The Secret of Ella and Micha

break from the reality of life. There is no one up there—there hardly ever is. I push through the gate and situate by a tree right in front of my mom’s headstone. It’s a small cemetery bordered by trees and the grass is covered with dry leaves.
    As I sketch the lines of the fence and the vines that coil it, I angle downward and draw the curve of her tombstone. I become lost in the movements, adding wings to the side of it, because she was always so fascinated with flying.
    A few weeks before her death, my mother begged me to go on a walk with her. I gave in even though I had plans that day. It was sunny and the air smelled like cut grass. It felt like nothing could go wrong.
    She wanted to go to the bridge so we walked all the way across town to the lake. When we arrived there, she climbed on the railing and spread her hands out to balance as her long auburn hair flapped in the wind.
    “Mom, what are you doing?” I said, reaching for the back of her shirt to pull her down.
    She sidestepped down the railing out of my reach and stared at the water below. “Ella May, I think I can fly.”
    “Mom, stop it and get down,” I said, not taking her very seriously at first.
    But when she turned her head and looked at me, I could see in her eyes that she wasn’t joking. She really believed she could fly.
    I tried to stay as composed as possible. “Mom, please get down. You’re scaring me.”
    She shook her head and her legs wobbled a little. “It’s okay honey. I’ll be fine. I can feel it in my body that I can fly.”
    I took a cautious step toward her and my foot bumped the curb of the bridge. The cement rubbed my toe raw and I could feel blood oozing out, but I didn’t look down at it. I was too afraid to take my eyes off her. “Mom, you can’t fly. People can’t fly.”
    “Then maybe I’m a bird,” she said seriously. “Maybe I have wings and feathers and they can carry me away and I can become one with the wind.”
    “You’re not a bird!” I shouted and reached for her again, but she hopped onto one of the beams and laughed like it was a game. I tugged my fingers through my hair and steadied onto the railing. It was a far fall, one that would crush our bodies on impact, even in the water. I braced my hands on the beams above my head. “Mom, if you love me at all, you’ll get down.”
    She shook her head. “No, I’m going to fly today.”
    A truck rolled up and stopped on the middle of the bridge as I edged toward her. Ethan jumped out and didn’t so much as flinch at the scenario. “Hey, Mrs. Daniels. How’s it going?”
    I gaped at him and hissed, “What are you doing?”
    He ignored me. “You know it’s not really safe out there.”
    My mom angled her head to the side. “I think I’ll be okay. My wings will carry me away.”
    I was mortified, but Ethan didn’t miss a beat. He rested his arms on the railing. “As much as that could be true, what if it’s not? Then what? I mean is it really worth the risk?”
    I glanced back at my mom and she looked like she was weighing the options. She stared at the dark water below her feet and then at the bright sky above her head. “Maybe I should think about it for a little bit.”
    Ethan nodded. “I think that’s probably a good idea.”
    She made a path across the beam and planted her feet on the railing. Ethan helped her down and we got her into the backseat of his truck. She fell asleep within minutes and I slumped my head back against the chair.
    “How did you do that?” I asked quietly.
    “One of my friends was tripping out of their mind one night and I had to talk him out of jumping off the roof,” he explained. “It was all about making her realize that there was more than one scenario.”
    I nodded and we stayed quiet for the rest of the drive to my house. Ethan never brought it up to me, nor did he treat me differently and I was grateful for it.
    After a doctor’s visit, it was determined that my mother had started to suffer from ‘Delusions of Grandeur ,’ which happens sometimes in bipolar patients.
    I finally pull away from the drawing when it’s nearly dark. I gather my sketchpad and pencils and head down the hill. In front of the arch iron entryway is Micha, sitting on the hood of his mom’s car, wearing jeans, and a black and red plaid shirt. His head is tipped down and wisps of his blonde hair cover his forehead as he messes around with his phone.
    I stop a little ways off from him. “What are you doing