The Boots My Mother Gave Me (24 page)

“Can I help you?”

“I’m looking for Jeremiah. I’m Dahlia Johnson...his mother,” she spoke nervously.
Oh my gosh, yes!
I thought to myself, identifying the familiarity of her face. Jeremiah shared many of her traits. I hadn’t seen her in years.

“Come in, please.” I pulled the door back. She wore a long, flowing wrap-dress with stylish heels. She smelled like chocolate walking by me, passing over the threshold. I closed the door behind her as she looked around the house, taking in its aura, emotions reflecting in her eyes. “I’m Harley,” I said, breaking the uncomfortable silence.

“I know.” She turned to me. “I remember you used to come play with Jeremiah. I see you’ve outgrown the pigtails.” She smiled, her hand pushing my hair back off my shoulder, like a mother would. “How’s your mom?” she asked, surprising me. I didn’t know she and my mother were acquaintances.

“She’s okay. My grandmother’s sick. She’s managing.”

“I always liked your mom. When we moved here in 1982, your mom walked down here with a homemade apple pie and a loaf of homemade bread, welcoming us to the neighborhood. I answered the door with tears in my eyes. And do you know, she sat with me for hours.” She looked at a picture of her late husband, Doug Johnson. They never divorced. She stroked the frame tenderly. “Didn’t know me from Adam, but when she left, I felt I had known her all my life.”

Her eyes found a family portrait on the wall, her, Jeremiah, and Doug, from years ago. She turned back to me after studying it momentarily. “Where’s my boy?”

“He’s upstairs, in his old room.” She looked as though she wanted to run up the stairs, but her legs wouldn’t cooperate, she stood motionless. I took her hand, gently persuading her. “Come on. I bet he’d love to see you,” I said, leading her up the stairway. She stopped at the door to his bedroom, looking in on him. He was asleep.

“Isn’t he beautiful,” she whispered, taking him in with her eyes, her tears forming. I smiled at her, nodding in agreement. She looked at him like some rare, priceless thing. “He’s his father’s son.” Tears escaped down the sides of her face. “Is he going to be all right?”

“He’ll be good as new in a few more weeks. He’s strong, Dahlia.”

“He looks so peaceful. Let him rest,” she said, turning from the room, as the doorbell rang.

This time, it
was
the rehabilitation equipment. Dahlia helped me prepare the spare room, pulling body bands from a box and hanging them on their respective hooks on the wall. “Is it safe to assume that ring on your finger is from Jeremiah?” she asked.

I covered it quickly, becoming aware, once again of its presence. “Um...no,” I spoke quietly. “I met him in New York. I live there now. I know it may seem kind of weird that I’m here taking care of Jeremiah. But he knows, Xander, my fiancé, he knows I’m here.”

She smiled. “Harley, you don’t have to explain. You sound like me, years ago, always defending myself and my choices, who I was, what I wanted to do.” Opening another box of supplies, she continued, “It’s hard isn’t it, wanting more out of life than those around you.”
How did she know?
I remained quiet, my focus on setting up the equipment. “I know people’s opinion of me. I left my husband and my child. I was a slut, a deserter, and an unfit mother. It’s never as clear-cut as it seems, is it?”

“No,” I agreed definitely.

“People couldn’t comprehend why I didn’t want to live here, settle down, and have a
normal
life. Moving here was Doug’s dream, not mine. I tried it, and it didn’t work for me. So I went back to Chicago, joined up with my old theater troupe and got my life back, the one I set out to live,” she explained solemnly.

“Maybe it wasn’t right. I could have handled it differently, and I should have come back more often. I loved Doug and I certainly love my son. It hurt too much to keep coming back, only to leave again. It hurt everyone, so I stayed away,” she confessed. “I’ve had lovers, partners if you will, but none of them ever took the place of Doug. He was the one. And my boy, I wanted to take him with me, you know, but Doug wanted him, too.” She paused, fighting the urge for tears.

“They needed each other, what’s a father without a son?” she reasoned. “I couldn’t take Jeremiah away from him. Doug was born to be a father. He was so good with him. So, I left. Living here would have been suicide for me. If I stayed for Jeremiah, for Doug, I wouldn’t have been any good to them, anyway. It would have left me absolutely numb,” she finished, sitting down on the weight bench.

