Free Up From the Blue by Susan Henderson Page A

way to my ankle. “Nope. Not broken.”
    “But should we take her to the hospital?” Anne asked. “What about all the pain she’s having?”
    “She’ll have a bruise,” he said. “That’s all. What we have here are some good hysterics.”
    “Like her mother,” she whispered, but not quietly enough.
    “My prescription,” Walter said. “No coddling. You need me to write this down for you?”
    Anne chuckled and then coughed a little to cover it up.
    I realized at that moment that my leg didn’t hurt nearly enough to keep me there. I stood up slowly and, glad the rain had slowed to a drizzle, trudged through the yard toward a field of weeds and cactus. I was several feet away before I remembered to limp.
    “Careful on that leg, Tillie,” Walter called after me, laughing. “Don’t make me get out my saw.”
    I found a path and continued into the field, the tall weeds itching my legs and mud sticking so thick to the bottom of mysandals it felt heavy to lift my feet. I kept going. I found a hole in the ground and stomped by it.
    “Watch it. Something might crawl out of that hole and bite you.”
    I spun around and there was the doctor, standing not a foot away. “I’d say that leg’s better already,” he said.
    I stomped my foot near the hole again, but suddenly nervous, I took a step back and then another.
    He laughed, pleased that he’d frightened me, and then said, “Have a seat, Tillie.”
    “No. It’s wet.”
    “You’re already soaked. Sit down so we can have a little chat.”
    I sat on one boulder and he sat across from me on another, shaking a cigarette from a pack.
    “Those things are bad for you.”
    “Lots of things are bad for you. Bratty little girls, for instance.” He put the cigarette into his mustache and lit it. “Anne’s too nice to say anything,” he said. “So I’ll say it for her. You’ve been a burden. I’d have sent you packing a long time ago, but Anne took care of you just as she promised your father she would. She’s made a real sacrifice to give you a comfortable place to stay, and you’ve been nothing but ungrateful.”
    He stretched out his leg so it reached the rock I was sitting on and kept the other bent, with his arm resting on his knee.
    “Don’t you have anything to say?” he asked.
    “You didn’t ask me a question.”
    He dragged on his cigarette, then tapped it against his boot so the ash hit the rock. “You know what I like about you, Tillie? There’s still hope for you. You could march back to the house and tell your host you’ve been a selfish and unappreciative guest.” He handed me his cigarette.
    I slid my hands under my legs. “I’m not allowed.”
    “Next time, maybe.” His hand massaged the toe of his boot and then moved to his ankle, where he tucked his fingertips under the cuff of his jeans. I breathed in the smoke, thinking I might like the taste. “So sometime between now and tomorrow when you’re on that plane home,” he finally said, taking another drag, “I want you to think long and hard about how to be less of a brat.”
    “I’m going home tomorrow?”
    “Is that the only thing you heard?”
    “The only thing that matters.”
    “I’m not sure why I said there was hope for you.”
    “I’m really going home?”
    “You’re a terrible, rotten listener, Tillie.”
    I beamed at him, suddenly wishing I’d taken the cigarette.

    BY MORNING THE MUD had baked into a hard crust. I walked through the tire tracks, my mind already wandering through the new house, only guessing how it might look with our decorations—the dolls and wall hangings—and Momma playing the music we liked, turned up so loud I’d feel it thumping inside of me.
    “You’re up early,” Anne said, coming out on to the porch. “And already dressed, I see. But I worry you’ll be cold on the plane.” She looked at my legs, but mostly at the bruise I knew she wanted me to cover.
    “Momma made this for me,” I said, smoothing my scooter skirt—a