Page 130 of Catch the Sun

“Bye,” I say quickly, snapping my mouth shut before a sob cuts loose.

I hear him sigh, a sigh of pure anguish. Just like the groan he made when he first walked into the room and saw me. My stomach swirls with nausea as I listen to him walk away. The curtain draws back with a swish and a metallic clink, and then he’s gone.

I look to my right and discover what he left behind for me—it’s a copy ofThe House at Pooh Corner.

Max brought me one of my favorite books.

Tears slide down my sallow cheeks as I open the book and flip through the pages, knowing a message is waiting for me. Knowing there’s something he wants me to see.

I flip and skim and search, until my eyes land on a string of words about rivers and streams, highlighted in orange.

I read them.

I read them over and over again before I cry myself to sleep.

“There is no hurry. We shall get there someday.”

Chapter 30

Max

After signing in to the rehabilitation center and sticking the name badge to the front of my shirt, I make my way down the winding hallway. Ella is in the open therapy area today. The receptionist guides me to the observation seats where I can watch her finish up her session before visiting with her when she’s done.

Two months have flown by in a blur of tedious schoolwork, house renovations to keep my mind busy, and visiting Ella while she finishes up physical therapy in preparation for returning home. She’s getting stronger every day. Stronger, brighter, braver.

And yet…it still feels like she’s slipping.

Slipping away from me.

McKay insisted on driving me over, just like he always does. He never wants to see Ella. Says it hits too close to home with Dad’s rehabilitation after the job accident that rendered him temporarily paralyzed. I get it. And I appreciate that he wants to be here for support, even though he waits in the lobby.

As I take a seat in one of the stiff burgundy chairs, I spot Ella on a padded therapy table, a therapist by her side, guiding her through delicate leg movements to mobilize her hip joint and strengthen her weakened muscles. Ella grimaces slightly with each stretch, a testament to the effort each motion requires. But with every repetition there’s a sense of triumph, another step closer to a full recovery. Sweat slicks her brow line as her arms quiver through pulls and stretches. Her cheeks are flushed, filling with deep breaths before she blows them back out.

Ella’s therapist, a tall woman with silver hair, talks her through the movements, offering words of encouragement and technical instructions. She occasionally adjusts Ella’s posture or applies resistance to specific maneuvers. In another section, a parallel bar is set up, the next stage for Ella to practicestanding and walking with support.

I watch her for the next twenty minutes before she’s led out of the therapy room with the assistance of her walker. When she spots me waiting, she pauses, her knuckles bleaching white as she squeezes the padded grips.

I stand from the chair, a bouquet of orange roses tucked inside my hand.

Ella glances at them, lingering on the brightly colored blooms. Then her gaze pans up to my face. “Hey,” she greets, her voice stronger despite the notable crack.

She looks at me differently.

It’s like she remembers me…but she doesn’t remember me the same.

“Hey,” I reply. Hope laces the word, then dies out when she pulls her eyes away.

“Come on,” she murmurs. “We can go to the visitation room.”

I follow alongside her as we make our way to a consultation space with pale-blue walls and soft, ambient lighting. Spring sunlight pours in from multiple windows, causing her shorter hair to glitter its usual shades of red and brown. It’s been newly cut into a reverse bob, cropped in the back due to her surgery and longer in the front. She fiddles with the longer pieces as she takes a seat in one of the cushy chairs.

I pull another chair over to her and hand her the roses. “You look good.”

Ella doesn’t maintain eye contact as she holds the flowers in her lap and tinkers with one of the petals. “I still look like death. But thanks.” Her eyes flutter closed through a long exhale. “You don’t need to keep bringing me flowers, Max.”

“I know. But I want to.”

“You don’t need to visit me every day, either. I’m sure you’re busy.”

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