Unlike most 13-year-olds, Willow always set her alarm to go off at 6:30am on Saturdays. She loved her weekends. No school, no homework and, best of all, no Shayla or Snella. She had already been awake for 20 minutes when her alarm rang out. She switched it off, sat up in her bed and attached her prosthetic left leg at the knee. She then grabbed a framed photo from her nightstand, kissed it and placed it back in its proper place. Next she grabbed a colorful bracelet, made from tiny painted seashells, off of her nightstand, and placed it around her wrist. It looked old and worn where the paint had begun to peel off certain parts of the shells, but Willow never went anywhere without it.
She made her way to the bathroom. It was always free for her on Saturday mornings. Her older brother, Wyatt, usually slept until at least 10am, claiming the stress and work of high school took its toll on his 15-year-old body.
Willow gazed into the mirror and wasn’t too satisfied with what she saw. She hated her long, bushy, almond-colored hair and wished it were straight and blonde; she hated her pale complexion, speckled with freckles and, most of all, she hated having to wear a retainer. At least the braces she had to endure for over two years were gone. That was a start.
After putting on a sweatshirt, blue jeans and her red canvas sneakers, Willow wrapped a kerchief around her head. This was routine for her. If it wasn’t a kerchief, it was a hair-band, a ponytail wrapped in a scrunchie, a wool cap, or hair clips. She always hated sticky hair products like gel and mousse and preferred to tame her mane with accessories.
Willow ran down the stairs and into the kitchen to make breakfast for her family. Second only to reading, cooking was Willow’s favorite pastime.
After eating her own breakfast and leaving a stack of banana pancakes and maple sausages for her family on the counter, she grabbed her latest book, The Journey To Brambosa, and stepped outside into her backyard. She sat on her bench-swing and began on Chapter 7: The Crystal Path. This was her weekend routine before beginning her chores, at least until the weather got too cold when she would read on her bed. She much preferred to read outside since Wyatt loved to blast the TV every minute he was home.
Willow loved getting lost in the fictional realms of her books. She often daydreamed about what it might be like if she was the heroine of a novel. She certainly did not hate her real life. Her mother was a bit over-protective, since Willow and her brother lost their father, but she showed her children a lot of affection. Wyatt always kept very busy with basketball and video games, but was always there for his sister if she needed him. He never worried about her welfare at school; she was in good hands with Razzel, who was a lot tougher than most boys in Wyatt’s high school.
After about two hours of reading, Willow could hear voices emanating from her kitchen a few yards away.
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“These pancakes are freakin’ awesome,” Wyatt said to his mother, his mouth full, spitting out bits of pancake.
Mr. And Mrs. Krimble had produced two children who balanced one-another: Willow loved to cook, Wyatt loved to eat, although you would never know it from his slender, athletic build. Mrs. Krimble often joked about Wyatt’s eating habits: “If he ever gives up sports, he’ll blow up like a balloon, the way he packs it in.”
Willow pondered going inside to bid her family “good-morning” but she couldn’t tear herself away from her book; she just had to finish the chapter she was in the middle of.
Just as her eyes were scanning the final paragraph, Willow heard her neighbor, Carlo Sprunco and his dog, Luka, making their way out their back door.
Willow loved Luka. He was a three-year-old beagle and the friendliest dog she had ever met. Willow had begged her mother to get a dog, but Mrs. Krimble claimed she was allergic. Willow was never certain if this was true because her mother only seemed to be allergic whenever Willow asked her for a dog. Nevertheless, the answer was always an emphatic, “No”.
“Gooda morna, Weelah,” Carlo Sprunco greeted his young neighbor, waving with one hand, trying to hold his bathrobe closed with the other. He always butchered Willow’s name with his heavy Italian accent, but Willow didn’t mind.
She closed her book and made her way over to the fence where Luka was waiting to be petted.
“Good morning, Mr. Sprunco,” she said, reaching over the short metal fence to pet Luka who was now standing on his hind legs, panting with excitement.
“That doga make me crazy with all the howla. You wanna buy? I sell cheap.”
Willow chuckled.
“I wish I could, but you know my mom’s allergic. Maybe someday when I get my own place.”
