Did you find out why? She shakes her head. Does it matter? Yes, I say. It matters.
Mom looks at me for a long moment. When did you get so grown up? I don't answer. I'm not grown up. I'm just tired of being treated like I can't understand things.
I like them, Mom. I say. They make me feel normal. Her face softens. Oh, Eli, can we go back Friday night?
She hesitates, then nods. Yes, we can go back. I smile, relief washing through me. Thank you. Mom smiles back, but it doesn't reach her eyes.
She's worried. She's always worried. Hawk told me about his brother. I say, "What brother? " "Jamie, he was in a wheelchair, too, after Vietnam. " Mom's expression changes. "He told you that? " I nod.
He killed himself. Hawk found him. Mom is quiet for a long time. "I didn't know," she says finally. "That's why he helps me," I explain.
He promised his brother. Mom wipes her eyes quickly. "Go wash up for dinner. " I wheel to the bathroom, giving her space. When I come back, she's on the phone. "Check on a James Jensen. " She's saying Vietnam veteran.
She listens. Yes, I can hold. I clear my throat. Mom turns, sees me. I'll call back, she says into the phone and hangs up.
You're checking his story, I say. Not a question. Mom doesn't deny it. I need to know if he's telling the truth. He is, I say confidently.
How do you know? Because I saw his face when he talked about it, I say. Nobody fakes that kind of pain. Mom stares at me. When did you get so perceptive?
When I started spending most of my time watching people instead of talking to them. She winced. Eli, it's okay, Mom. I'm not mad. I wheel to the kitchen table.
What's for dinner? We eat in near silence. Mom lost in her thought. Me thinking about Jaime Jensen, a man I never knew whose ghost somehow led his brother to. That night, I dream about motorcycles again.
But this time, I'm the one riding, free, whole. When I wake up, I reach into my jacket pocket, take out the patch Patch gave me, run my fingers over the embroidered wings, a shield, a promise. For the first time in years, I feel hope. Wednesday morning. My chair won't start.
Mom fusses with it. Checks the battery. It was fine yesterday. We're running late. Mom has an important meeting.
I have a math test. Call Patch. I suggest. Mom hesitates, then nods. She finds the note with his number.
15 minutes later, Patch's bike rumbles into the parking. He assesses the chair quickly. Motors fried, he says. Someone did this deliberately. Mom's face pales.
How? It was inside our apartment. Pat shakes his head. Don't know, but this wasn't an accident. He looks at me.