The Boots My Mother Gave Me (22 page)

He reached for me, unable to find me as the restraints held him down. He banged his fists and kicked his legs against the bed. “Why am I tied down? Am I crazy or something? Get me out of here, Harley, please.”

I put my hand in his. He squeezed firmly, settling. “You’re pretty banged up.” I grinned, looking at his bruised flesh, holding back the urge to cry—again. “You fractured your back in a few places. Even broke some ribs. And you won’t stay still. That’s why they’ve got you tied down,” I explained, kissing a small spot on his forehead, one of the only areas left unscathed.

“What time is it? What day is it?”

“It’s quarter after nine in the evening. And you better put your earplugs in because it’s the Fourth of July. I have a feeling we’re in for some fireworks. I got caught behind the parade today,” I warned casually.

“It’s the Fourth of July? I’m in the hospital on the Fourth of July?” Making an attempt to smile, he winced. “Does my face look as bad as it feels?”

I shook my head, taking him in with my eyes. “Still handsome as ever.” It was good to see him, to be near him.

“Why do I feel so out of it? I could fall asleep talking to you right now.” The pain pump sounded. “And there goes that damn beep again. What is that? I’ve listened to that all day.”

I chuckled lightly. “Morphine.”

“No wonder I feel like I’m doped up.”

“From what I hear, dealing with the grogginess is a walk in the park compared to the pain.” The morphine must have taken effect, as his eyes grew heavy.

“Do you think since its Independence Day, they’d let me free of these things?” He pulled against the restraints.

“Maybe. If you’d promise to be vewy, vewy quiet, and still as Elmer Fudd when he’s hunting wabbits,” I mocked. We loved Looney Tunes as kids.

He attempted to smile, catching himself as the pain shot through his bruised cheekbone. He squeezed my hand. “I’m glad you’re here.” His eyes closed, he was out again, asleep.

I pulled my chair closer to his bed so I could hold his hand as he slept, a reminder I was there. For the next week and a half, that’s how it went, he came in and out of cognizance for short periods of time. The plan was to keep him as inactive and comfortable as possible, allowing the fractures to heal.

By day fourteen, his doctors were happy with the radiology exams, his back and ribs improving, the bruises healing on his face and neck, nearly gone. He looked like my Miah again.

I returned to his room with a fresh collection of books. I read to him often as his entertainment was limited, seeing how he had to lie flat on his back, staring at the ceiling. I was happily surprised to see him sitting up in his bed for the first time, eating breakfast.

“Look,” I pointed out, pulling books out of my
bag o’ goodies. “The Last Juror
for you.
The Jane Austen Book Club
for me,” I enticed, holding both of them up as I grinned excitedly. His smile evaporated in a flash, his fork falling from his hand to the side of his plate, his eyes moved slowly from mine to my left hand.

“What’s that?”

I forgot about my ring, having worn it long enough, it rested autonomically, like an appendage. “A ring,” I said, uncomfortably fumbling with it.

“Just a ring? Or the ring?” My silence, all the answer he needed. “I think you should go. Thanks for everything. I appreciate it, but you need to go, now.” His jaw flexing, he looked away from me, out the window.

“I can’t just leave you.”

“Saturday, June 7, 1997. Ring any bells, Harley?” he referred to the morning after our graduation.

“Why are you acting like this?”

“Doc’s sending me home tomorrow. I’ll be fine. I can take care of myself. It’s evident you’ve got other things you should be taking care of.” He finally looked back at me and then to the ring. “You shouldn’t be here, with me.”

“He knows I’m here, Jeremiah. He’s perfectly okay with it.” I shut the door to his room, as our voices grew loud.

