Heart like a broken arro.., p.1
Heart Like a Broken Arrow, page 1
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Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Barnett, Maija.
Title: Heart like a broken arrow / Maija Barnett.
Description: New York : West 44, 2023. | Series: West 44 YA verse
Identifiers: ISBN 9781978596504 (pbk.) | ISBN 9781978596498
(library bound) | ISBN 9781978596511 (ebook)
Subjects: LCSH: Children’s poetry, American. | Children’s poetry,
English. | English poetry.
Classification: LCC PS586.3 B376 2023 | DDC 811’.60809282--dc23
First Edition
Published in 2023 by
Enslow Publishing LLC
2544 Clinton Street
Buffalo, NY 14224
Copyright © 2023 Enslow Publishing LLC
Editor: Caitie McAneney
Designer: Leslie Taylor
Photo Credits: Cover and interior pages (image) Photobank.kiev.ua/
Shutterstock.com.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any
form without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a
reviewer.
Printed in the United States of America
CPSIA compliance information: Batch #CW23W44: For further information contact Enslow
Publishing LLC, New York, New York at 1-800-398-2504.
For Calista and Lyla
A f t e r
Fast, that’s what they called me before it happened. Sometimes I try to forget that person. Remembering her makes my insides hurt. Makes my mouth fill with the taste of blood. It was all so quick. The rise of the hill. The deer’s wide eyes. Bright in my headlights. I can still see the snowflakes on my truck’s broken windows. Their frozen bodies calling me home.
Race Day, Age 17
Feet pounding. Eyes ahead. I know there are others behind me. But it’s like they’re not there. Instead all I see is the October sky. The finish line’s ribbon shivers in the wind. Mom calls running my ticket to college. My feet have to take me since money can’t. But I don’t care about that. I just want this thumping in my chest. This feel of my mind turning off.
Why I Don ’ t Talk About
My Little Brother
I don’t talk about him because he’s gone. And by gone I mean not alive anymore. Mom buried his photos deep in the attic. Cleaned out his room. Gave his toys away. As if hiding that he’d ever lived would help her somehow. Would make it easier for her to forgive.
Losing Noah When I
Was Nine
I remember the river pulling him under. His four-year-old voice calling me. “Fern!” Mom asked why we dared to play by the water. I could see in her eyes it was all my fault.
Dad ’s Truck
It used to be his. But now it’s mine. (It’s not like he really left it for me.) He just left. And it stayed behind. Taking up space in our dusty driveway. Like his words still take up space in my heart.
Dad
I was 15 when he left, but he took his time. A little bit of him faded every day. After Noah, he wouldn’t look me in the eyes. Couldn’t. He said, “It’s too painful to see.” (He told me this when I was 10.) It was my birthday, and Mom had bought a cake. But I couldn’t choke one bite down. ’Cause I knew what Dad meant. My eyes are like Noah’s— pale and gray as the morning rain. Whenever I see them in the bathroom mirror, I know what it is that made Dad run.
Drinking with Jenny…
is always fun. Because we never get caught. Here’s what we do: We put the good stuff in a glass. Then we fill those pretty bottles from the kitchen tap. Drinking with Jenny makes my insides smile. Makes my mind go blank. Just like running. But it also makes my heart laugh. Jenny shouts, “You have to work hard to play hard!” And both of us take another gulp.
Jenny and Me
Jenny and me, we go way back. To little-kid swings. And nap time on the rug. To sleepovers and movies, popcorn in our hair. Hers blonde and mine brown. To sharing secrets and laughing in the dark. Sometimes best friends are closer than sisters. Even if they don’t share the same blood.
Mom’s Job
Most days, Mom sleeps late. She curls beneath her yellow covers. A soft cocoon, keeping her safe. But on Tuesdays and Thursdays we leave together. We climb into her rusted Camry. Both of us off to school. Mom goes to Union Elementary. I go to Montpelier High. On those days, I pack her lunch. Even though she never thanks me. Even though she doesn’t say much at all. But I want her to make it through the day. I need her to work in her school’s busy office. So I won’t have to worry anymore.
Nightmare
In my dream we’re playing “Stamp It Till You Break It.” We’re dancing at the water’s edge. Then Noah steps onto the frozen Winooski River. And I hear that awful snap. Fear blasts through me, trying to break free. But I push it down and dive in. Ice slides past. I dog-paddle forward. My purple snow pants weighing me down. Then a flash of blue— Noah’s winter coat. I can tell he’s not too far away. “Noah!” I scream for my baby brother. I reach for him, but the river’s on me. Its muddy water hungry and strong. “Noah!” I sob. “Come back!” I’m still calling for him when I wake up.
Jenny Says
Jenny says, “Let’s have some fun tonight!” I say yes because I need fun. It helps me forget about Mom and money. And how I don’t have much of either right now. Jenny says, “There’s a party at Kevin’s. It’s in the field behind his house.” I squint into the glowing sunset. And watch pink spread across the sky. Jenny says, “Pick me up at eight!” She flicks her hair. It gleams like water. I stare past her down the thin dirt road. My legs waiting for a chance to run.
