Fruit Bats

Sadie came late to our first day of music class. She munched loudly from a box of animal crackers. She wore denim overalls—one strap undone—and had a purple scrunchie in her hair. Headphones were wrapped around her neck and were attached to a Walkman that clipped onto her belt loop. I thought Sadie was the coolest.

Our creative music class was held on Sundays for an hour at the Community Music Centre. I loved it. But Sadie made music class even more fun. When I first saw her, I somehow knew we would be friends. She just seemed so bold—her sideways ponytail, her Walkman, the way she marched into class late. I wanted to be just like her.

I soon discovered that Sadie and I had a lot in common. Her favourite band, like mine, was the Backstreet Boys, and she always chose the castanets from the instrument bin like I did. Bonded over toy instruments and a boy band, we became inseparable.

Sadie and I quickly established a tradition of going to the park across the street after music class.
   
“Today,” Sadie would say from on top of the playground, “we are pirates. And we can’t touch the sand or the sharks will get us!”
   
“Today,” I might say the following week, “we are a three-legged monster!” Then Sadie and I would tie our shoes together and spend the rest of the afternoon “terrorizing the village.” I was six, Sadie was seven, and we were unstoppable.

Sometimes Sadie and I would go for ice cream with our moms. When we did, I liked to ride with Sadie and her mom, Victoria, in their minivan because it was turquoise and had fake wood panels on the inside—it was obviously better than my mom’s station wagon. When we rode in the van, Sadie always chose the backseat on the right-hand side. She had put these plastic star-shaped stickers on the window, and she was constantly rearranging them to customize her space.

While riding in the turquoise van one day, an ambulance sped past us. “Woah!” Sadie exclaimed. “Look how fast he’s going! Zoom! I bet that was like…two hundred kilometers per hour! At least!”
   
“No way.” That seemed way too fast.

“Ya-huh! If someone’s hurt, Angela, the ambulance has to come super fast! Wee-ooh, wee-ooh! Ambulance to the rescue!” Sadie imitated a siren and we both burst into giggles. Sadie stuck one of her plastic stars on my nose.

Sadie and I were smart and strong. Whenever there were group games of Red Rover or Kick the Can at the park, we were tough competitors. I remember that Sadie and I both beat Daniel Robbins—who always bragged about being the fastest runner—in a race from one side of the park to the other. We even used to have wars over who could count to one hundred the fastest.

“Have you ever heard of fruit bats?” Sadie asked one day.
   
“Nope.” I had not.
   
“Well, they’re these special kind of bats. I know about them ‘cause I watch Kratt’s Creatures. They’re special because they form actual friendships like people do. Some even have best friends.”
   
“Really?”
   
“Yup.” Sadie was confident. She knew her bat facts. “Do you think we’re like that?”
   
“Like what?”
   
“Like fruit bats. You know, best friends?”
   
“Yep,” I smiled, “I think we are.”
   
Sadie smiled too. “Race you to the monkey bars?” She took off running before I could answer—but only because she knew I could keep up.

One Sunday, Sadie and I were dangling from the monkey bars—upside down like fruit bats—when Sadie’s mom got a call. Sadie’s brother, Johnson, had broken his arm.
   
“Sadie!” her mom called. “We have to go. Now!”
   
“Why?” Sadie asked, her long ponytail swinging.
   
“Because Johnson’s at the hospital. He broke his arm!”
   
Sadie did a tight little flip off the monkey bars and landed with a thud. “A broken bone!” she exclaimed. “I’ve never had one. I always thought a cast would look cool. People sign them and stuff.”
   
I jumped down too. “Yeah, and I’ve seen them in all colours. Bright pink even!”
   
“Wow, I hope Johnson gets one of those!”
   
Sadie ran to meet her mom. Together, they went through the gap in the park fence and quickly headed to the turquoise minivan. Sadie slid open the door and, with a wave, she closed herself into the van.

