Harriet Zaidman - Second Chances

Copyright 2021 Harriet Zaidman

Published in Canada by Red Deer Press,

195 Allstate Parkway, Markham, ON L3R 4T8

Published in the United States by Red Deer Press,

311 Washington Street, Brighton, MA 02135

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews and articles. All inquiries should be addressed to Red Deer Press, 195 Allstate Parkway, Markham, ON L3R 4T8

Red Deer Press acknowledges with thanks the Canada Council for the Arts
and the Ontario Arts Council for their support of our publishing program.
We acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the
Canada Book Fund (CBF) for our publishing activities.

Edited for the Press by Peter Carver

Text and cover design by Tanya Montini

Proudly printed in Canada by Avant Imaging & Integrated Media

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

Title: Second chances / Harriet Zaidman.

Names: Zaidman, Harriet, 1952- author.

Identifiers: Canadiana 20210209607 | ISBN 9780889956391 (softcover) |

ISBN 978-0-88995-678-0 (ePub) | 978-0-88995-677-3 (PDF)

Subjects: LCGFT: Novels.

Classification: LCC PS8649.A382 S43 2021 | DDC jC813/.6dc23

Publisher Cataloging-in-Publication Data (U.S.)

Names: Zaidman, Harriet, 1952-, author.

Title: Second Chances / Harriet Zaidman.

Description: Markham, Ontario : Red Deer Press, 2021.| Summary: Dale Melnyk, who plays goal for his community hockey team and dreams of playing in the NHL someday, suddenly finds himself gasping in an iron lung. Like other young polio victims in Winnipeg in 1955, Dales life is upended. As he fights back, he learns some hard realities about the disease and also about the racism lurking in the city Provided by publisher.

Identifiers: ISBN 978-0-88995-639-1 (paperback) ISBN 978-0-88995-678-0 (ePub)

978-0-88995-677-3 (PDF)

Subjects: LCSH Hockey players -- Juvenile fiction. | Poliomyelitis Patients -- Juvenile fiction. | Racism Juvenile fiction. | BISAC: YOUNG ADULT FICTION / General.

Classification: LCC PZ7.Z353Se |DDC 813.6 dc23

www.reddeerpress.com

For Cecil, with love H

CHAPTER 1

In and out, in and out, the air moved at a steady beat. Summoning all his willpower, Dale gritted his jaw and tightened the muscles in his neck as best he could. A jab of pain shot through his throat. Squeezing his eyes shut, he felt warm tears trickling out the corners, edging slowly along his temples.

His willpower, though, was no match for the machine. Dale fought for control, but the pull on his chest was unrelenting. The machine drew life-giving oxygen through the tube, expanding his lungs. A moment later, the pressure was reversed, and he had to expel the carbon dioxide, the process repeating at an even, robot-like rate, the motor vibrating below. The machine didnt care whether he wanted to breathe or not. He was immobile, and he could only assume his arms and hands were lying flat at his side. He didnt know. His legs, which once propelled him forward at blinding speed, were now useless sticks he couldnt see.

He tried moving his head but got nowhere. A twinge shot through his neck, reminding him of the pipe sticking out below his Adams apple. Thats what he and his friends called it when they yodeled like mountaineers in the locker room, the bump on their throats jiggling up and down, the sound echoing off the walls, along with their laughter and banter. Here, though, the voices called it a larynx. He couldnt move it, and it hurt. And because he couldnt move his head, he had to look at his new self in the mirror above him. His head lay on a smooth aluminum tray, a folded towel for a pillow. His pale skin and flattened hair repelled him. The collar around his neck chafed his skin.

How long had he been like this? It seemed like only a day or two since he and Paul had been playing hockey on the street. At any other time, he would have recorded in his diary how new experiences made him feel, so he would remember them. Now, he wanted to forget everything.

He tried to interrupt the machine again, and again he failed. He swallowed hard, casting his thoughts about for another way to defeat it. He could feel the buildup of mucus in his throat. Maybe, he decided, he wouldnt cough. The tube would fill up, blocking the unwanted air from slipping in. Then he and his sorrow could drown together, silently. He decided to keep still and let it happen. He was hidden by the white cloth screen the voices had placed around his machine, but forgotten to remove when theyd last worked on him. Now was his chance. The screen would hide the twisted expression on his face; he hoped the noise of all the other machines in the room would conceal any sounds he made.

But his cough reflex kicked in and he choked loudly. From out of nowhere, the screen was whisked away. Two hands appeared above him, slipping a narrow hose into the tube in his throat, suctioning up the guck. The hands cleaned up the edges of the tube with a washcloth. Without making eye contact, the person behind the white mask used a hand to give Dales hair a brief pat. There, a womans voice behind the mask pronounced. All better now. The hands and the faceless being disappeared.

The air came back, fresher than before. High above him, the white ceiling was his sky. He tried to sigh, but the iron lung deprived him of even a moments personal despair. In and out, in and out, evenly, unrelentingly. Again, the mirror reflected his unhappy face.

Mom ... He tried to call out, but his voice came out as a gurgle.

How could he die if everything and everyone was trying to keep him alive?

CHAPTER 2

Here I come!

Dale leaned forward and planted his boots firmly on the pavement, his eyes on the red, blue, and white rubber ball racing toward him. He gripped his goalie stick, shifting it between his knees as Paul deked from side to side, avoiding little patches of ice on the road. The ball slid and bounced ahead of the stick but couldnt escape Pauls blade. Dales senses went on high alert, anticipating his friends best efforts to get the ball past him.

A split second later, the whack came. The ball sailed high on the right. Dale pulled himself back up and shot his right arm out, snapping the ball from the air with his hand. The shock stung his palm through his thin gloves; in that moment, Dale wished he had the soft goalie mitt that could protect his hand against the blow of the puck. Hed had to turn the mitt in at the end of the hockey season.

But this was street hockeyno cushioned mitts, and a ball instead of a puck. The ball bounced back, harmless now, and headed straight for the water by the curb.