Paraplegic (COMPLETED)

Chapter 2

Three Weeks Earlier . . .

My cheeks warm as the sunlight slips through the window shades of my bedroom. It's almost dawn, but I have been awake for a while. I tried many times to fall back to sleep, but I'm filled with far too much excitement. Today is a big day after all. Tomorrow is going to be even bigger.

In the distance, the town's bell tolls every few seconds announcing the start of a new day, which also means the lighthouse is shining its beacon for one last revolution before taking its rest. I remember when father took me up there; I was six. I don't think I have ever been so scared in my entire life. We were so far off the ground. The breeze coming off of the harbor aggressively tossed my blonde curls into my face. I felt so free, like I could leap off the railing and take flight.

Voices trickle through the open slit of my window, mixed with the salty air of the harbor. The town is starting to come alive. Even from the curled up position in my bed, I can hear the waves angrily crashing the rocks of the shoreline; a sound I've enjoyed getting used to since moving here to Camden, Maine. I can't believe it's been almost thirteen years. It seems like yesterday we were navigating the moving van onto the gradient driveway for the first time.

Dishware clanks together from beyond my bedroom door. My nose twitches at the sweet smell of chocolate chip pancakes. I throw the covers off of me and set my feet on the plush carpet below. My toes nearly disappear, sinking deeper into it as I stand. The fragrance grows more potent as I rush downstairs and into the kitchen.

Mother turns her attention away from the stove top upon hearing me enter the room. "Good morning, sweetie."

I reach for the fruit basket, passing over a golden banana and a ripe pear before selecting a Granny Smith apple. "Morning, mom."

Father is already sitting at the family's cherry wood dinette table, the morning's newspaper hiding everything from his eyes down. A porcelain mug filled with black coffee is in front of him. The mug has an image of a golfer poised with his club over his shoulder, admiring the shot he had just taken. It's his favorite mug for whatever reason; he uses it every day. He's always had a love for the game. I don't really understand it myself. He showed me his scorecard once, but it didn't make a bit of sense to me. It just looked like a bunch of numbers within a lot of grid lines. He's asked me to join him out on the course a few times, but I told him I would rather whitewash a fence. Fortunately for me, he didn't take that retort literally.

"Good morning, daddy." I move over to him and press my lips against his left temple.

He yanks the newspaper closed, folding it in a series of quick motions, then lays it on the table. "Good morning, Kenzie." He's already dressed in his usual suit pants and collared shirt, which is buttoned clear up to his throat; a contemporary looking blue and black striped tie hangs down in front of it. "Did you sleep well last night or were you filled with too much excitement?"

"I slept okay, I guess. It took me a while before I was able to put my thoughts to rest and shut my eyes." The tangy sweetness of the apple strikes the corner of my mouth as I take my first bite.

August is sitting across from me, his head hung over his Sony PSP. "Hey!" I grab his attention. "You know the rules; no video games before school." It's worth reaching across the table to slap the side of his head, despite the slight sting it leaves on my palm.

My face warms as mother passes by with a steaming plate of pancakes, placing them in the center of the table. "Put the game away and eat your breakfast," she says. August yields to her scolding tone, then sticks his tongue out at me. I roll my eyes in response. He can be so annoying sometimes.