Total pages in book: 119
Estimated words: 112638 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 563(@200wpm)___ 451(@250wpm)___ 375(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 112638 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 563(@200wpm)___ 451(@250wpm)___ 375(@300wpm)
Waiting for me to betray him, just like he allegedly betrayed me.
CHAPTER TWELVE
WINNIE
“It’s Elsa! Elsa’s here!” Little Sienna, only six years old and a resident in the pediatric rehabilitation unit at Saint John’s, calls out to me from her place in her bed. She reaches her arms, wriggling her fingers as I enter her room. I lean down to hug her, my fake, synthetic white-blonde wig tickling her face, making her giggle.
“You smell like plastic,” she says.
No matter how down I feel, there is one thing I never miss—my volunteer work at Saint John’s Children’s Hospital.
More than it helps the little warriors to pull through, it soothes me. There is nothing like watching an innocent child fighting a grown-up battle to put your own troubles in perspective. I thank the Lord every day I found Arya Roth-Miller and was able to jump on board with her charity. That we got talking at this random party three years ago, and when she said she’d call and give me the details of her charity—she truly did. I not only gained perspective and something to nourish the soul—I also gained a friend.
“Why, if it isn’t my favorite trooper.” I plop next to Sienna in a visitor’s chair, placing my makeup kit on her nightstand. A clear plastic box sits on it, consisting of dozens of small squares, pills inside them, along with half-finished bottles of water and some candy. “Where’s your momma and daddy?”
“It’s my little brother Cade’s birthday. So they took him to Chuck E. Cheese to celebrate with his class. But don’t worry! They said they’ll get me something yummy.” She flashes me a half-toothless smile. My heart melts in my chest.
Oh, Sienna.
“Good. I’ll have you all for myself. So who do you want to be today?” I wiggle my brows. “Minnie Mouse? A butterfly? A dragon? I know! Maybe a rainbow?”
Sienna licks her lips, fixing the glasses atop her nose. She shuffles in her bed, reaching to scratch beneath the blanket covering her legs. Or, rather, her leg. Her left one was severed in a car accident three weeks ago. She has a case of phantom limb, and she keeps feeling the leg that isn’t there.
“I want to be Mirabel from Encanto!” she announces. “Because you don’t have to have a superpower to be a hero.”
“That’s the spirit, Si!” I’m already on my phone, looking for tutorials of how to draw Mirabel. “Superpowers are boring. They have no merit. It’s the power we find in ourselves that matters.”
Now if only I can listen to my own advice.
Sienna is a delight to put makeup on. Usually, I chat up the kids as I work on their faces. Sienna tells me she might get discharged at the end of the month and will return back to her class.
“And at first, they’ll give me a wheelchair, but after, they said they’ll fix me a supercool bionic leg and it’ll be just like before the accident!” she says excitedly. “I’ll just have to put it on every morning when I wake up.”
I pull away when I’m done, grinning back at her. “That sounds like the coolest thing ever!”
“Right?” Her eyes light up.
“For real. You could walk, dance, swim, do anything!”
After Sienna, it is Tom’s turn (spine surgery), and after Tom comes Mallory (cystic fibrosis). I make the round, and time passes by without the usual pain that accompanies breathing and operating in the world without Paul.
When I’m done, I call the elevator. It slides open, and out pops Arya Roth-Miller, the director of the foundation I’m working with on this project and the only other friend, other than Chrissy, who bothers to visit me once a month.
“Winnie.” She smiles, stepping back into the elevator. “Just who I was waiting to bump into. Let me see you out of here.”
I follow her into the elevator and hit the ground floor button, smiling at Arya. I love that she has her own PR business, a family—a baby!—but still finds time to do this work.
“Am I in trouble?” I laugh. “Why’d you want to speak to me?”
“Trouble?” she asks, frowning. “Do I already have a crabby-mom expression? Why would you think that?”
I shrug. “You normally like to catch up over coffee, not in the elevator.”
“Well, first, I wanted to congratulate you on getting the Nina part. Chrissy told me. I’m so proud of you!”
Blushing deeply, I nod.
“Second, I’m throwing a charity ball in a few weeks, and I would love for you to come. It’s a three-K-a-plate thing.”
Bless her heart. What’ll they be serving at this event, a steak made out of pure gold?
“Thank you so much for offerin’. I’m not . . . I mean, you know how I like to keep to myself . . .”
Translation: I’m so poor I might as well have a tumbleweed as a pet.