“Oh, I no waita that long,” replied Mr. Sprunco. “This doga make me crazy now.” He turned around and walked back into his home, leaving Luka to enjoy the affection he was receiving from his favorite neighbor.
“He would never sell you, would he, boy?” said Willow, her tone reminiscent of an adult addressing a one-year-old child.
Luka responded by licking Willow’s hand.
“He would miss your howling if you ever - ”
Willow was suddenly interrupted by the sound of shattering glass, immediately followed by a loud thud. Luka instantly ran back inside through the doggy-door.
All Willow could hear was non-stop barking. She paused for a moment and without even thinking, never letting her prosthetic leg slow her down, she instinctively climbed over the steel fence. She began knocking on her neighbor’s back door, but there was no answer.
“Mr. Sprunco! Willow called out. “Are you okay?”
No answer.
Willow began to panic. She looked over to her yard and squinted her eyes to try to see through her kitchen window. She could barely make out her mother and brother at the kitchen counter, still enjoying their breakfast. Should she go back and ask them for help?
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Was she overreacting? Maybe everything was fine.
Suddenly, Luka ran back outside through the doggy door and straight through Willow’s legs. She turned around to look at him as he began to howl. Something must be wrong.
She decided to try the back door. It was unlocked. She entered cautiously as Luka followed behind, howling incessantly.
“Mr. Sprunco … it’s Willow … everything okay? I heard some noise and - ” Willow broke off as she peered into her neighbor’s living room, her eyes meeting a horrific sight. She ran over to the limp body lying on the rug to find Carlo Sprunco clenching his right fist against his chest, unconscious alongside shattered glass from the large vase he toppled over on his way down.
Willow quickly knelt by her neighbor’s side. She grabbed his hand, prying it from his chest.
“Mr. Sprunco! Can you hear me?” He didn’t answer. Willow was horrorstricken and she couldn’t think straight over Luka’s relentless whimpers.
“Oh God!” she muttered. She suddenly found herself trying to recall last year’s CPR session from gym class. It was only for one day, so she was far from an expert, but she had to try something. If she ran to get help, it would just waste time and the one thing she did remember for sure about her CPR class was that time is of the essence. If Mr. Sprunco was not getting oxygen to his brain, it could be fatal in a matter of seconds.
Clasping her neighbor’s hand, Willow placed her ear against his mouth. He wasn’t breathing. Luka was still howling, but Willow was so nervous, she blocked it out completely.
She suddenly found herself longing for her neighbor’s recovery. She wanted to see him next Saturday morning walk outside his back door while she was reading her latest book; wanted to hear him butcher her name once again.
Without wasting another second, Willow released her neighbor’s hand and tried her hardest to recall her CPR class. She began muttering to herself, “Okay … tilt the head back … pinch both nostrils … now, two quick breathes into the victim’s mouth. You can do this ... come on now … alright … ready … here we go … ”
With Luka howling, and her heart racing, Willow slowly leaned toward her neighbor’s mouth to administer the first two breaths. Seconds away from her lips touching the limp body, Willow received yet another jolt as Mr. Sprunco suddenly began coughing directly into her face.
Willow jerked back as her neighbor continued to cough more rapidly. She watched in amazement as he opened his eyes and began sitting up. Becoming aware of his surroundings, Carlo Sprunco noticed the shattered glass around him as he leaned onto his sofa for support. He made it to his feet fairly quickly.
“Ma, che cosa ... cosa è successo?"
Willow did not understand Italian, but it was beginning to sink in that her neighbor was beginning to recover from whatever had deemed him lifeless only moments earlier. She finally snapped out of her confused state and suddenly threw her arms around him.
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“Oh, Mr. Sprunco, I was so worried! I heard a loud crash and I didn’t know what to do, so I came in through the back door. Luka was barking like crazy and I figured if I ran to get help, it may be too late and then - ”
“No worria, Weelah. ” Mr. Sprunco interrupted Willow’s rant. “I okay.” Grabbing Willow by her shoulders, he continued to reassure her. “Looka me … No probla,” he said now pounding his chest with his right arm. He suddenly looked confused and began rubbing his chest with his right hand.
“Oh no! Are you okay, Mr. Sprunco? Are you having chest pain? Do you need to sit?”
