Give ME This Mountain...

I have had the opportunity to meet Anne Bradshaw through blogspot. She is an LDS author that recently published 'Please, No Zits!', a book of inspiring fictional short stories for youth, and she gave me permission to post this story. I plan to buy this book for Sky, possibly for Christmas. This really moved me, so I wanted to share it... I, too, hope someday I will be on Luke's 'level'. Enjoy...

Mountain Nearing

(Manchester, England)

We all did it—all except for Jordan, that is. It seemed the cool thing. I mean, it felt good—seeing the funny side, being quick and clever with words.

Jordan thought I went too far.

“Aaron Veasey, you’re such a hypocrite,” she said to me this morning at school. “How can you sit in church on Sunday, giving all the right answers, then act like a sarcastic creep today?”

Most of the time I liked Jordan. She’d been around for twelve of my fourteen years, and was small and fiery, with big eyes the color of stormy skies. Her desk stood in front of mine.

I flicked her ponytail around with my ruler. “I don’t see the connection. Church stuff and school stuff? They’re different.”

She had a way of wrinkling her nose when she disagreed, and she wrinkled it right then. She looked kind of pretty when she did that. But she wasn’t telling me what to do.

“I’ll tell you the connection,” she said. “It hurts. That’s what.”

“Making people laugh hurts?”

“What about the one being laughed at? Just because you don’t see hurt, doesn’t mean it’s not there.” She sniffed.

Now when Jordan sniffed like that, it meant she’d found a cause. She called them her mountains, because a Sunday school teacher once quoted Caleb in the Old Testament where he says, “Give me this mountain.” She’d watched for them ever since. And that was okay with me, as long as she was the one doing the climbing. But as soon as she hooked into my comfort zone . . . no deal!

“What about that little kid on the bus this morning?” I said. “He was laughing with the rest of us.”

“At first.” She shook her head. “You didn’t see his eyes tear up when he realized you made him look stupid.”

“Well he was stupid—saying his name was Walk.”

“It was logical. He said people call a fly a Fly because it flies. Therefore today he wants to be called Walk because he walks. Makes sense to a five year old.” She sniffed again, nose in the air. “You didn’t need to add, ‘You should be called Dumbo because you’re dumb.’”

Before I could have the last word, in came our geography teacher. But it was a waste of time hoping Jordan would forget her cause.

“I suppose you’re sitting there dreaming up more sarcasm,” she threw at me next day, first lesson.

I jumped. I couldn’t admit I’d been gazing out at the misty morning, looking at a spider’s web strung between two posts. The rain and wind played with the strands, ballooning and sucking them in all directions. But the spider had worked hard, and the wind couldn’t undo that work.

“Of course.” I grinned, straightening in my chair. “And if you weren’t so tough, I’d throw some your way.”

She laughed. “Wouldn’t do you much good.” She set her backpack on the floor. “I’m getting expert at forgiving.”

“Wahoo for you, Miss Perfect. Want a halo?” I was about to add, “Let me know if it slips, and I’ll send for mountain rescue,” but Registration began, so I just poked her in the back instead.

During the announcements, Miss Gale, our class teacher, produced a letter. “We’ve been given a different assignment for our winter service project this year.” She smiled. “There’s a special school close to Manchester. The children are spastic and range in age from five to eighteen. They’d like as many volunteers as possible—one young man and woman to a pair—for an hour after school, once a week. So I’m sending around a sign-up sheet.”

I groaned, switching off while she read more details. I was scared of handicapped people. I liked to feel comfortable, on the same wavelength as those around me. That wasn’t difficult when you were on the same level—but what level were they on? Besides, it meant missing my favorite TV show.

Jordan joined me at the bus stop after school. “Have you signed up for the service project then, Aaron?” She gave me a sweet smile, head to one side.

“Oh sure! I’ve booked for each day of the week.” I glared down at her. “Not!”

She shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

“Those people are on a different planet,” I said. “You won’t catch me pushing wheelchairs and wiping noses.”

“How about you do the pushing, and me the wiping?” Her smile grew wider. With her eyebrows raised like that, she could charm the plaque off your teeth.

But she wouldn’t get me this time. I firmed up my voice. “By the time we’ve traveled there and back, and spent an hour at the school, Lost will have ended on TV. Besides, I’ll be starving. Then homework on top of all that? You’ve got to be joking.”

“You know what?” She glanced quickly at me, then down at the toe of her shoe tracing circles in the mud. “I was going to suggest my mum tapes Lost, and I make some of those thick chocolate brownies to eat on the bus.” She moved away. “Don’t worry. I’ll find someone else . . . chocolate cake, too, would be—”

“Wait!” I grasped her arm. “I didn’t exactly say no, did I?” Jordan Grundy’s mum makes the most mouth-watering brownies. “I’ll . . . think about it. Maybe it won’t be so bad. A week’s trial might work.”

* * *

I spent seven bad days wishing I’d never agreed to tackle this particular mountain of Jordan’s. If it hadn’t been for the brownie craving, I might still have backed out.

Friday crawled nearer.

It finally came, and we walked to the main bus stop. Jordan saved half the brownies for the return journey. How did she guess I might eat and run? When I saw all those youngsters in wheelchairs, I very nearly did run—forget the brownies.

