In the Clear Read Free Page B

the street while Tante Marie reads B’s letter. We pass Henry’s house, the Martins’, Mrs. Hankenstein’s and the Talons’. I keep my head down. I don’t want to see them if they’re gawking. I walk like Frankenstein. My left leg is short and thin and I wear a metal brace around it, up to my thigh, to support me as I walk.
    My father says Don Mills was the post-war dream for happy families. Everything along these wide streets, from the big backyards to the central library, was carefully planned. Everything but polio epidemics.
    â€œThat boy,” says Tante Marie proudly, finishing B’s letter. “I’m so glad he found a high school that would accept him.”
    â€œYou’re going too fast, Tante Marie,” I pant, stopping to catch my breath, seeking a dry patch of asphalt so my crutches won’t slip. “You know I can’t run. I never will.”
    â€œWhat makes you talk like that? Look at B. He’s got braces on both legs, yet he’s going to a regular school.” She laughs, holding up B’s letter. “He’ll show them. He’s already Captain of the Debating Team. And look at me. Not one of my sisters believes I’ll ever be a successful artist. They hate my sculptures, but I dream, one day, my work – it will be in the Louvre.” She gestures dramatically toward the east, in the direction of Paris. “Everybody’s got a dream to keep them going. You too, n’est-ce pas, chérie?”
    I haven’t shared my dream with anyone. In my mind, I see our new backyard rink, the ice hard and gleaming. Here’s my chance to share my dream with Tante Marie pointing at a distant horizon. Her cheeks are so brilliant, they almost match the blazing red of her beret. No one wears a red beret in Don Mills.
    â€œOne day … I want to skate with my father,” I say softly.
    â€œAhh. Such a wonderful dream.” She smiles. “Before I go back to Montréal, I will do something for you about that dream.”
    Tante Marie is the only adult I know who keeps her promises. She helped me once when I was desperate, and I know she will help me again.
    Walking home, I see Henry playing road hockey with Stuart and Billy. They are his two best friends now. They live at the other end of Chelsea – why do they have to play up here? They wear the same blue, shiny jackets as Henry, and I suspect they are on the same hockey team. Henry stands in goal and is the only one facing me. He doesn’t gawk, but he can’t be paying attention, for the other boys yell “Score!” twice in the minute it takes us to walk by.
    â€œHi, Pauline.”
    It takes me by surprise and I stop. Why is Henry saying hello? Does he hope for an invitation to skate on our new rink? Never!
    Stuart and Billy turn around and stare at Tante Marie and me.
    Are they gawking? No. They’re just looking.
    Tante Marie is looking at me too, waiting. I should say hi. There’s another reason for Henry saying hello. Tante Marie is incredibly beautiful. People always like her.
    The “Hi” starts in my throat — and stops.
    I still have to walk — lurch — the last hundred yards to the front door. I nod my head stiffly.
    â€œCome on, Henry. Let’s play,” Stuart says, shooting the ball to Billy.
    I walk. I wish I could hold my head up, but I have to watch carefully for ice. It would be awful if I fell, sprawling in front of them. My face, I’m sure, has turned brighter than Tante Marie’s beret.
    Then I remember Tante Marie’s promise. She is going to make my dream come true. I won’t fall in front of these boys. I won’t! I can do this — and more! For the first time in four years, hope flexes its muscle as if rising from a long and troubled sleep, rising like a bird on a strong breeze, soaring up there just like the dreams of every other kid in Don Mills.

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I N THE H OSPITAL FOR S ICK C