Power Play

Chapter 1-5

At dinner he tells his parents he’s going to

the rink tomorrow. He doesn’t ask if they’ll take him. He’s gone

through the crappy photographs stored in the digital camera, looked

over every file on each disk in the pile the coach left for him,

and he’s got an idea of what he wants to do on the web site, if he

can just get a few decent pictures. Morning skate’s at 8:30 on

weekdays. He’ll drive himself if he has to.

His mother begins, “Honey, I don’t think

that’s such a—”

“Good idea, son,” his dad interrupts,

silencing her with a look. Humor the boy, that glance says.

Ryan feels as if he’s been told he has six months left to live and

his parents want to make every last second count. I’m not

dying, he wants to tell them, but if it gets him out of the

house, he should take advantage of it.

The next morning he’s up by seven, his body

already humming with energy. Out—he hasn’t been outside

since he came home from the hospital, and the bitter chill of the

morning air nips at his face and hands like an eager puppy, happy

to see him after all this time. His mother insists on taking the

van, which has been outfitted with a chair lift and braces to lock

him into place. Heaven forbid he ask to sit in the front seat, that

just wouldn’t do. But he’s out of the house, finally. From the

window on the side of the van, he can see ice-tipped trees bent low

to the ground, as if he’s a visiting dignitary and the branches bow

in respect as he passes. At the rink, the parking lot is more than

half empty, and there’s a rosy tinge to the sky that hints at snow

in the forecast. As he waits for the lift to set his wheelchair on

the ground, Ryan resists the urge to laugh. He feels like a kid

again, six years old and brimming over with excitement. One of his

knees shakes nervously, vibrating his whole chair.

“You have the phone?” his mother asks,

reaching for his backpack. “You call me when you’re ready to be

picked up, you hear? When’s practice usually over, an hour or so?

About that? You sure you don’t want me to stay?”

Ryan pulls the bag away from her, wraps his

arms around it protectively. “I have the phone,” he says. She

starts to fiddle with the straps on the back of his chair and he

wheels out of reach. “Mom, I’ve got it. I’m fine.” When she moves

towards him, hovering, he raises an arm to ward her off. “How old

am I here?” he asks.

She hears the anger in his voice and stops.

“I’m sorry.” Folding her arms against the morning chill, she looks

around the deserted parking lot and asks, “You want me to go get

one of your friends? The coach, maybe? Just let someone know you’re

here?”

“They’ll know soon enough,” Ryan

assures her. There’s a ramp leading up to the front doors of the

rink, a gradual slope that he can navigate easily, and he doesn’t

look back to see if she follows. She doesn’t.

He hits the button for the automatic door

and waits while it opens out of his way. “Call me when you want me

to come pick you up!” his mother shouts, and he nods, yes, he’ll do

that. But this is his first time alone, away from the house and the

constant reminders of his accident, the hospital bed and his

mother’s strained smile. He’ll call when he’s good and ready to

come back.