“He’s okay with it, huh? He’s okay with you coming out here to take care of some other man? He’s okay with you spending time with the guy who had you, your first time? The guy you spent a weekend in Maui with, locked up in a hotel room, barely coming up for air?” he charged. “Did you tell him, Harley? Or does he think I’m just some guy, some friend from the neighborhood?” His chest, now rose and fell, steadily at a heightened pace. I could tell he was hurting, his ribs expanding to an uncomfortable volume. He shifted himself, pulling a pillow tightly against his abdomen as instructed, in an attempt to quench the pain, stifling the expansion of his ribcage.

“Lower your voice. It’s not good for you, getting all revved up. And no, I didn’t go into details.”

He ran his fingers through his hair, irritating the crap out of me. He always did that. His hair had grown, thick and dark. It looked good. He looked good. “Why? Are you embarrassed? Ashamed? You want to pretend it never happened? What?”

“None of the above,” I snapped. “I didn’t see what good it would do to tell him everything. My fiancé doesn’t need to hear about my sexual trysts with some other man. And quit running your fingers through your hair.”

“Some other man? Sexual trysts?” he repeated vehemently. “Like it was just some kind of fling. As if it meant nothing.”

“That’s not how I meant it and you know it.”

“That’s how it sounded to me. And I’ll run my fingers through my hair any damn time I please,” he contended, taking both hands, running them haphazardly through his hair. He winced with the movement, quickly pulling his arms back down to his sides. His breathing shallow and rapid, his head fell back against his pillow as he closed his eyes, focused on calming his breathing.

“We shouldn’t be doing this right now. You...we need to calm down. I came out here to stay with you.” I drenched a washcloth with cool water. “To help you until you’re back on your feet, and that’s what I’m going to do. That’s what friends do. What we’ve always done.” I reached my hand out to put the damp cloth on his forehead, my left hand. The ring caught his eye, again.
How stupid can you be, Harley?
I cursed myself at the realization.

“Please, don’t touch me,” he spoke low and painful, turning his head away. “I don’t want you here,” he whispered, grimacing, his skin flushed and moist.

I made my way to the door, quickly calling for his nurse. I watched her from the doorway, as she pushed the drug through the IV in his hand, hoping my distance would ease his agitation.
What had I done?
I came here to help and now he couldn’t even stand the sight of me. He continued to look out the window.

“You should start feeling some relief within five minutes, Mr. Johnson,” the nurse encouraged. He nodded his head, acknowledging her. She walked from the room.

I watched him, my arms folded tightly across my middle, my left hand hidden, out of sight. After a few minutes, he pulled his head from the window, finding me, my eyes. He stared at me, his eyes dark and empty, until the pain medication hit his system in its totality. His long, curly lashes heavy, they came together. He rested.

I
called Kat to stay with Jeremiah and take him home the next day, as I prepared his house, his dad’s house, to accommodate the delivery of his medical bed. If I knew Jeremiah, he just needed a little time. Kat got him settled in and stayed with him that night, while I stayed with Gram and Megan. Since Kat had to work early the following morning, I relieved her before sunup, tiptoeing through the house in the boots Mom gave me, yet again needing a little guidance. Mom was a great caregiver, and I hoped the boots would rub off on me to help Jeremiah get back on his feet, if he’d let me.

I greeted Kat with a breakfast sandwich and a juice box, as if she were a kid going off to school. She would always be a kid to me, my little sis. She smiled wide, throwing her arms around me for the smallest of gestures, always making me feel so good.

With some fuel for her stomach, she headed out for work. I snagged her place in the rocking chair beside the window, wrapping myself in a blanket, settling in with a book. I looked around the room, much the same as I remembered it years ago, minus the football trophies and pinup posters. Well, he still had his most favorite poster, framed and hung over his dresser, it’s dwelling since his childhood. It was the classic Farrah Fawcett red swimsuit poster, and stunning she was, simply beautiful.

I looked out the window at my parents’ house, a speck from this distance, my eye catching the fire escape ladder leading to Jeremiah’s room. Mr. Johnson installed it long ago, seeing as Jeremiah slept upstairs. I think I used it more than anyone, though. My mind busied itself with memories of nights I sneaked in here after my dad’s rampages just to feel safe.