“No, no. I feala good, you know? My chesta no hurt no more. Ma, before, it hurta lot. Madonna, it hurta lot.”
Motioning for her neighbor to sit on the sofa, Willow was as confused as when she first heard the initial crash.
“Maybe I should call an ambulance,” she suggested.
“Ma che amboolants? I fine. No. No worria. You go now. I rest.” Mr. Sprunco sprawled out onto his sofa.
“But I think you may have had a heart att-”
“No, you go. If I needa, I call,” Mr. Sprunco insisted. “And no tella you momma, si? I no want she worria for me.”
Willow tried to run everything back in her mind as she walked around the front of her neighbor's house and back into her own yard. How could someone be that lifeless one moment and as alert as ever the next? It just didn’t make any sense. Willow reminded herself that she was not a doctor and was far from an expert on medical conditions. Maybe Mr. Sprunco just fainted. Nevertheless, she decided to honor her neighbor’s request not to alarm her family as she walked through her back door.
“Hey, there’s my master chef,” Wyatt greeted his sister, with a half eaten sausage dangling from his fork. “Bananas in the batter? Nice touch, Squirt.”
Distracted, Willow did not acknowledge her brother’s praise.
“Squirt?”
“Huh? Oh yeah, bananas. I’m glad you enjoyed them, Wyatt.”
Her mother noticed her hesitation. Samantha Krimble always knew when one of her children was hiding something.
“Everything alright, Willow?”
“What? Oh, yeah, fine. I was just thinking about my book and how good it is.”
“Well, where is it?” asked Mrs. Krimble.
In all of the confusion, Willow had forgotten to retrieve her book.
“I left it outside. I’m going back out to read in a minute. I just came in to say ‘good morning.’”
“Well, don’t be too much longer. Remember, we’re going to visit Grandma this morning. I promised her we’d take her grocery shopping and you know how much she loves your company.”
Samantha Krimble was always very busy between her shifts as a nurse at Stratlin Medical, her housework and checking on her 88-year-old mother, who insisted on living on her own, claiming she did not need anyone’s help.
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Nevertheless, the widow tried her best to spend time with her children, even if it was as non-eventful as grocery shopping.
“You should come too,” she said to Wyatt.
“Huh?” Wyatt pretended not to hear.
“It wouldn’t kill you to spend some time with your grandmother,” Mrs. Krimble lectured.
“Sounds great, Mom, but I’ve got basketball practice today,” replied Wyatt, shoving a hunk of pancake into his mouth. “Man, and I really wanted to compare the different colored toilet paper.”
His mother shot him a reproachful look.
“I’ll be there, Mom,” said Willow. “I haven’t seen Grams in two weeks.”
“Thank you, Willow. Nice to see that someone has their priorities in order around here.” Mrs. Krimble raised her eyebrows at her son.
“Basketball practice!” Wyatt defended himself. “I can’t miss it. Coach says we need to put the extra time in on the weekend if we want to beat Grant High next week. They kicked our ass - um - assets last time and it was really embarrassing.”
“Nice save,” snickered Willow.
“Yes, very nice,” added Mrs. Krimble, her statement punctuated by a light slap on the back of her son’s head.
Since Mrs. Krimble hated foul language and would not allow it in her home, Wyatt made up his own term that he could use whenever he was angry, shocked or even excited.
“Chiklets McFarkus!” he said, rubbing the back of his head.
Mrs. Krimble knew what her son really meant, but she could not truly reprimand him since, technically, it wasn’t foul language; it was Wyatt-language.
“See if ice packs are on sale while you’re shopping,” Wyatt added, giving his head one final brush.
Mrs. Krimble rolled her eyes.
“Let me just grab my book and I’ll be back to help you clean up,” said Willow.
“No way,” replied Mrs. Krimble, pointing toward Wyatt. “This one is long over-due to clean up the dishes. He’ll take care of it.”
“Well, if you insist,” replied Willow, smirking, shrugging her shoulders at her older brother.
Wyatt looked at the two women of the house with a defeated expression. “Man … can’t even have breakfast without having to work for it.” With a sigh he plunged his fork into the last sausage link on the plate and muttered, once again, “Chicklets McFarkus!”
