couldn’t stop to put mine on. Jenny performed the task. I rowed for all I was worth, but with waves crashing against the boat it was no easy task. The storm hit with all its force. Buckets of rain poured on us from all directions. “Do you think we will tip over?” cried Allison’s voice above the wind. How I wanted to say no. Instead I told the truth. “We might, so prepare to swim for it.” Jenny didn’t say anything, but I knew she was scared. Suddenly she cried out, “Big wave off the port side!” Allison tried to turn us so we would hit the wave head on, but it was in vain. The wave smacked into us, tipping the Bonnie Belle over. I tumbled into the sea and thought we were goners as the icy waters of the Atlantic closed over my head. I came up choking and gasping for breath. To my surprise I wasn’t dead, nor were any of the others, for I could see them a little distance away. Swimming to Jenny’s side, I grasped her life vest and yelled into her ear, asking if she was OK. She nodded. Allison came struggling over. She, too, seemed all right. I calculated we were about a hundred yards from shore. I knew we had better reach land before we froze in the 54-degree water. “Is the boat lost?” asked Allison. “Yeah,” I answered. The Bonnie Belle was already far from us, heading toward the jagged rocks. I told Jenny to grab my shoulder straps and Allison to hold Jenny’s. In that way we were together. I used my arms and swam toward the beach. Allison kicked and we made good progress going with the current. I was sure that I had swallowed half the ocean, since every time a wave washed over my head I would swallow some of it. I was thoroughly exhausted. First rowing, and now swimming, my arms felt like they were going to fall off. We were about twenty-five yards from shore when my strength gave out and I could go no further. I begged my cousins to go on. They would not. “Listen to me!” I cried. “Go on! If one of us doesn’t make it there’s no need for all of us not to!” Through salt-filled eyes I saw them battling the waves. Dimly I remember being unmercifully washed back and forth by the surf. Once I felt the ground with my hands and I tried to hold on to it, but I was pulled away by the strong undertow. Totally giving myself up for lost, I vaguely realized someone was pulling on my shoulder strap. I felt the water trying to wrench me away, but my rescuer hauled me onto the beach. Dragging me to the side of
