Chapter 26

NOW

The Vetter house is a simple brown brick two-story structure on a quiet country road outside of Erie, settled on about an acre of land. A separate garage sits off to the side, a riding lawn mower parked in front of it. Someone must have just used it on the front lawn—the air carries the smell of fresh-cut grass.

Ashley and I both inhale sharply as we take in the wooden wheelchair-accessible ramp that leads from the driveway to the wide front door. In the driveway is a gray van—the kind you use to transport people in wheelchairs.

“I guess that answers that question.” Christa is the only one who seems calm as she pulls up beside the van in our rental car.

When I called and spoke to Eric’s mom, Cindy, last night, to ask her if we could visit him, I didn’t push for details about Eric’s condition. I didn’t want to admit that we’d been kept in the dark by my father and Kyle. Ashley and I agreed that we’d find out when we got here and make sure our smiles stay firmly on our faces through it all, so as not to show him pity. Eric wasn’t the type of guy to look for pity.

But now that we’re standing in the Vetter driveway, I’m not sure that was the smart move. Maybe we should have come better prepared.

A tall, thin woman with curly gray hair steps out to greet us. “Piper Calloway?” she calls out, absently rubbing her hands against her cotton shorts.

“Yes. That’s me.” I step forward, making my way up the ramp.

She meets me halfway, with a smile. One that transports me back to Camp Wawa thirteen years ago and makes my chest ache. Eric has his mother’s smile.

After a round of greetings, she leads us inside the modestly decorated home, which smells of freshly brewed coffee and homemade fruit pie and, faintly, antiseptic. To the right of us is what I’m guessing used to be their dining room, but which now houses a hospital bed and a flat-screen TV, along with various medical equipment and a dresser covered in pill bottles.

My dread flares.

“I told him that you ladies were coming and he’s been busy all morning, preparing. He’s in the kitchen, waiting for you,” Cindy says in an upbeat voice, leading us toward the back of the house.

Ashley and I share a glance and I know we’re thinking the same thing—what exactly does “preparing” mean?

We step into the kitchen—a bright, sun-filled room of golden oak and yellow walls and clean white appliances—just as a man approaches us from the left, his hand toggling the small joystick that controls his motorized wheelchair.

Ashley does a poor job stifling her gasp.

I struggle to keep my smile firmly in place, as my eyes burn with the threat of tears.

And Christa . . . she can’t help but avert her gaze a moment, as we take in Eric, his once tall, fit body now gaunt and huddled within the confines of his chair, his neck supported by a padded attachment, his face drawn, the muscles sagging. His face has changed shape entirely. He doesn’t look like our Eric anymore. The only thing I do recognize is his blond curls, and even they are cut short.

One side of Eric’s face pulls up and his lips struggle to take shape. Finally, he manages to get out a single word.

“Freckles.”

Ashley bursts into tears.

“Eric was always my wild child. Getting into trouble, doing crazy things.” Cindy slowly stirs her sugar, the metal spoon clanging against the delicate porcelain. I suspect she pulled out her best dishes for today’s visit. It’s far too hot to be drinking coffee out on the back deck, but when she suggested that Christa and I step outside and give Ashley and Eric some time to reconnect privately, we were more than happy for the escape.

“He was one of the campers’ favorite counselors,” Christa offers in response. And it’s the truth. They all loved Eric and Kyle. The two of them together were unstoppable when it came to mischief, and kids love mischief.

“He loved that camp so much.” She smiles. “His father went there when he was young, before his family moved to Erie. We decided to send him there on a whim, when he was, oh, eight or nine? He insisted on going back every year after that.”

I don’t know how to approach the topic, but I need to ask. “Kyle Miller told me that this happened because of a brain swell?”

Cindy nods and takes a deep breath, as if preparing to fall into a speech that she’s told a thousand times already. “We were cautiously optimistic. He had no spinal injuries; his back wasn’t broken. He was responsive . . . There was a bit of swelling in his brain, but nothing the doctors didn’t think they couldn’t manage. And then the swelling got worse. And worse, and they couldn’t get a handle on it. For weeks, we weren’t sure if he’d survive. He did, but he suffered extensive damage to his motor and speech skills. He has some memory loss, too.” She smiles sadly. “And yet he remembers his time at camp like it was just yesterday. And all of you. Especially Ashley. He made me spritz him with cologne this morning and I’m pretty sure it was for her.” Her laugh is soft and motherly, and it puts me at ease, even with the tense reunion. “He communicates mainly through his little keyboard and iPad screen. He’s gotten pretty good at typing out words using his good hand. Ironically, that’s the arm that was shattered in the fall.”

Christa, who has been mostly quiet since seeing Eric, now asks, “What have the doctors said about his recovery?”

“With a lot of therapy and hard work on his part, we could still see some more progress. You know . . . movement in his arm, slightly clearer speech, that sort of thing. Small things.” She smiles, but it seems forced. “My son is still with us, even if his body doesn’t want to fully cooperate. That, I have to be thankful for. That and your father, Piper. He has been . . .” Cindy squeezes her eyes shut and when they open, they’re glistening, “a lifesaver for us. Eric would not be nearly as comfortable as he is today. We wouldn’t even be in this house. I don’t know how we would have managed. I try my best to not take advantage of his generosity. I’ve already told him time and time again that we know who our son was, and that this was not anyone’s fault. Still, he has insisted on more than one occasion, and your father can be, shall I dare say, a difficult man?”

I laugh; meanwhile my chest swells with pride. “For once, it’s for a good cause.”

“Yes, well.” Cindy dabs at the corners of her eyes. “I’m not going to lie—there are dark days, when Eric’s spirits are especially low, when he gets frustrated and gives up on the work needed to improve. But we do our best to bring him out of it.”

Could having Ashley and me around have helped keep Eric’s spirits up, had we been given the opportunity?

My various feelings for my father are at such opposite ends of a spectrum—a pendulum swinging furiously between eternal anger and overwhelming gratitude.

The patio sliding door opens and Ashley steps out, her emerald-green eyes red-rimmed from crying. “Piper, Eric wants to talk to you.”

I take a deep breath, steeling my nerve as I stand. “Have my seat,” I offer her with an affectionate pat on her back. While Ashley may never have admitted how much she cared for Eric, there was never any doubt in my mind that she wanted more than just friendship. I can’t imagine how hard this is for her now.