“Have you told Jeremiah this? He’ll understand,” I encouraged.

“I want to. I’m not a bad person, Harley, not like people think I am.” She looked down at her hands, fidgeting, unsure whether she tried to convince me, or herself.

“I think we’re our own worst critics. Sometimes it’s hard for us to believe we’re not bad, when we choose ourselves in life,” I said. Both of us fell quiet momentarily, pondering our conversation. “How do you like the stage?”

Her facial expression lightened. “Still in love with it. We just finished our London tour of
A Streetcar Named Desire.”

“Let me guess...Blanche Du Bois.”

“You got it, baby,” she assured, getting to her feet, taking her stance and reciting her favorite line from the play, “‘I know I fib a good deal. After all, a woman’s charm is fifty-percent illusion.’”

I smiled, applauding quietly. “I would love to see one of your shows.” I bet she was commanding on the stage.

“I’d like that, very much. Have you ever done any performing?”

“A little singing, songwriting, some acting, very minor though.” Attaching the pull-up bar to the rafter in the ceiling, I said, “I’ve graduated to a
real
job. And I’m trying to stick with it, like it.”

“Oh, you’re in that phase, huh,” she said, holding up one end of the bar, while I attached the other. “You’ll find your way back to it. We always do.” She looked at me smiling, as she counseled.
How ironic,
I thought, that Jeremiah’s mother and I would be so similar. Maybe that was the universe’s way of correcting things. His mom wasn’t around when he was a kid, but he had his very own parallel version in me.

We stopped with the noise of the television coming from upstairs. Dahlia looked to me, unsure of what to do, knowing Jeremiah lay awake only yards from her. “You go. I’ll finish this,” I urged. “There’s a protein shake and some fresh cut pineapple in the fridge. He might be hungry.” She kissed me on the cheek before turning to the kitchen and proceeding up the stairs.

I smiled happily upon hearing his unexpected, heart-warming response to her. What an exquisite surprise for them both. Dahlia stayed with Jeremiah for a long weekend. I left them alone to catch up, checking in every now and then.

Tuesday afternoon, back to the usual schedule, Jeremiah started his rehabilitation. He was doing well, but pushing too hard, as I anticipated. From the stereo, a mix of
pump-you-up
workout music played, a little Ozzy, a little AC/DC, some Jay-Z. We mixed it up, anything conducive to his mental preparation, as physical therapy proved quite taxing.

The room was hot because I turned up the thermostat to a balmy eighty-degrees in the middle of summer, hoping to aid his muscles, keeping them warm and limber. After stretching him out, generating circulation to his system, we began. He made it through the first few exercises before soaking through his t-shirt and pulling it off, much to my chagrin.

Not that I didn’t like what I saw under the t-shirt; just the opposite, I liked it entirely too much for an engaged woman. I kept looking at my ring as a reminder. I would have thought a month of inactivity would have quenched the swell in his chest and his arms. No such luck. The boy was fine. I followed the shapely path from his pecs to his torso and lower abs, covered with a brace, knowing what lay beneath, as captivating as what was accessible to the naked eye. I stood beside him, counting off leg extensions as he performed. With each click of the cable, I watched his legs flex, defining the underlying muscle, strong and tolerant.

“It’s not enough weight. I can barely feel it.”

“That’s the point. Start small and build up. Too much too soon could buy you another month in bed. Okay, now to chest presses,” I read from the regimen, attempting to get him to move along without any static. He rolled his eyes but obliged. Lying in bed for a month, he grew edgy, as anybody would, impatiently waiting to feel one hundred percent again.

He lay down on the bench, readying himself under the bar with twenty-five pounds on each end. “Harley, this is ridiculous. I usually warm up with one eighty-five, and you got me lifting twenty-fives.”

“I’m following the sheet, Jeremiah. Just do it.”

He took the bar hastily off the rack, beginning his set of fifteen, as per the schedule. I stood behind him at the head of the bench, my hands spotting the bar as he lifted up and down. I watched his chest, his arms, contract and relax with each repetition, his body glistening with moisture, my mind recollecting the weekend we spent together in Maui. Images of our bodies entwined flashed in my head like a slide show.
Pull it together, Harley.