The next thing I heard was a sound like a gunshot, followed by the screeching of rubber on pavement. A red truck, coming from the right, had smashed into the side of Sadie’s minivan. Red on turquoise. The air took on a weird smell like hot metal and burning wires. In a panic, my mom screamed at me to stay put. She ran toward the wrecked cars. I screamed when I saw the crumpled side of the van—Sadie’s side. I pictured her plastic stars: wrinkled and mixed with broken glass.
   
Sirens.
   
Sadie was right—the ambulances were fast. And they were screaming. I stood against the playground fence, clutching the chain links so tightly that the red marks on my hands lasted for hours.

I don’t remember parts of that day. The parts I do remember, however, are as clear as pictures drawn in black, permanent marker. I remember wondering why firefighters were breaking into the van when there was no fire. I remember catching a glimpse of a stretcher and thinking it looked like a strange, white coffin. I remember waiting at the hospital next to my mom and a man who had tubes coming out of his nose. I was scared to look at him and chose instead to pick at a scab on my thumb until it bled. I saw the blood, but there was no pain.

* * *

Months passed, and every Sunday, I wished that Sadie would march through the door to our class—late as usual. I didn’t understand what was taking her so long to come home. Sadie had survived the accident. But why was she still gone?

“When is Sadie coming back?”

“I don’t know, honey.” My mom sighed. “She’s in Vancouver. She’s sleeping, remember?”

“But that doesn’t make sense! How can she sleep for so long?!” I didn’t get it.
   
“Sadie needs rest, honey.”
   
“But why?!” I yelled at my mom. “Why!” I burst into hot, angry tears. My sobs subsided. “Why?”

   
Three months after the accident, Sadie was still away, and so I decided to ask Beth Williams to hang on the monkey bars with me after music class. I wanted to play fruit bats.
   
“You have to hang upside down, Beth. Like a bat.”
   
“And then what?” Beth asked.
  
And then what? I didn’t know. “Well, nothing. That’s the game.”
   
“Sounds boring. I’d rather play on the swings.”

* * *

After nearly six months of waiting, my mom told me that Sadie would be at Sunday’s class. I was so excited. I pictured a day full of castanets, Backstreet Boys, and hanging upside down. But mom told me Sadie might be different.
   
“Different how?”
   
“Sadie doesn’t remember everything, Angela. She had to…relearn a lot of stuff. Please don’t be upset if she can’t play with you.” My mom’s eyes were sad. I thought she was acting strange.

As I had hoped, Sadie came to Sunday’s class—but it wasn’t the Sadie I knew. Her mom held her hand. Her long ponytail was cut short. And her face—I could hardly look at it—was covered in jagged scars. I tried to focus my attention on the juice-stained carpet as Sadie came and sat in the space next to me.
   
“Hi. I’m Sadie. What’s your name?”
   
My stomach twisted itself into a ball. That voice didn’t sound like Sadie’s. It was different, and it made me angry. Worst of all, it made me angry with Sadie. I wanted to run away from her. Instead, I simply squeaked: “I’m Angela.”
   
“Angela. Sounds familiar. Are we friends?” Sadie asked. I looked up. She had said are instead of were.
   
“Yes.” My voice sounded like a frog. “We are.”

* * *

As the weeks went on, I kept thinking the girl with the purple scrunchie and the half- undone overalls would come back. I thought I could make her come back.
   
“Sadie, let’s see who can count to one hundred the fastest!” I challenged. But Sadie had only relearned up to fifty.
   
“Sadie, let’s race Daniel around the park. He thinks he can beat us!” But Sadie was too slow.
   
“Sadie, do you want to play fruit bats? If you don’t remember, I can teach you! First, we have to climb up on the monkey bars.” I started to show her.
   
Sadie looked up at the bars nervously. She bit her lip and shook her head. “They’re too high. I don’t want to fall.” She paused. “But my mom bought me a new Arthur colouring book. Do you want to go colour at the picnic tables?”
   
“Umm…that’s ok.” I looked around for Daniel Robbins. Maybe he was still up for a race.

Mica Lemiski is a third year student at Western University.