An older looking nurse with crinkled gray hair and a fixed smile introduced Jordan and me to a blond-haired boy. “This is Luke. He’s fourteen.” She handed us a pack of paper towels.
“He’s a permanent resident and loves to draw.” The nurse marched on, matching more patients with students.

I gulped. Draw?

Luke’s arms and legs were thrashing all over. How could he keep still long enough to draw? And it wasn’t his nose that needed wiping—it was his mouth. Dribbles dropped down his chin and neck.

I looked away.

“Here.” Jordan leaned forward, gently mopping up the mess.

“Take it easy, Luke. We won’t disappear.” She smiled at him, making eye contact, leaning close. “I’m Jordan, and this is Aaron. Talk slowly. What would you like us to do?”

Luke—one of his big blue eyes drooping and twitching—spoke awkwardly. “Thanks. I’m not embarrassed, if you’re not.” His smile was lopsided. “Come on. Let’s draw.”

My jaw dropped.

Luke wheeled his chair at high speed toward the table in the middle of the room . . . and missed. He shot past, laughing and waving. I ran, grabbed the handles, and spun him around so fast he nearly toppled out.

He shouted, slurring the words with excitement. “That was great. Let’s do it again!”

By then I was laughing, too. “Um . . . let’s not. Here, get this pencil between your fingers.”

With me holding one of his arms, and Jordan restraining the other so his hand could still move, Luke guided that pencil over the paper.

He was almost on our level in an odd sort of way.

Now, next to being the Master of Sarcasm—and therefore brilliant with words—art was my favorite subject. Words and art went together. Some of those old poets—like Wordsworth—knew what they were doing when they lived in wild and scenic places. I watched Luke outline trees, flowers, mountains, and meadows with sweeping strokes, and knew I was seeing something unreal.

Jordan looked awestruck, too. “How do you know all this, Luke?”

He gave another shaky grin—and more dribbles. The words came slowly. “Books. TV. Videos. One day, I’ll find all this . . . this p . . . paradise.” He tugged the pencil upward. “Know what? Trees and flowers are like me. Solid inside. No control outside. I know how it feels.” He aimed the pencil at his chest. “They hurt in here when someone’s mean.”

With each passing week I knew I couldn’t stop visiting Luke. I got used to the dribbles, though I always let Jordan use the Kleenex tissue. The odd thing was I could never bring myself to be sarcastic in front of him. Perhaps it was the strange way he had of pure thinking. It was like this boy’s body got windblown in all directions, ballooning out where it wasn’t expected. Yet his mind stayed in place, holding onto life and making it shine. He was anchored on the inside.

And pretty soon when others at school told spastic jokes, it made me clench my fists. I wanted to strike out and protect someone, even though there was no one around who needed protecting.

Then one visit, I forgot I wasn’t with school friends. Luke had been ill. He was on tablets for almost everything. Chest infections hit him worse than most of us.

Cicely, the gray-haired nurse, showed us to his room with her usual wide smile, then hurried away.

“Old Sickly looked pleased to see us,” I joked, bouncing onto Luke’s bed. “Doesn’t she ever switch off that ridiculous grin? Maybe her false teeth are too big for her mouth.” I roared with laughter, rolling over to clutch Luke’s legs, which were thrashing in all directions under the cover.

One glance at Luke’s face stopped me, mid-roll.

Jordan looked distressed. Her whisper was fierce. “Oh, shut up, Aaron. Can’t you see he’s not well?”

Luke spoke, dribbling like mad. “I . . . I’m okay.” His head swung from side to side. “You . . . you never made me cry inside before . . . and it . . . hurts.”

I felt like he’d hit me right in the stomach. I reached for a tissue and dabbed at his froth. “I’m sorry. I . . . didn’t think.”

Jordan shook her head, glaring at the ceiling. “Do you ever?”

Luke’s limbs slowed. “I’d be dead by now, if Cicely hadn’t helped me through all the bad stuff.” He gasped, struggling to get the words out. “The only way I know about love is through her . . . and . . .” His voice went quiet. “And you two.”

Jordan and I traveled home in silence. I couldn’t even eat the brownies. I had this squirming going on inside—like I wanted to start the past hour all over again.

By our next visit, Luke had forgotten my mistake. He was like that—never dwelling on things. But as the winter months dragged on, we watched his health get worse until I could hardly bear to visit. I guessed what was coming.

When he died in December, a week before Christmas, the miserable feeling deep inside me wouldn’t let go.

Jordan helped me recover. We talked it through one Sunday after church.

“He found his paradise, Aaron.”

“With mountains?”

“Oh yes, I hope so. He was climbing mountains all his life. Tougher ones than we’ll ever face.”

I sighed. “Yeah. I guess he really lived on a higher level than the rest of us.”

Jordan stared at me, eyes dancing. “You mean one without sarcasm? A different planet?”

I swiped at her, and she dodged, laughing.

Perhaps she was right. Maybe wave lengths didn’t have to be the same to be comfortable. Jordan’s next words brought me up sharp.

“Do you think Luke’s watching out for us? You know—keeping an eye on us to see what we make of our lives?”

I didn’t answer, but I made up my mind about something as we walked down the road that day. I was going to find a better way to be cool. When I met Luke again, I wanted to be on his level.

For information on this book, visit Anne's page by clicking here and visiting... Not Entirely British