Then I limp back out, feeling a fraction better.
Ellenor is waiting with her arms spread wide like a benevolent ruler bestowing gifts upon her loyal subjects.
“Behold,” she declares grandly, gesturing at the bedstand with a flourish. “Hot chocolate—with extra marshmallows. You’re welcome.” She taps a book. “Chamber of Secretsto keep you entertained. You’re a really slow reader, by the way—you know that? And…” She rustles the white pharmacy bag of pain meds the hospital sent home. “Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Gee, I wonder which flavour I’ll get.”
“Who knows? The sky’s the limit. But I’m guessing paracetamol.”
“Beats earwax,” I mutter.
They help me onto the bed. It’s slow and awkward, with Mum supporting my upper body while Ellenor lifts my leg gently into place.
“It’ll get easier with time,” Mum assures me.
I watch her arrange pillows to elevate my foot with practised ease.
“You came all the way to England just to do the same thing you do at work,” I say apologetically.
“Nonsense,” she says, tucking the blanket around me before smoothing a hand over my hair. “This isn’t work, sweetheart. This is looking after my daughter.”
“I’ll be upstairs when you’re ready to tuckmein, Mum,” Ellenor sings, blowing me a kiss before leaving.
“Night,” I call after her.
The doorway feels oddly empty once she leaves, and my mind drifts to the fact Brandon is just down the hall. Close, but painfully far on crutches. Not that I’d go knocking. Still…I’m aware of his presence.
“How are you feeling?” Mum asks.
“Fine,” I lie. “You don’t have to stay—I think I can manage.”
“I’m staying, at least for a few nights,” she says firmly, then her tone softens. “The first night home is always the worst.”
I don’t argue. My eyes are already drooping.
“What do you want for breakfast?” she asks.
She’s just trying to take my mind off things, and I’m oddly grateful, even if I feel a little childlike asking, “Pancakes? With—”
“Maple syrup,” she finishes, smiling.
Once she’s climbed into bed, I whisper, “Mum?”
“Yes?”
“I’m glad you’re here.”
43
Recovery
Lily-Anne
I wait until I’m alone in the bedroom to open my guitar case. At my request, it’s sitting at the foot of Brandon’s bed on a wooden chest, every bit the faithful companion he once called it.
I open the case, wincing at the sight of the cracked wood. It’s as if someone’s punched the fragile body. I gingerly brush the strings, but the sound is dull. I mute the strings with my palm. I’d play it even like this, but I’m afraid of worsening the damage.
Then, like I’ve done every day since returning to the cottage, I carefully shut the lid. No tears. Just an ache that won’t go away, no matter how many new lyrics I write in my mind.