Lucky
The thing about parties is they’re not much fun. I don’t know why I always forget. Jenny runs off right when we get there. Laughing and dancing to the pounding bass. Someone hands me a beer. I drink that and another. Then the world softens and spins. I know this feeling. It’s almost like running. Like the hard parts of me are melting away. “Fern, you OK?” It’s Josh from algebra. His glasses glow in the firelight. I smile because I know he likes me. Even if he doesn’t really know me at all. Snow starts falling. It’s getting late. Mom warned—one more time past curfew and she’d take the truck. Sorry, Jenny, I text. Can you find a ride home? She texts back googly eyes, which makes me smile. Neither of us knows how lucky she is. How my single text just saved her life.
The Crash
It’s strange, but I don’t remember much. Just the deer’s wide eyes. (The November snow made it hard to see.) I swerved. Then the truck flipped. There was no pain. Just my fear for the deer. Such a beautiful creature. I needed it to live. I heard screaming and thought it was somebody else. It wasn’t until later that I learned it was me.
White
That’s all I see when I wake up. White walls. White sheets. White noise. The buzz of the hospital’s monitors. A plastic tube snaking into my arm. I know where I am but not why I’m here. And why am I all alone?
Trapped
The back brace is like a cage. Why don’t I feel like me anymore? The hospital hums while I try not to cry. My heart’s beating like I’ve run for miles. I can’t turn my head. So I just stare. Counting the tiles on the yellow ceiling. I reach out my hand, but nobody’s there.
Waiting
Mom’s with me now— watching TV. Neither of us knows what to say. All I know is that we’re waiting. For the doctor. For answers. For what to do next. The first time I woke, they said, “Wiggle your toes.” I thought I’d done it. But when I looked at the nurse, her mouth was a worried line. She said, “It’s fine. We’ll try again.” In my mind, something wiggled. I could feel my feet. They were sliding over sea-green pastures. Cutting through cowpaths. The wind in my hair. But the nurse’s face said I was wrong. Someone should tell her her bedside manner sucks. Then came the tests. CT Scan. MRI. No one told us what they saw. Now Mom and I wait. Pretending we don’t know the answer. When really, it’s the questions we need to understand.
Answers
No one has to tell me. I already know. My bones are there. Buried in my thighs like hidden treasure. Lost for good. Mom holds my hand when they say it. I try not to cry. Paraplegia— my T10 crushed. Someone gives me a printout of a human spine. My injury is circled like a mistake. They say I am lucky. I can use my arms. They say I am lucky. I am breathing on my own. Lucky— does that word mean anything? Because how is any of this lucky at all?
What I Can’t Do
I can’t go to the bathroom anymore. I have a tube that I pretend isn’t there. I can’t leave my bed. Or take off my brace. Or have a shower. Or walk. Or run. The nurses give sponge baths. So I can’t have privacy. They turn me so I won’t get sores. I can’t take a walk down a quiet street. Legs stretching with the rising moon.
Leaving the Hospital
After Two Weeks
Today, I’m leaving and going to rehab. Where I’ll learn how I’m supposed to survive. My arms work. I can feel my chest. Lungs pulling hospital air. But below my belly button, it’s like nothing’s there. Except for my feet. They dance and twitch. Sending signals that never reach my brain.
Jenny
Jenny hasn’t called. I don’t know why. Most days, Mom comes and visits me in rehab. But not Jenny. She hasn’t returned my texts. Carol, my occupational therapist, says she’s seen this before. “Sometimes,” says Carol,
What I Can Feel
My face. My hands. My arms. My chest. My tears. Part of my stomach. But then things start to fade. If you run a finger down the arch of my foot, it feels like a whisper of what I’ve lost.
When Mom Visits Rehab
Each time she visits, she talks about money. Wonders how long it will be until I’m done. “It’s only been six weeks,” I say. “I’m not ready.” Mom says, “You better get ready, fast.” Money is short. She hasn’t heard from Dad. Soon we’ll be doing this on our own.
The Biggest Change
When Noah was little, we’d ask, “Do you have to go potty?” I remember Mom paying him in M&M’s. “Just go, Noah,” I’d say. “Then we can do something fun.” He’d climb onto his plastic toilet. Mom and Dad would smile and clap. The nurse showed me how to insert the catheter. How to give myself an enema. She clapped when I got it. Just like Mom did for Noah. For a moment, I wished she’d had M&M’s, too.
Therapy
Dr. Julie is my therapist at rehab. She has short, gray hair. A friendly smile. She tries to get me to talk about Mom and Noah. About how it feels to be me right now. Sometimes, I answer her questions. But mostly I sit. And think about running. The feel of the wind on my face. Heart pounding as bold as the bluest sky.