Willow and her mother arrived at her Grandma Trisha’s house at about 10:30am. It was a big house, a mere twelve minutes away by car. It was the house that Willow’s mother grew up in. Every time she returned she had another reminiscent story about how she and her older sister, Klisa, would get into trouble on some misadventure. Willow loved listening to these stories about her mother’s childhood, while Wyatt usually zoned out until the end of each tale where he would often retort with, “Ha! That’s good stuff, Mom. Those were the days, huh?
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Mrs. Krimble never fell for the feigning interest in her stories, but she never called Wyatt on it; she knew there would be plenty of other times where she would need to reprimand her teenage son for not listening. She’d much rather rebuke him when he said things like, “… but you never told me to take out the garbage; how was I supposed to know? I’m not a mind reader.”
Willow loved visiting with her grandmother. She would try to see her at least once a month. Before Grandpa Theo passed away, he would drive himself and Grandma Trisha to see Willow and Wyatt as often as once a week. Since Grandma Trisha could not drive, due to her arthritis, Willow began taking the bus to visit her after her grandfather’s passing, two years ago. From the bus stop, Willow would walk for almost 20 minutes to have tea with her grandmother and discuss whatever was interesting in their lives at the moment. Sometimes, she would bring Razzel along. Grandma Trisha often said that Razzel’s spunk reminded her of herself when she was a young girl.
Willow and her mother made their way up the stone walkway to the large two-story colonial home designed by Grandpa Theo. Brushing their shoulders against the overgrown hedges, they walked up to the front porch where Willow used to play checkers with her grandfather. Before Mrs. Krimble could reach the doorbell, the front door swung open.
“Where is she? Where’s my favorite girl?”
Willow wrapped her arms around her grandmother and squeezed tightly.
“Hey, Grams … you look great.”
Trisha Turner stared into her granddaughter’s eyes.
“Such a sweet girl, but a not a very good liar. Now, where is that gluttonous grandson of mine?” she asked, looking over Willow’s shoulder, past Mrs. Krimble.
“Sorry, Mom,” replied Mrs. Krimble, stepping over the threshold, “Wyatt has basketball practice this morning. He sends his love,” she added as an obvious afterthought.
“There’s a huge surprise. I guess I’ll just see him again at Thanksgiving dinner. That is, if he’s not too busy. Oh, but there will be lots of food, so he’s sure to be there, isn’t he?”
Willow tried not to laugh while her mother refrained from a retort. Mrs. Krimble learned at an early age that it was best to let her mother’s backhanded comments pass. Trisha Turner was a kind-hearted woman who loved her family, but she was as stern as she was caring. There was no arguing with her and you would never get the final word, so why try?
Grandma Trisha turned her attention back to Willow.
“Well, at least my girl is here. I have something for you.”
“Grams, you don’t have to give me something every time I come over; I came to see you.”
“Nonsense!” said Grandma Trisha, grabbing a large rectangular box from the coffee table and handing it to Willow. “It’s been collecting dust and I thought you should have it.”
Willow’s eyes lit up. She had an inkling as to what was in the box. Ever since she was a little girl, she admired a ceramic sculpture of a ballet dancer on her
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grandparents’ end-table. She used to daydream about one day becoming a graceful ballerina, even with her prosthetic leg. When she turned eight years old, she persuaded her mother to sign her up for a local ballet class, but after only one lesson, Mrs. Krimble noted the whispers and snickers from the other students. Ever the overly protective mother, she explained to Willow that the class was too expensive, forcing Willow to give it up. Willow was crushed, but did not argue; she knew her mom had to run their household on a single income.
Willow tore off the strip of tape on the top of the box. Just as she was about to lift up the top flap, she beamed at her grandmother.
“Well, go on,” said Grandma Trisha, “or shall I write you an invitation?”
Willow raised up the flap, reached in, and pulled out her prize. She had to try her best not to look disappointed at the large resin clown she was holding.
“Wow, Grams …” she said through a forced grin, “… I love it.”
“I knew you would. When you were only three years old, you begged me to let you keep it, but I had just brought it home from my trip to Paris with your grandfather and I didn’t want to part with it just yet. I was so possessive of these knick-knacks that your grandfather and I collected, but all of our so-called treasures have been collecting dust. That clown’s been on my nightstand far too long. I just know he will be appreciated in a new home by a new family member.”
