Roll with It: Chapters 1–4

As an aspiring baker over here in Tennessee, I’d like to tell you how much I love every single one of your recipes, but especially your Cappuccino Coffee Cake.

Also, would you mind sharing your secret to a good scone? Because down here all we’ve got are buttermilk biscuits—

But there’s not a single scenario where I don’t get grounded. Grown-up trumps kid like paper beats rock.

So I packed up the sandwich I’d made with the cranberry relish and goat cheese, which Mom says isn’t a sandwich because it doesn’t have meat, and left.

Today we’re on our way to see the neurologist, the “head doctor” who reads my brain waves. It’s supposed to be science-y, but it feels a little like visiting a psychic and watching her pretend to tell my fortune.

Mom lets out a long sigh and slumps down a little in her chair. I kind of sag forward too and prop my elbows on my armrests.

I can see Mom remembering the fevers and the shakes and the ambulance rides from the seizures.

“Right as right can be. Right as rain, thank you, ma’am.”
“That’s enough.”
“What?”
“Don’t be snarky with the doctor.”

I roll as quietly as I can into the kitchen and use the light on my phone to sift through the bottom shelf of the cabinet closest to the sink.

Tylenol, Advil, allergy meds, antacids, multivitamins, probiotics, and iron supplements. I have the medicine cabinet of an eighty-year-old woman.

She takes it in the other room, and I fold up my ball of dough in plastic wrap like a present and stick it in the fridge. My arms are already tired from the kneading.

“They’re keeping him overnight in the hospital. Apparently, the airbag did some damage—abrasions to his face, your grandma said. He also fractured his nose.”

But I know Mema’s in her own tailspin of worry, just like I am, so I stay quiet, waiting it out until she starts talking again.

“No, not lie. Delay the inevitable.”

“We understand your special circumstances, Ms. Cowan, and we are sorry to lose Ellie halfway through the school year, but our job today is to make sure we have a competent assessment of her current needs to send on to her new school in…” Mrs. Hayes looks down at her notes.

“We understand your special circumstances, Ms. Cowan, and we are sorry to lose Ellie halfway through the school year, but our job today is to make sure we have a competent assessment of her current needs to send on to her new school in…” Mrs. Hayes looks down at her notes.

We all know by “history” she means “medical history”—the thing I can’t outrun. Cerebral palsy is like the “Go to Jail” card in Monopoly: No matter where you are, it always shoots you back to zero. In my case, that’s birth, day one of CP.

It happens to a lot of really early babies, I guess, this cerebral (“brain”) palsy (“paralysis”) that left me different from everybody else. The brain just isn’t ready to protect itself from the bumps and bruises of the outside world. It’s like a snail that hasn’t grown its shell.

But what Mrs. Hayes is writing down now and what Mrs. Lawrence is nodding along to, thanks to Lauren’s brilliant input, is that I’m still a baby.

“Yes, Ellie. Handle you. I’m sorry if that sounds harsh or demeaning, but it is my job to protect you. It is my job to make sure you are safe and looked after, even if you don’t like it.”

If you’ve never seen the Mississippi, you’re not missing anything. The M–i–double s–i–double s–i–double p–i is ugly. It’s murky on a good day. In winter it’s toilet water.

It’s the one and only time I’ve ever heard her curse. She made up for it that day, though…aaaall the four-letter words. I don’t think she knew I could hear. But she was standing in the gravel, kicking at the tire and yelling expletives for all she was worth.

People here tuck their trailers up under these trees and lock them down with cement foundations and wood porches, so you can hardly tell where the wheels used to go.

When we pull into 713 Alcoa Drive, the headlights snag on the smashed-up front of Grandpa’s Ford, and it’s so pitiful I look away, down at my chair, creaking as we bump over the gravel.

It says GOD GRANT ME THE SERENITY in big capital letters.

His hair is wet and combed, and there are pleats in his pants.

Standing alongside him, Mom looks like the crazy one, in her sweater and nightgown and troll hair. Except for the fat bandage across his nose, Grandpa looks almost dapper.

Grandpa walks back toward the bedroom again, still fumbling with the buttons on his shirt, and Mom leans against the counter and crosses her arms.

Somebody shouts over the fence and I flinch, but Coralee acts like she doesn’t even hear it.

Bethlehem Methodist is a one-story brick building with a steeple stuck on the top like an afterthought, or a candle in a birthday cake.

She leans over my shoulder and whispers, “The key to Evy is to smile and nod and nod and smile, and while she’s jabbering, just sing the theme to Sesame Street in your head.”

They both look nice in their satiny dresses, Mom in navy and Mema in cream. “Regal” is the word, and it’s not something we Cowans can pull off very often.

She’s turned her head toward Mom like a hawk eyeing a mouse. To Mema’s credit, Mom does look a little mousy right now. I think she’d hide behind me if she could.

The crowd goes silent and shifts and I can finally see what the commotion’s all about.

A man in a green plaid jacket—I recognize him as one of the greeters—runs in with the fire extinguisher and douses everything and everyone: the podium, the poinsettias, Grandpa, Mema, and the pastor. The air’s full of smoky chemicals and it smells like wet carpet.