If I Could Talk to Dad, I ’ d Say…
When I was small, you held my hand. Checked for monsters under my bed. When Noah came, you smiled at me. But after he died, your smile did, too. I wish you were here to help me through this. To tell me I’m still your little girl.
Me , After Missing Two
Months of School
Mrs. Melbourn, my tutor, is here. The school sends her every week. As if I care about keeping up. She drops off page after page of Algebra II. Some short stories for English. A history sheet. I shut my eyes when she asks about last week’s work. Then wait for her to disappear.
Standing
Today I’m using a standing frame. Putting weight on my bones. Keeping them strong. I hold the padded handles, and stare out the window. It’s my last day here, and I’m afraid to go. At home we have stairs. There’s no one to help. I picture Noah’s photos deep in the attic. And wonder if Mom wants to hide me there, too.
Going Home
A nurse wheels me up to Mom’s Camry. The January wind cold on my face. Then I transfer myself into the front seat. It’s hard, but I do it by myself. Mom stares blankly, unsure how to help. Someone shows her how to fold up my wheelchair. I try to pretend I’m not alone.
Not Like Home
I’m sleeping downstairs on the sofa. Mom says I’m lucky the guest bath has a tub. She’s brought my clothes down, in two messy suitcases. Everything else is upstairs. When we get home, Mom goes to her room. I hear the door shut. And then, silence. My wheelchair barely fits through the kitchen doorway. The living room furniture makes it hard to get around. The house is the same. But I’m not. This isn’t home anymore.
Mom
Mom sleeps a lot. Which is good, I guess. Because she hasn’t made me go to school. Instead I just sit. And watch TV. And wish that my life would change.
Not Getting Away with
It Anymore
Today, a social worker comes. When he knocks on our door, Mom tells me to lie. “Don’t tell,” says Mom, still in her pajamas. Rubbing the sleep from her eyes. “OK,” I whisper. But it doesn’t matter. He already knows I haven’t been going to school. “But Fern doesn’t want to,” says Mom. The social worker ignores her. “Fern,” says the social worker, his eyes on mine. “You’ve been home two weeks. You’re seventeen. Don’t let this ruin your life. You have the weekend to get ready. If you’re not in school on Monday, I’m going to call this in.” He frowns at Mom. And I know that I’m going. Know there’s no other choice.
Why I ’m Never
Going Back
Because it was awful. Everyone stared. Jenny didn’t even look my way. I struggled with my wheelchair. Bumped into a desk. The halls were so crowded, I could barely get through. I dropped my math book and couldn’t pick it up. Hot tears came. I blinked them back. But inside I was screaming. Why does this have to be so hard!
What ’s Next?
It’s been three days. And I haven’t been back. Mom’s stayed silent. But I can feel her watching. Trying to decide what to do.
Visitor
Today, Mom tells me, Aunt Helen’s coming over. “Aunt Helen?” I say. “Who is she?” “She’s your grandmother’s sister,” says Mom. “On your father’s side.” For a second, I see Dad’s sad eyes. Mom touches my arm. Then pulls away.
Great Aunt Helen
Great Aunt Helen has dark gray eyes. Her white hair’s twisted in a bun. She stares at me through gold-rimmed glasses. Says she wants me to live with her. “I’ve got space,” she says. “My husband Willard was like you. Broke his back when his tractor flipped.” “Besides,” she says. “You’re family. When your mom reached out, I had to say yes.”
The Talk
“It’s not like that,” says Mom. But she won’t look at me. “I just can’t care for you anymore. And with you not going to school … what else can we do?”
Car Ride
I’m sitting in the front seat of Helen’s van. It has a lift. So it was easy to get in. Helen smiles at me, then turns the key. I can feel Mom watching. So I close my eyes and try to pretend I’m somewhere else.
Talking with Helen
We’re heading to Highgate. That’s Northern Vermont. On 89, Helen cracks open her window. Lets the cold February air slip in. In the sun, her white bun glitters like snow. But her eyes are warm, and her voice is, too. “Don’t worry,” she says. “This is gonna be fun. I know for a fact that Lady will love you.” “Who’s Lady?” I ask. Helen laughs. “Just wait and see!”
Lady
Well, now I know who Lady is. She greets me with her black tail wagging. Pink tongue hot in my ear. “She’s not always such a lady,” says Helen, shooing her away. But I already love this sweet-faced dog. Lady follows us inside. Guides me to the kitchen. The first-floor bath. Once I realize this house is built for wheelchairs, I start to relax. Then Helen shows me my room, and Lady leaps on the bed. That’s when I know I’ve found my home.
Meeting Astrid…
The path to the barn is perfectly paved. It’s easy to roll my wheelchair down. I follow Helen, and Lady follows me. Once we’re inside, I smell manure and hay. Two brown eyes stare at me. “This is Astrid,” says Helen. She gives the cow a pat. “I think the two of you will be fast friends.”
… And the R est of
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