Willow held up the statue and rotated it in examination. She didn’t recall admiring it when she was younger, but she did think it was very cool that her grandmother remembered.
“I’ll take good care of it, Grams.”
“I know you will, Love.”
Next Chapter
She made her way to the bathroom. It was always free for her on Saturday mornings. Her older brother, Wyatt, usually slept until at least 10am, claiming the stress and work of high school took its toll on his 15-year-old body.
Willow gazed into the mirror and wasn’t too satisfied with what she saw. She hated her long, bushy, almond-colored hair and wished it were straight and blonde; she hated her pale complexion, speckled with freckles and, most of all, she hated having to wear a retainer. At least the braces she had to endure for over two years were gone. That was a start.
After putting on a sweatshirt, blue jeans and her red canvas sneakers, Willow wrapped a kerchief around her head. This was routine for her. If it wasn’t a kerchief, it was a hair-band, a ponytail wrapped in a scrunchie, a wool cap, or hair clips. She always hated sticky hair products like gel and mousse and preferred to tame her mane with accessories.
Willow ran down the stairs and into the kitchen to make breakfast for her family. Second only to reading, cooking was Willow’s favorite pastime.
After eating her own breakfast and leaving a stack of banana pancakes and maple sausages for her family on the counter, she grabbed her latest book, The Journey To Brambosa, and stepped outside into her backyard. She sat on her bench-swing and began on Chapter 7: The Crystal Path. This was her weekend routine before beginning her chores, at least until the weather got too cold when she would read on her bed. She much preferred to read outside since Wyatt loved to blast the TV every minute he was home.
Willow loved getting lost in the fictional realms of her books. She often daydreamed about what it might be like if she was the heroine of a novel. She certainly did not hate her real life. Her mother was a bit over-protective, since Willow and her brother lost their father, but she showed her children a lot of affection. Wyatt always kept very busy with basketball and video games, but was always there for his sister if she needed him. He never worried about her welfare at school; she was in good hands with Razzel, who was a lot tougher than most boys in Wyatt’s high school.
After about two hours of reading, Willow could hear voices emanating from her kitchen a few yards away.
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“These pancakes are freakin’ awesome,” Wyatt said to his mother, his mouth full, spitting out bits of pancake.
Mr. And Mrs. Krimble had produced two children who balanced one-another: Willow loved to cook, Wyatt loved to eat, although you would never know it from his slender, athletic build. Mrs. Krimble often joked about Wyatt’s eating habits: “If he ever gives up sports, he’ll blow up like a balloon, the way he packs it in.”
Willow pondered going inside to bid her family “good-morning” but she couldn’t tear herself away from her book; she just had to finish the chapter she was in the middle of.
Just as her eyes were scanning the final paragraph, Willow heard her neighbor, Carlo Sprunco and his dog, Luka, making their way out their back door.
Willow loved Luka. He was a three-year-old beagle and the friendliest dog she had ever met. Willow had begged her mother to get a dog, but Mrs. Krimble claimed she was allergic. Willow was never certain if this was true because her mother only seemed to be allergic whenever Willow asked her for a dog. Nevertheless, the answer was always an emphatic, “No”.
“Gooda morna, Weelah,” Carlo Sprunco greeted his young neighbor, waving with one hand, trying to hold his bathrobe closed with the other. He always butchered Willow’s name with his heavy Italian accent, but Willow didn’t mind.
She closed her book and made her way over to the fence where Luka was waiting to be petted.
“Good morning, Mr. Sprunco,” she said, reaching over the short metal fence to pet Luka who was now standing on his hind legs, panting with excitement.
“That doga make me crazy with all the howla. You wanna buy? I sell cheap.”
Willow chuckled.
“I wish I could, but you know my mom’s allergic. Maybe someday when I get my own place.”
“Oh, I no waita that long,” replied Mr. Sprunco. “This doga make me crazy now.” He turned around and walked back into his home, leaving Luka to enjoy the affection he was receiving from his favorite neighbor.
“He would never sell you, would he, boy?” said Willow, her tone reminiscent of an adult addressing a one-year-old child.
Luka responded by licking Willow’s hand.