The first time I used the ladder was the night I found Mom hiding in the silage wagon.

She had put Kat and me down for bed. I was seven years old, Kat four. It was a school night for me. Kat fell quickly asleep, but I lay there, eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling, heart pounding as my father’s enraged voice carried through the house for what seemed like hours, until I heard the front door close. The house fell silent.

I got out of the bed Kat and I shared, stealthily attempting not to wake her. I escaped the bedroom, pulling the door closed behind me, as I ventured out into the living room to investigate.

The house was dark, except for the pole light shining through the window by the wood stove. Something lurked behind it. I walked in its direction, focusing my eyes, halting in my tracks at the sight of my father, lying there behind the stove with a long rifle clasped to his chest. He said nothing, perfectly silent and motionless. He just stared at me.

Holy crap!
My heart jumped up into my throat. I made a beeline for the front door, shutting myself outside in the dark. I wasn’t a big fan of the dark back then, fearing the illusive boogey man. But I would much rather be outside with the boogey man than in my own house with my father. Ironic, huh? The one person, who was supposed to make me feel safe and secure, scared the ever-loving daylights out of me. I slipped on my barn boots from the front porch and took off in search of Mom.

“Mom,” I whispered, inspecting the darkness. “Ma? Are you out here?” My light hair, long and curly, whirled about in the wind. I kept pushing it out of my face, hugging my arms to my body, attempting to shield myself from the cool night air. My favorite pink cotton nightgown blew in the breeze, nearly exposing my Incredible Hulk Underoos.

I heard an echo from inside the silage wagon, a big, square metal box on wheels, which caught corn as the combine chopped and spit it through the air.
What was she doing in the silage wagon? That was for corn, not people,
my seven-year-old mind reasoned. I climbed up on the tongue of the wagon, attempting to peek over the top, but I was too short.

“Mom?”

“Harley, go back inside,” she ordered softly. I could tell she had been crying, her voice shaky.

“Are you okay?” I placed my hands around my mouth, as I talked into the side of the wagon.

“I’m fine. Get back inside and go to bed. You’ve got school in the morning.”

“Are you cold?”

“No, Harley, I’m fine. I’ll be over in a bit. Go to bed,” her tone becoming harder.

I ran to the house as fast as my black rubber boots would carry me, returning with a blanket. “Mom, I got you a blanket. Here it comes,” I warned, throwing it over the side of the wagon. “I’m going to bed now. Night, Ma. I love you.” I ran away so she wouldn’t have to worry with scolding me again.

“I love you, too,” I heard her call after me.

I didn’t stop running until I got to Jeremiah’s house, about a half-mile down the road. I saw the lamp glowing in his bedroom window. Climbing up the fire escape, one nervous step at a time, I thought I would blow right off that ladder into thin air, the wind whipping me.

Making it to the top, I peeped in and there he lay in bed, tossing his football up in the air, catching it as it dropped. I knocked on the glass lightly, trying to avoid alerting his dad. His attention diverted to the window in mid-catch, his football landed on his stomach.

Seeing my reflection there in the glass, he hurried to the window, sliding it open, offering me a hand, as he helped me through the square opening. My breathing labored, having run all the way to his house, the heels of my feet burning from the contact of their soft flesh against the rubber of my boots, surely I would find blisters in the morning.

“What in the world are you doing?” he asked.

“I’m scared, Miah.” I hugged him to me.

“Why? What scared you?” He reluctantly hugged me back, thoroughly convinced he could contract cooties if he got too close to a girl, let alone hugged one.

“I’m just really scared and I don’t want to go home. Don’t make me go home,” I pleaded, clutching his shoulders. He pulled away from me, holding his finger up to his mouth, and walked toward his bedroom door.

“Dad, I’m going to bed now,” he yelled. “See you in the morning.”

“Okay, son,” Mr. Johnson reciprocated from downstairs. “Love ya, kid. Sweet dreams.”