Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 105846 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 353(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105846 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 353(@300wpm)
Yesterday, we went to Burlington for her monthly scans. It’s an important part of her treatment and care, but it is undoubtedly the single most devastating day of the month for me. That’s why I always did the assistant interviews on Tuesdays—I knew we’d be gone, and I knew we’d need something to look forward to on the day after.
It’s been over a year since someone’s attempted to apply for the job, but the sentiments are the same. Summer and I need cheering up.
Two broken ribs, a fractured clavicle, and a severely deteriorating patella are just the tip of the iceberg in the latest complications of my miracle girl’s battle with Osteogenesis Imperfecta Type III. For weeks, she hasn’t even left the damned house. She’s also been tired and in pain, and I swear, it’s getting harder and harder for her to breathe. Just like the season, my sweet Summer is starting to dim.
The doctors have been preparing me for so long—reminding me the time would come—but even the thought of it really happening makes my heart feel like it’s ripping in two.
“You okay, Summblebee?” I ask, even though I already know the answer. For me, knowing how rough these rides are on her body, every time we venture on the golf cart, I’m tortured. For Summer, it’s her joy.
“This is…the best…ever!” she shouts into the wind, her only way of expressing herself since her limbs are all secured.
Despite my misery, I smile. “Guess what, baby girl? I have a surprise for you.”
“A surprise?” Her eyes widen even further with joy. “What is it? Tell me. Tell me. Tell me!”
“Mr. Doug said someone came and painted the barn yesterday, so I thought we’d go see it.” Every week, my groundskeeper Doug checks the barn and lets me know if anyone has come. It’s been a long time since they actually have—so long, in fact, that Doug was nearly out of breath with excitement when he told me this morning.
“Yay!” she cheers. “No one has painted in forever!”
I don’t bother mentioning why they haven’t, or that it’s my fault since I only just bothered to repost the opening for the position on Earl’s board, when I know the other posting has been missing for a year. Instead, I focus on her and the way she lights up when she sees other people’s creations, no matter their skill level.
“I thought you might be excited.”
“Are you kidding? Paint days are my favorite! I wonder what colors they used! I hope it’s pink!”
Pink is Summer’s absolute favorite color. Truthfully, it’s the only color in her eyes. All the other colors don’t stand a chance or ever get selected if Summer has the choice.
I shake my head with a small laugh. “Why am I not surprised?”
“Because who wouldn’t hope for pink? Pink is the best!”
“Okay, Summble. You’re right. I hope it’s pink too.”
She giggles again, her eyes rolling back toward the sky, she’s doing it so hard. We’ve always had to be careful since she was born with the worst and most progressive type of brittle bone that a baby can actually survive, but I can’t imagine how she must feel these days, practically—purposely—paralyzed for her own good. When it comes to Summer’s disease, even the simplest of movements can cause a bone fracture. Hell, sometimes—lately, a lot of times—her bones fracture for no reason at all.
She cheers as I pull to a stop right in front of the red barn doors and push the brake pedal to its locked position to keep the cart from rolling at all. I grab her mobility stroller from the back and gingerly lift her—while she’s still strapped into her seat—out of the golf cart and secure her in place.
“Come on, Dad,” she complains when I start doing my usual double- and triple-check thing. “I want to see the wall.”
“Hold your horses,” I chastise with a chuckle. “This isn’t a race.”
“It should be,” she argues. For as long as I can remember, Summer’s been in a hurry. She’s eager and voracious and demanding of both excitement and affection, and because of all those things, she’s impossible to placate. She wants what she wants, and if I’m completely honest, I’ve never even tried not to give any of it to her.
Seven years ago, her mom skipped out as soon as she had her, too selfish to be weighed down by a daughter, especially one in need of extra care, and I did the only thing I could do—turn my life around in a hurry. I cut ties with everyone of questionable influence and moved the two of us to Red Bridge, swearing to myself that nothing—and no one—would ever come between me and what my daughter needed.
Even damsels in seeming distress like Norah Ellis.
I slide open the big red doors and step inside the vacant barn, pushing Summer ahead of me. The sun shines through one of the upper windows and lands right on the wall that is no longer white. Instead, a beautiful shade of pastel pink with hues of orange and yellow and red is now front and center.