Eye of the Storm (Hudson 3)

"My stepmama never looked down on anyone, no matter how low they seemed to be."

She wiggled her shoulders like some big bird fluffing up its feathers and gripped her bags. Then she marched herself out of the house. The sound of the door closing reverberated through the corridor and died in some corner. I took a deep breath, closed my eyes and told myself I really would be fine. I was able to do whatever I had to do for myself.

Austin phoned to see how I was. He knew Mrs. Bogart was leaving. I assured him I was fine, and he promised he would be over as soon as he could after his work. I spent most of my day organizing the house for easier access, taking an inventory of my supplies. An

d then, because it was an exceptionally beautiful afternoon. I wheeled to the back patio. Sipping some lemonade. I watched the birds that flitted from tree to tree. They seemed so active, so busy preparing for the change of seasons. Mama used to say she bet birds were just full of gossip, sitting on telephone lines all day and hearing all those conversations. I laughed, remembering how the two of us would gaze out of the apartment window down at the street.

It struck me as odd that I had never sat here before to watch the birds and appreciate their grace and beaut.7. There were so many more than there were back in the city. As I observed them. I realized that movement was so much a part of whom and what they were. A bird that last its power to fly was no longer a bird. It was something else, I thought, something much less.

Was I something else? Was I much less? Were Mrs. Bogart and Aunt Victoria right to think I couldn't act on my our behalf properly just because my movement was restricted? I refused to believe that now. Thanks to Austin. I had confidence in myself again. I could write and think and cook and clean and take care of my basic necessities. I could drive and I could go most anywhere. Most of all. I could love and be loved.

No, they were wrong. In fact now that Mrs. Bogart was gone. I felt good again. I felt in charge of myself and that gave me back my dignity and identity. Good riddance to you all. I thought defiantly. I'll be like the birds again, free, graceful, content.

When I heard someone drive up and enter the house. I thought it was Austin so I hurried to get back inside and greet him, but it was Aunt Victoria. She looked quite harried, her hair a little messy, her suit creased. She had been calling for me and looking in various rooms. When she finally saw me wheeling in from the rear of the house, she stopped and waited, an expression of surprise on her face.

"What are you doing?" she demanded. "Why are you out there by yourself?"

"Just getting some air."

She absorbed my answer as if it was something hard to digest and then she put on a scowl,

"So now you are satisfied? Mrs. Bogart is gone. Whose idea was it really?" she asked, her eyes getting smaller. "It was his idea, wasn't it? That therapist wanted you alone here, right? That's his plan."

"No. She decided to quit on her own. Aunt Victoria," I said calmly. "You know that."

"She was driven to quit. That's what I know, All right, all right," she muttered. She looked around, her eyes moving wildly in her head. "I won't spend any more time on that." She pressed her right palm against her heart as if she was having some pain and took a deep breath, her thin, narrow shoulders rising and falling hard.

"What's wrong with you? Aren't you well?" I asked.

She spun on me as if she was going to spit at me and then paused and smiled coldly, her lips stretching and becoming pale, her eyes wide.

"She's coming home today. Her doctors claim she's well enough and Grant's taking her back with open arms. Open arms, even after all this!" she cried, her own arms out as if she was referring to the house. "The doctors say her depression has receded enough for her to resume a normal life. Can you imagine such drivel? She's never had a normal life. It was all her plan, all her conniving little plan. How can he want her back? You see what I'm saying about men? You see how right I am?

"They're going on holiday." she continued and laughed a short, maddening little laugh that sounded more like the tinkling of glass. "A little well-deserved R and R he calls it. How does she deserve it?"

"She lost her son. Aunt Victoria. She's suffered horribly. No matter what you think of her, she's your own sister. How can you be so hard?"

"What? You say that? You ask that? You whom she's abused more than anyone you want to know how I can be so hard?" she asked, pointing down at me.

"I don't want to be angry or upset or hate anyone anymore. Aunt Victoria. If you thought I would become your ally against my mother, you were mistaken. I want to get on with my life and make the best of everything. Hating, wanting revenge, all that just eats away at you until you've turned yourself inside out and you're a stranger to yourself and anyone who could or would love you."

"Oh, such wisdom and from a teenager in a wheelchair." she muttered, throwing her hand back as if she was tossing away some rotten fruit.

"I'm not a teenager in a wheelchair." I said. "I'm a young woman with a handicap who's doing just fine, thank you."

"Right, right, that's it. young Megan, bury your head in some sand, put on the rose-colored glasses, shut your ears and your eyes to anything that makes you unhappy, giggle like a fool at dinner tables and travel everywhere with blinders on. All you are now to me is my sister in a wheelchair," she said

disdainfully. "I can't look at you without seeing her face."

I shook my head.

"Think what you want. I'm tired of fighting with you or anyone else," I said.

She sighed, looking away and then back at me with a more familiar expression: her businesswoman face.

"You paid for Jake's funeral. I understand."

"That's right. I called your office and left all the details for you. The funeral is at ten tomorrow at the church."