“He would miss your howling if you ever - ”
Willow was suddenly interrupted by the sound of shattering glass, immediately followed by a loud thud. Luka instantly ran back inside through the doggy-door.
All Willow could hear was non-stop barking. She paused for a moment and without even thinking, never letting her prosthetic leg slow her down, she instinctively climbed over the steel fence. She began knocking on her neighbor’s back door, but there was no answer.
“Mr. Sprunco! Willow called out. “Are you okay?”
No answer.
Willow began to panic. She looked over to her yard and squinted her eyes to try to see through her kitchen window. She could barely make out her mother and brother at the kitchen counter, still enjoying their breakfast. Should she go back and ask them for help?
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Was she overreacting? Maybe everything was fine.
Suddenly, Luka ran back outside through the doggy door and straight through Willow’s legs. She turned around to look at him as he began to howl. Something must be wrong.
She decided to try the back door. It was unlocked. She entered cautiously as Luka followed behind, howling incessantly.
“Mr. Sprunco … it’s Willow … everything okay? I heard some noise and - ” Willow broke off as she peered into her neighbor’s living room, her eyes meeting a horrific sight. She ran over to the limp body lying on the rug to find Carlo Sprunco clenching his right fist against his chest, unconscious alongside shattered glass from the large vase he toppled over on his way down.
Willow quickly knelt by her neighbor’s side. She grabbed his hand, prying it from his chest.
“Mr. Sprunco! Can you hear me?” He didn’t answer. Willow was horrorstricken and she couldn’t think straight over Luka’s relentless whimpers.
“Oh God!” she muttered. She suddenly found herself trying to recall last year’s CPR session from gym class. It was only for one day, so she was far from an expert, but she had to try something. If she ran to get help, it would just waste time and the one thing she did remember for sure about her CPR class was that time is of the essence. If Mr. Sprunco was not getting oxygen to his brain, it could be fatal in a matter of seconds.
Clasping her neighbor’s hand, Willow placed her ear against his mouth. He wasn’t breathing. Luka was still howling, but Willow was so nervous, she blocked it out completely.
She suddenly found herself longing for her neighbor’s recovery. She wanted to see him next Saturday morning walk outside his back door while she was reading her latest book; wanted to hear him butcher her name once again.
Without wasting another second, Willow released her neighbor’s hand and tried her hardest to recall her CPR class. She began muttering to herself, “Okay … tilt the head back … pinch both nostrils … now, two quick breathes into the victim’s mouth. You can do this ... come on now … alright … ready … here we go … ”
With Luka howling, and her heart racing, Willow slowly leaned toward her neighbor’s mouth to administer the first two breaths. Seconds away from her lips touching the limp body, Willow received yet another jolt as Mr. Sprunco suddenly began coughing directly into her face.
Willow jerked back as her neighbor continued to cough more rapidly. She watched in amazement as he opened his eyes and began sitting up. Becoming aware of his surroundings, Carlo Sprunco noticed the shattered glass around him as he leaned onto his sofa for support. He made it to his feet fairly quickly.
“Ma, che cosa ... cosa è successo?"
Willow did not understand Italian, but it was beginning to sink in that her neighbor was beginning to recover from whatever had deemed him lifeless only moments earlier. She finally snapped out of her confused state and suddenly threw her arms around him.
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“Oh, Mr. Sprunco, I was so worried! I heard a loud crash and I didn’t know what to do, so I came in through the back door. Luka was barking like crazy and I figured if I ran to get help, it may be too late and then - ”
“No worria, Weelah. ” Mr. Sprunco interrupted Willow’s rant. “I okay.” Grabbing Willow by her shoulders, he continued to reassure her. “Looka me … No probla,” he said now pounding his chest with his right arm. He suddenly looked confused and began rubbing his chest with his right hand.
“Oh no! Are you okay, Mr. Sprunco? Are you having chest pain? Do you need to sit?”
“No, no. I feala good, you know? My chesta no hurt no more. Ma, before, it hurta lot. Madonna, it hurta lot.”
Motioning for her neighbor to sit on the sofa, Willow was as confused as when she first heard the initial crash.
“Maybe I should call an ambulance,” she suggested.
