Page 13 of Holding On

Chapter Four

Ethan

"Did the cleaning company show up yet?" my mom asks.

"They said noon. It's only eleven forty-five."

"Oh. That's right. I always forget the time difference."

Three years I've lived here and she still forgets I'm in a different time zone.

My parents flew back to L.A. on Tuesday after just arriving on Monday. I thought they'd at least stay a few days but my dad insisted he had to get back for a contract negotiation and my mom said she had to prepare for a trial.

"I need to get back to the office," my mom says. "But call if you need anything. Goodbye, Ethan."

"Bye."

My mom calls twice a week to check on me. Before the accident, I'd talk to my mom maybe once or twice a month so this is a big change. We only talk for a few minutes, but for her, that's a huge deal because time is money. She charges $800 an hour so to have her talk to me for a few minutes says a lot. It's the closest I'll get to an 'I love you' which is something my parents have never said to me and probably never will.

As for my dad, he never calls, unless it's about my football career.

At noon, the doorbell rings.

"Come in," I yell from the couch. Getting in the wheelchair to answer the door is too much work.

The bell rings again, followed by knocking.

"Come in," I say, louder this time.

The door slowly opens and an older woman peeks her head in. "Did you say to come in?"

"Yeah. It takes me forever to get to the door with the chair."

She glances at it. "Oh. Yes. Of course." She comes in, but remains by the door. "I usually look around first before I bring in my supplies. Do you mind?"

"Go ahead."

I watch as she surveys the living room. She's probably in her fifties, and short, maybe five foot, with a stocky build. Her hair is mostly gray, with tight curls, like she perms it. She has a uniform on; a light blue, cotton dress with white buttons down the middle.

"Laminate?" she asks, pointing to the wood floors.

"Yeah. It's in the kitchen too."

She nods. I notice she won't directly look at me, like she's uncomfortable with the fact that a guy my age has to use a wheelchair.

"It's not permanent," I tell her.

She had her back to me but turns around and says, "What was that?"

"The chair." I point to it. "It's not permanent. I broke my leg. I'm only using the chair until my leg is stronger. Then I'll be on crutches."

She nods again but says nothing. She still seems uncomfortable. And a little nervous. If it's not the chair making her this way, then what it is? I have to ask.

"Do you know who I am?"

"Yes." She smiles slightly. "My husband has seen all your games. He has season tickets."

"And you didn't know I was the one you'd be cleaning for," I confirm because she seemed surprised to see me when she opened the door.

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