Page 28 of The Heiress
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Like an adventurerneeding their next adrenaline rush, the need to hit tennis balls had me wide awake before sunrise. One day without a racket in my hand and I had severe withdrawal symptoms. I smiled as I lay in bed staring out at the wall; that was a good thing, a great thing. Especially after the reality check from Dad. My passionwas still there, and like Mom had said,What did Dad know?He wasn’t seeing me day to day. I was improving drastically.
Last night, I hadn’t taken my crutches out of my car, a renewed determination that I had to get rid of them. Prove to Dad that I was going to be all right, that he didn’t need to sue Mom. That was my goal for this weekend—to spend as much time without them.
I eased myself out of bed, remembering that Elisha was upstairs in my old bedroom. A weird tingle raced along my spine.
Elisha’s appearance was still a bit of a mystery. By the time I’d come out later to make myself a sandwich, she’d gone to bed. It had felt wrong to whisper about her when she was upstairs, but Mom told me how neither Elisha’s parents or the school knew she was staying at the hotel. It was by chance that Mom saw Barb Pritchard, and upon hearing of the panicked situation of needing to find Elisha a homestay family, Mom immediately offered to take Elisha. None of it made any sense, including why Elisha lied to everyone.
I grabbed a banana and a bottle of water from the kitchen. The freedom of not using crutches was liberating, as was being able to grab my racket and the cart of balls. I’d hit against the backboard and later practice some serves.
No one had been willing to give me exact time frames for my recovery, pelvic fractures being very individual. But because I was young and healthy and hadn’t suffered any other internal injuries, I’d been told a full recovery was possible. It had been about a month since I’d started hitting with Taylor and Max, and though my arm felt comfortable to hit, for now it had all been standing in one spot, maybe taking a step to the left or right, but no more.
But as I pounded the ball against the wall, I wondered if I’d been deliberately over cautious with my recovery. It had been a night of broken sleep, stressing about Mom and the lawsuit. She was in a bad enough place as it was, and I conceded that my attitude had contributed to that. Maybe I’d been sabotaging my own recovery, fearful of exactly what Dad had alluded to—that I would never regain my former ability, never play at college level.
Because if I didn’t try, I’d never find out.
Maybe I’d been using those crutches as exactly that—literally a crutch. Poor Phoenix, still struggling on that long road to healing, when in reality, I was afraid of failing.
I accused Max of babying me, but it was me—I babied me.
Because I was fearful of what the truth might be.
“Hey!” Mom called from the side of the court after I’d mistimed a backhand. “You’re up early. I’m about to cook some breakfast.”
I nodded back in acknowledgement and grabbed another ball. I’d hit about a hundred already, concentrating on accuracy, hitting in the same spot so I didn’t have to move. If the ball shot out in the wrong direction, I let it go.
“Okay, I’ll just finish this cart,” I said, noticing that the drapes in my old bedroom window were now drawn back. I wondered if Elisha was helping Mom. I tossed up the ball, it caught the edge of the racket frame and shot off far out of range. I sheepishly looked around, thankful no one saw. Probably it was a lack of energy. I finished the half eaten banana and pounded the wall again, each time trying to lengthen the number of consecutive hits. My record so far was twenty eight.
As I grabbed the second to last ball out of the basket, I shuddered to see Elisha standing on the edge of the patio, leaning against the handrail. She was wearing black leggings and a black hoodie, exactly what she’d been wearing the day she ran around the track. I felt pressure to hit some decent shots, bouncing the ball on the ground a few times before aiming at the wall. It was odd, usually I thrived on playing before an audience, almost like I wanted to show off to the crowd. In normal everyday life I never strived to be the center of attention, but on a tennis court it was a different matter—it’s where I wanted to be the star.
With Elisha watching, I struck the ball nervously, relieved when it bounced back at my feet for a forehand. It would be embarrassing to miss it. Three, four, five, I got into a rhythm, my power increasing with each shot. Eight, nine, ten—surely she was impressed with how hard I was hitting the ball. Eleven—I lost concentration—too busy thinking about her. The ball edged my frame and shot off coming back to my left side. All morning I’d been letting those balls go, the ones that didn’t enter my immediate hitting zone, but without thinking, I took a long stride, lunging to my left, gripping the handle for my customary two-handed backhand grip, which incidentally was my best shot when performed right. The ball came off the middle of the strings, a cracking shot that struck the wall with the sort of speed that would make Taylor and Max proud.
I froze after I’d hit it, holding my follow-through over my right shoulder; there was no way I’d be able to chase that ball down—it flew off the wall like a rocket.
Slowly I looked down at my feet, wide in an open stance position, knees bent, joints still in place, suddenly overwhelmed. Because I hadn’t taken one step, I’d taken several small ones, small, quick steps, automatically, naturally. And my pelvis hadn’t collapsed, my screws and plate hadn’t fallen out, my legs hadn’t buckled beneath me.
It was a moment to savor and I had the urge to smile, to laugh out loud, to shout out to Mom. And then I remembered that Elisha was on the sideline.
I straightened up, carefully bringing my feet together, testing that I was indeed stable.
“Uh, your mom says breakfast is ready,” she called.
“Just one more,” I said, grabbing the last ball. I needed to check that it wasn’t a fluke, that my hips and legs were ready for this.
Elisha folded her arms across her chest. I bounced the ball on the racket strings, but instead of feeling confident, nerves struck again knowing she was watching intently. It was a weak shot against the wall, and I was forced to move forward quickly to prevent a double bounce. I kept a rally going for ten shots before catching the ball on my racket.
“Do you need a hand?” Elisha asked, already moving onto the court.
“Thanks, but I’m good,” I said, retrieving the ball collector tube from the cart and crossing over to the far side to suck up the bunch of balls. When I turned around, Elisha was by the net bouncing up a ball with my racket. She picked up more balls and, balancing them on the strings, carried them back to the cart.
“What—?” I started to say, extremely protective of my racket, “Uh, do you play?” I asked with an unexpected flutter of hope. Only someone who played tennis would know to carry the balls like that.
But Elisha shook her head. “No.”
“No?” I queried in disbelief. “But you’ve had coaching?”
She nodded, quick to add, “When I was young.”