“Ma che amboolants? I fine. No. No worria. You go now. I rest.” Mr. Sprunco sprawled out onto his sofa.
“But I think you may have had a heart att-”
“No, you go. If I needa, I call,” Mr. Sprunco insisted. “And no tella you momma, si? I no want she worria for me.”
Willow tried to run everything back in her mind as she walked around the front of her neighbor's house and back into her own yard. How could someone be that lifeless one moment and as alert as ever the next? It just didn’t make any sense. Willow reminded herself that she was not a doctor and was far from an expert on medical conditions. Maybe Mr. Sprunco just fainted. Nevertheless, she decided to honor her neighbor’s request not to alarm her family as she walked through her back door.
“Hey, there’s my master chef,” Wyatt greeted his sister, with a half eaten sausage dangling from his fork. “Bananas in the batter? Nice touch, Squirt.”
Distracted, Willow did not acknowledge her brother’s praise.
“Squirt?”
“Huh? Oh yeah, bananas. I’m glad you enjoyed them, Wyatt.”
Her mother noticed her hesitation. Samantha Krimble always knew when one of her children was hiding something.
“Everything alright, Willow?”
“What? Oh, yeah, fine. I was just thinking about my book and how good it is.”
“Well, where is it?” asked Mrs. Krimble.
In all of the confusion, Willow had forgotten to retrieve her book.
“I left it outside. I’m going back out to read in a minute. I just came in to say ‘good morning.’”
“Well, don’t be too much longer. Remember, we’re going to visit Grandma this morning. I promised her we’d take her grocery shopping and you know how much she loves your company.”
Samantha Krimble was always very busy between her shifts as a nurse at Stratlin Medical, her housework and checking on her 88-year-old mother, who insisted on living on her own, claiming she did not need anyone’s help.
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Nevertheless, the widow tried her best to spend time with her children, even if it was as non-eventful as grocery shopping.
“You should come too,” she said to Wyatt.
“Huh?” Wyatt pretended not to hear.
“It wouldn’t kill you to spend some time with your grandmother,” Mrs. Krimble lectured.
“Sounds great, Mom, but I’ve got basketball practice today,” replied Wyatt, shoving a hunk of pancake into his mouth. “Man, and I really wanted to compare the different colored toilet paper.”
His mother shot him a reproachful look.
“I’ll be there, Mom,” said Willow. “I haven’t seen Grams in two weeks.”
“Thank you, Willow. Nice to see that someone has their priorities in order around here.” Mrs. Krimble raised her eyebrows at her son.
“Basketball practice!” Wyatt defended himself. “I can’t miss it. Coach says we need to put the extra time in on the weekend if we want to beat Grant High next week. They kicked our ass - um - assets last time and it was really embarrassing.”
“Nice save,” snickered Willow.
“Yes, very nice,” added Mrs. Krimble, her statement punctuated by a light slap on the back of her son’s head.
Since Mrs. Krimble hated foul language and would not allow it in her home, Wyatt made up his own term that he could use whenever he was angry, shocked or even excited.
“Chiklets McFarkus!” he said, rubbing the back of his head.
Mrs. Krimble knew what her son really meant, but she could not truly reprimand him since, technically, it wasn’t foul language; it was Wyatt-language.
“See if ice packs are on sale while you’re shopping,” Wyatt added, giving his head one final brush.
Mrs. Krimble rolled her eyes.
“Let me just grab my book and I’ll be back to help you clean up,” said Willow.
“No way,” replied Mrs. Krimble, pointing toward Wyatt. “This one is long over-due to clean up the dishes. He’ll take care of it.”
“Well, if you insist,” replied Willow, smirking, shrugging her shoulders at her older brother.
Wyatt looked at the two women of the house with a defeated expression. “Man … can’t even have breakfast without having to work for it.” With a sigh he plunged his fork into the last sausage link on the plate and muttered, once again, “Chicklets McFarkus!”
Willow and her mother arrived at her Grandma Trisha’s house at about 10:30am. It was a big house, a mere twelve minutes away by car. It was the house that Willow’s mother grew up in. Every time she returned she had another reminiscent story about how she and her older sister, Klisa, would get into trouble on some misadventure. Willow loved listening to these stories about her mother’s childhood, while Wyatt usually zoned out until the end of each tale where he would often retort with, “Ha! That’s good stuff, Mom. Those were the days, huh?
