Free To Be Someone by Louise Voss Page B

made me feel very grown-up.
    Just then a different song came on the radio. Mrs. Grant immediately turned up the volume. “Listen, girls, it’s the Wichita Lineman!” she said. “I love Glen Campbell!”
    Sam rolled her eyes and looked bored, but I began to listen. It was a bit confusing: Glen needed me more than wanted me, wanted me for all time—but what did that have to do with tennis?
    “Um, Mrs. Gra—er, Cyth-nia, is Wichita like Wimbledon, you know, where they have the tennis tournaments? ”
    I pictured Glen as a lanky thirteen-year-old dressed in a purple shirt and green shorts, crouched at the side of a tennis court, poised to run out after stray balls. Perhaps he was in love with Billie Jean King, and that was who he was singing about, although he did sound a bit old to be a linesman.…
    Mrs. Grant looked askance at me. “I don’t think so, poppet. It’s just a place in the middle of America.”
    It was no clearer to me than Root 66 had been three years earlier, but the tender sentiment of the song sent a sudden wave of emotion funneling up inside me, and I began to cry again, for real this time.
    Mrs. Grant seemed concerned. “Aaah—come here, duckling, and give me a hug!”
    She came out from behind the ironing board and gathered me into her arms, bracelets jingling. She smelled of Chanel No. 5. I knew that’s what it was because Sam and I had often sneaked into her bedroom for an illicit squirt while she was working in the bar downstairs.
    I buried my face in her generous bosom and wept. Right then I really did wish she was my mother.

RUBY’S TOES
    “T OBY,” I SAID, NEXT TIME HE CAME IN. “DO YOU FEEL SORRY FOR me?”
    Toby looked surprised. “Of course,” he replied.
    “Well, I don’t want your damn pity.” I looked away from him. I had the distinct feeling that he was rolling his eyes. At least he had two to roll.
    “You feel sorry for yourself, don’t you?” he said. “I don’t see why everyone else shouldn’t, too. If you don’t want me to visit you anymore, just say so.”
    We sat in huffy silence for a minute. Then he spoke again. “Ruby said good-bye to all her toes this morning, individually, before they went into her socks.”
    I was determined not to smile. What difference was that going to make to me? Perhaps it would be better for him not to come again. I had masses of work to do on my manuscript, and Mum’s visits were more than enough distraction.
    “Listen, Helena. I know what you mean. I get that, too, you know. That look in people’s eyes when they talk to me—’Oh, that poor, poor man, wife in a coma and a toddler to look after.’ It’s the same sort of thing, and it’s a nightmare. But you’ve got to keep remembering that they do care, most of them, and are genuinely horrified that you’re having to face something so awful.”
    My lip trembled. “But what happens when I leave here and go home? Then it’s just going to be weeks of photographers trying to stick lenses in my face, jumping out at me from behind bushes, that kind of thing. The whole country is going to pity me. I don’t think I can stand that.”
    Toby reached over and picked up my hand. “You’re strong, Helena. You’ve got through so much. You can get over this, too. ‘Over This,’ right?”
    I groaned. “Over This” was the title of the song I’d written for Sam when she was first ill with leukemia. It later became a huge hit for Blue Idea.
    “You asked me about that song in your interview, didn’t you?”
    Toby laughed. “Yeah. I was terrified you were going to break down and cry, or punch me, or something, but you were strong then, too. I was really pleased it went so well. Best interview I ever did, actually.”
    “Really?” I realized that he was stroking my hand in a—well, a caressing sort of way. The more I concentrated, the more sexual it felt, as he rubbed tiny circles and sweeping streaks up the inside of my thumb, and began to feel the little web of skin between