Chapter 5 - THE FIRST THREE STEPS
Table of Contents 6
Eight months after Central Park, Ethan took his first independent step.
We were at rehabilitation.
Jonathan stood on one side of the parallel bars.
I stood on the other.
Ethan's therapist told him to wait.
Naturally, he ignored her.
He released one hand.
His right leg trembled.
Then he moved his foot forward.
One step.
Nobody breathed.
He shifted his weight.
Second step.
Jonathan covered his mouth.
The third was ugly.
His knee buckled.
The therapist caught him before he fell.
Ethan started laughing.
Jonathan started crying.
"You're embarrassing me, Dad."
"I don't care."
I was crying too.
Ethan pointed.
"Lily."
"Allergies."
"You've been using that excuse for eight months."
"It's chronic."
That night, we celebrated with pizza.
Three terrible steps.
Best three steps I'd ever seen.
The doctors eventually concluded Ethan would walk again, though he might always experience weakness and occasional pain.
Jonathan considered it a miracle.
Ethan considered it annoying.
I considered it proof that sometimes broken things didn't return exactly as they were.
They became something different.
Maybe stronger in some places.
More fragile in others.
Still worth fighting for.
The same could be said about us.
The Halpern case ended the following year.
Martin pleaded guilty to multiple charges after several former foster children agreed to testify.
Noah didn't have to testify in open court.
He moved into a permanent foster placement with a couple who eventually began adoption proceedings.
The first time I visited their house, Noah opened the refrigerator without asking permission.
He took two sandwiches.
Nobody yelled.
I had to go into the bathroom and cry.
My eighteenth birthday came three months later.
I expected Jonathan to make it ridiculous.
He didn't.
Daniel came from Vermont with Ben.
Noah came with his foster parents.
Ethan was walking with a cane.
Jonathan made breakfast himself.
The pancakes were terrible.
One looked like Florida after a hurricane.
Ethan claimed it was supposed to be a heart.
After breakfast, Jonathan handed me a small envelope.
"If that's money, I'm throwing it at you."
"It's not."
"A car?"
"No."
"Apartment?"
"No."
"Private island?"
Ethan looked interested.
"I'll take that."
Jonathan sighed.
"Open it."
Inside was a key.
My bedroom key.
I frowned.
"I already have one."
"I know."
He looked nervous.
I'd never seen Jonathan Reed nervous during business calls involving hundreds of millions of dollars.
Apparently I was worse.
"Your court placement ends today," he explained. "Legally, you're an adult."
My stomach tightened.
I knew that.
I'd been pretending not to.
Jonathan continued.
"I don't want you waking up tomorrow wondering whether you're expected to leave."
I stared at him.
"The room is yours."
"For how long?"
"As long as you want."
"What if I go to college?"
"Come back on weekends."
"What if I move away?"
"Come back for holidays."
"What if I'm thirty?"
"Call before arriving so I can make sure Ethan hasn't filled your room with junk."
Ethan protested.
I barely heard him.
Jonathan's voice softened.
"You don't age out of a family, Lily."
That sentence broke something open inside me.
For years, every place I'd lived came with conditions.
Behave.
Be grateful.
Don't eat too much.
Don't cause trouble.
Don't make adults regret taking you.
I looked at Jonathan.
"You don't have to do this."
"I know."
That was why I believed him.
I hugged him.
He froze because I had never done it first.
Then his arms closed around me.
"Thank you," I whispered.
"For what?"
"For not making me earn it."
His grip tightened.
Across the kitchen, Daniel wiped his eyes.
He wasn't jealous.
That surprised me.
Later, he told Jonathan something I wasn't supposed to hear.
"Thank you for being there when I wasn't."
Jonathan answered quietly.
"There's room for both of us."
And there was.
I went to Vermont.
Daniel came to New York.
Ben called me constantly.
My family didn't replace another family.
It expanded.
That fall, I started college.
I chose social work.
Jonathan offered to pay the entire tuition.
I refused.
We argued for three days.
Eventually we compromised: scholarships first, Jonathan covered the remainder, and I made him promise not to donate a building to the university until after I graduated.
Ethan said I should have demanded two buildings.
By then, he could walk short distances without his cane.
One Saturday, almost two years after the accident, we returned to Central Park.
We found the place where I'd discovered him.
Ethan stood quietly beside me.
"Do you ever think about what would've happened if you hadn't stopped?"
"Sometimes."
"I'd probably be dead."
I looked at him.
"Maybe."
He swallowed.
Then I asked, "Do you ever think about what would've happened to me if you hadn't yelled after me?"
He frowned.
"I didn't save you."
"No."
I smiled.
"You noticed me."
For someone who had spent years feeling invisible himself, Ethan understood exactly what I meant.
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