We continued with this scenario for the next hour. He fought me on every exercise, insisting he needed to lift more, do more. I put up a good front, authoritative in following the rehab plan as ordered, while continuing to watch him, taking him in as if he were the last ice cube in my glass on the hottest day of the year.

Why did he have to affect me like that, why did I let him?
For crying out loud, it’s just a body!
I had seen bodies before. What was so special about this one, other than the fact it looked like it was meticulously chiseled by Michelangelo himself, in all its perfection.

He finished his last exercise, pull-ups on the bar in the middle of the training station, facing the mirror as I faced him, my back to its reflective surface. Foo Fighters’
Times Like These
blared from the speakers of the stereo. On his final set, his body was drenched, his hair lying against his forehead, as drops of perspiration fell along his temples.

His shaving ignored since I had been here last, left a generous five o’clock shadow. He was raw, authentic in his bounty. I watched, completely aware of every vibrant inch of his body, in all its glorious maleness. I looked at my engagement ring, yet again, with a forceful, cleansing exhale.

“Last one, Miah,” I coached. He pulled up, his jaw clenched. Letting himself down, he pulled up again. “Okay, Miah, that’s it.”

“Just a few more,” he gritted.

“Miah, come on. You did great. That’s it. You can start back tomorrow.” He didn’t listen, he just kept going, his arms shaky, his breathing labored. “Jeremiah, that’s enough,” I demanded, stepping closer to him.

His hands losing their grip on his last pull-up, he dropped to the floor. He landed heavily on his feet, his lower back suddenly subjected to the full brunt of his weight. He grimaced, lunging in my direction. I held my arms out, grabbing his hips, attempting to steady his body. His arm clung to my waist as the other found contact with the wall, his momentum pinning me between.

I felt his chest heave against mine, unsure if it was from the exercise or the closeness. I tried to back up, away from him, with nowhere to go. I was trapped, in a place that felt so good, right where I wanted to be, unfortunately recognizing it as the last place I should be. He removed his hand from around my waist, both arms above me now, propping himself against the wall, relieving his weight, physically setting me free.

I pulled my hands from his hips, following his body with my eyes until I looked up into his. He had that look, pain, simply waiting to be turned into pleasure. I wanted to kiss him. I wanted to shove him down on the weight bench behind us and take everything he had to give, everything. We stood there, our mouths inches apart. The only thing physically connecting us, our chests, steadily, rhythmically moving air in and out at labored speeds.

“I have to go,” I murmured, pushing past him and out of the room as the front door opened.
Thank God!
Kat arrived to relieve me. I hugged her quickly, picking Megan up and carrying her out the door.

“Gotta run, Kat. See you in the morning,” I called back to her, as she looked after me in complete confusion.

I piled in Charlene and took off, driving over the dirt road behind Jeremiah’s house, eventually leading back to my parents’, the long way around. I needed some time to defuse, get my thoughts and feelings straight.

As I drove, my own words wrote themselves into musical prose in my mind. I tried to shake them, ignore them, pretend I didn’t hear or feel them as they escaped my most internal thoughts:

Don’t you think I can feel it?

The nearness of you.

When you’re close to me,

I have all I can do.

Your eyes, they find mine,

I have to look away to the wall.

Maybe I wouldn’t want you so bad,

If I could only touch you at all.

I don’t wanna hurt him,

Can’t fight it anymore,

I wanna let myself fall.

I could be yours,

You could be mine somehow,

If I could only touch you at all.

Pulling into the driveway at home, I continued to fight my own thoughts of him, sure to drive me absolutely mad. It was my night to stay over at Gram’s. After picking Mom up, we would head that way. I walked through the door to my parents’ house. “Ma, you ready?” I called.

“Almost, I’m about to pull your dad’s dinner out of the oven.”

“Smells good.” I walked to the kitchen, pacing the floor unconsciously.

“What’s the matter with you?”

“Nothing. Why does something have to be the matter?”

“You always pace when you’re thinking.” She watched me momentarily. “It’s Jeremiah. He’s got you all stirred up. When are you going to learn the two of you cannot be just friends? That boat sailed when you guys hit high school. You’re playing with fire, Harley. You’re an engaged woman, playing house with a childhood sweetheart.”