Page 5 of Plight
Message from Danielle Cunningham:
I’ll admit, I was a little unsure as to your level of creepiness for a minute or two. You got me good, Lots, lol. See you Saturday.
Ifirst fell in love with Danielle Cunningham when I was eight years old. She wasn’t the most popular girl at school, but she was the most beautiful, inside and out. That’s why I’d fallen in love with her, because she was kind and she cared. She’d cared about me in particular and what I’d had to say.
Not many people ever had.
She’d also had the cutest button nose, apple cheeks, dark brown hair that reminded me of those chocolate curls that were sometimes on the top of birthday cakes, and bushy eyebrows that looked like little caterpillars. A few kids had teased her about her facial caterpillars, but I always thought they were cool. Unique.
The second time I fell in love with her was when she’d eaten my Cheezel ring and said she’d marry me. Marriage was a big promise for anyone let alone an eight-year-old, and it was a promise I now planned to have a bit of fun with, maybe even hold her to. She was the first girl I’d ever loved — the only girl.
As for the third time, well … there hadn’t been a third time yet, but I knew there would be. I knew because my entire body had just frozen solid then slowly thawed the moment she stepped out of her Volkswagen Beetle wearing a thick grey beanie that was miles too big for her head. So if the mere sight of her could do that to a grown man, a man that hadn’t laid eyes on her in seventeen years, then yeah, I knew I’d fall in love with Danielle Cunningham for a third time.
It was just a matter of when.
Awkwardly diverting my gaze to the scrap pile of wood pieces in my gloved hands, and instantly regretting that decision because Danielle was far better to look at, I quickly glanced back at her as she took a few steps toward us before pausing at the threshold of the garden. She toed a few rocks where a perfectly curved brick path had once wound through brightly coloured flowers and plants.
It no longer did.
My stomach twisted as I took in the sorrowful look on her face, because it was the same look I’d possessed moments ago when I’d stood where she was standing. The state of our memorial garden was a knife to the heart and a cold hard slap to the face, those exact sentiments emphasized by her wide open, coffee cup eyes that were melting as tears threatened to spill down her cheeks.
Danielle’s jaw fell slack, her mouth forming an O, her shoulders slumped, her arms lifeless by her sides. Every particle that composed who I was wanted to wrap myself around her and tell her that we’d fix this, that we’d restore the garden to its former glory and pay the respect and gratitude to Mr Hillier that he deserved. We owed him that and so much more.
We owed him our lives.
When we were just ten years old, Mr Hillier had heard our terrified cries for help and driven through a flash flood that had very quickly turned our storm drain hide-and-seek game into a matter of life or death. We’d become trapped underground behind a metal grated storm drain cover after being unable to return the way we’d entered the drain system we’d often hung out in. The rising floodwaters had been fierce, unapologetic, and rapidly climbing the height of the ledge Danielle and I were huddled upon.
Recalling that memory, even after twenty years, still sent a chill down my spine. It had been the single most frightening experience of my life; helplessly watching as a ferocious aquatic monster chased us down.
Thankfully, Mr Hillier — a local tree-lopper at the time — carried a chain in his utility truck and was able to winch the metal grate free of the concrete it was encased in, setting us free.
I’d never forget that day, never forget the level of fear a person could feel, but, most importantly, I’d never forget Mr Hillier, which was why restoring the garden was so important. During the past decade, I’d allowed my busy lifestyle to overshadow what was once a fitting tribute to a hero, my hero, and that was about to change. Hillier Community Garden would return to its former glory and then some.
My body stiffened once again as Danielle sheepishly smiled, waved, and closed the space between us. I went to lift my hand to return her gesture but fumbled with the planks of wood in my arms.
“Shit,” I muttered, rebalancing them as she stopped before me.
“Lots! That’s ‘lots’ of wood in your arms.” She giggled and nudged my shoulder, and I all but crumbled to the ground under the weight of nostalgia and tree offcuts.
I managed a chuckle instead and raised my arms, flexing my biceps in the process — not that she could see them through the wood. “Na, this is nothing. I’ve only just started.”
She dipped her head, and I caught a glimpse of a small smile before it was hidden behind several loose strands of hair that were still chocolate in colour, her manicured fingers poking them behind her ear.
“So, how are you? It’s been so long since we’ve seen each other. You look … you look good.”
Her stuttering puzzled me. Maybe she’s cold? I should lend her my jacket. I went to shrug out of the woollen coat I was wearing when I realised she was already wearing one of her own; a white puffy one with a furry hood that dangled over her shoulders. Maybe she just stutters now? Maybe she’s nervous?
Realising I hadn’t yet answered, a playful idea entered my head, and I didn’t really think too much before deciding to just go with it. I was a little nervous, and that rarely happened.
“This is bad luck, you know.” I gestured between the two of us. “I’m not supposed to see the bride before the wedding.”
She laughed, but then her hand found her hip. “This again? This fake engagement stuff? Really?”
I remained impassive. “You say ‘fake’ as if you mean it.”
“I do mean it! We are not engaged, Elliot.”
“Technically, we are.” I smiled.