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Mrs. Krimble never fell for the feigning interest in her stories, but she never called Wyatt on it; she knew there would be plenty of other times where she would need to reprimand her teenage son for not listening. She’d much rather rebuke him when he said things like, “… but you never told me to take out the garbage; how was I supposed to know? I’m not a mind reader.”
Willow loved visiting with her grandmother. She would try to see her at least once a month. Before Grandpa Theo passed away, he would drive himself and Grandma Trisha to see Willow and Wyatt as often as once a week. Since Grandma Trisha could not drive, due to her arthritis, Willow began taking the bus to visit her after her grandfather’s passing, two years ago. From the bus stop, Willow would walk for almost 20 minutes to have tea with her grandmother and discuss whatever was interesting in their lives at the moment. Sometimes, she would bring Razzel along. Grandma Trisha often said that Razzel’s spunk reminded her of herself when she was a young girl.
Willow and her mother made their way up the stone walkway to the large two-story colonial home designed by Grandpa Theo. Brushing their shoulders against the overgrown hedges, they walked up to the front porch where Willow used to play checkers with her grandfather. Before Mrs. Krimble could reach the doorbell, the front door swung open.
“Where is she? Where’s my favorite girl?”
Willow wrapped her arms around her grandmother and squeezed tightly.
“Hey, Grams … you look great.”
Trisha Turner stared into her granddaughter’s eyes.
“Such a sweet girl, but a not a very good liar. Now, where is that gluttonous grandson of mine?” she asked, looking over Willow’s shoulder, past Mrs. Krimble.
“Sorry, Mom,” replied Mrs. Krimble, stepping over the threshold, “Wyatt has basketball practice this morning. He sends his love,” she added as an obvious afterthought.
“There’s a huge surprise. I guess I’ll just see him again at Thanksgiving dinner. That is, if he’s not too busy. Oh, but there will be lots of food, so he’s sure to be there, isn’t he?”
Willow tried not to laugh while her mother refrained from a retort. Mrs. Krimble learned at an early age that it was best to let her mother’s backhanded comments pass. Trisha Turner was a kind-hearted woman who loved her family, but she was as stern as she was caring. There was no arguing with her and you would never get the final word, so why try?
Grandma Trisha turned her attention back to Willow.
“Well, at least my girl is here. I have something for you.”
“Grams, you don’t have to give me something every time I come over; I came to see you.”
“Nonsense!” said Grandma Trisha, grabbing a large rectangular box from the coffee table and handing it to Willow. “It’s been collecting dust and I thought you should have it.”
Willow’s eyes lit up. She had an inkling as to what was in the box. Ever since she was a little girl, she admired a ceramic sculpture of a ballet dancer on her
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grandparents’ end-table. She used to daydream about one day becoming a graceful ballerina, even with her prosthetic leg. When she turned eight years old, she persuaded her mother to sign her up for a local ballet class, but after only one lesson, Mrs. Krimble noted the whispers and snickers from the other students. Ever the overly protective mother, she explained to Willow that the class was too expensive, forcing Willow to give it up. Willow was crushed, but did not argue; she knew her mom had to run their household on a single income.
Willow tore off the strip of tape on the top of the box. Just as she was about to lift up the top flap, she beamed at her grandmother.
“Well, go on,” said Grandma Trisha, “or shall I write you an invitation?”
Willow raised up the flap, reached in, and pulled out her prize. She had to try her best not to look disappointed at the large resin clown she was holding.
“Wow, Grams …” she said through a forced grin, “… I love it.”
“I knew you would. When you were only three years old, you begged me to let you keep it, but I had just brought it home from my trip to Paris with your grandfather and I didn’t want to part with it just yet. I was so possessive of these knick-knacks that your grandfather and I collected, but all of our so-called treasures have been collecting dust. That clown’s been on my nightstand far too long. I just know he will be appreciated in a new home by a new family member.”
Willow held up the statue and rotated it in examination. She didn’t recall admiring it when she was younger, but she did think it was very cool that her grandmother remembered.
“I’ll take good care of it, Grams.”
“I know you will, Love.”
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