The Boots My Mother Gave Me (23 page)

“You too, Dad.” He closed his bedroom door, locking it behind him. I shivered from the cold. He closed the window, pulling the covers back from where he had rested. “Should be all nice and toasty,” he said, motioning for me to take his bed. “I’ll sleep in the rocking chair.”

“Thanks, Miah,” I whispered as I snuggled in, finally feeling safe and warm. He tucked the covers around me, switched the bedside lamp off, and pulled a blanket from the foot of his bed, wrapping himself in it, sinking into the rocking chair. The moon, full and bright, cascaded through the window, providing a natural nightlight. He propped his feet up on the side of the bed, finding a comfortable position in the chair, and there we were, Jeremiah Johnson and me.

“Remember when you used to climb up that thing at all hours of the night?” his voice interrupted my memory. I looked from the ladder to him lying there, his eyes open, studying me. I wondered how long he had been awake. “Must feel awkward, you in the rocker and me in the bed.”

“A little. You hungry?” I asked.

He shook his head. “Embarrassed, maybe...not hungry. I’m sorry about the other day.”

“Me too.” Our exchange followed by silence.

“Is he good to you?” I nodded my head, looking away. I didn’t know how to approach talking about Xander with him. “Are you happy?”

“Yeah,” I answered softly, making eye contact with him.

He took a deep breath, wincing a little with his inhale. “Well, that’s all I need to know, then.” We sat quietly, his mouth forming into a playful smile. “Aren’t you going to ask me to be your
male of honor...
at the wedding?” I broke up laughing. He braced his pillow to his chest, attempting to hold his ribs in place while he joined me. It felt good to laugh with him. We were going to be okay.

“So, what happened over there?” I asked, divvying up his morning medications.

“EOD.” I looked at him puzzled. “Explosive Ordinance Disposal. We were covering for them, guys who deactivate explosives, bombs. It didn’t feel right, the whole situation. We started to clear out, and then, boom. That was the last thing I heard before my body was airborne. Don’t remember a thing from then on, until that day I saw you in the hospital.”

“All the sedation can cause some amnesia, which might be a good thing,” I said, handing him a cup full of pills.

“I do remember waking up on and off with a bunch of chords and wires, stuff all over me, something shoved in my throat. Now, that was unsettling.” He took the pills, washing them down with water. “I’ve had two tours, one in Afghanistan, one in Iraq, and I’ve never felt as helpless or scared as I did in the hospital. Why do they do that to people?”

“To save your life.”

“Good God. Can’t they find some other way? All the technology we have. I’m telling ya, that was a horrible experience, Harley-girl. And those damn things they had me tied down with.”

“Well, that’s because you wouldn’t quit fighting. They can’t have you wrestling about and pulling all the things from your body that are required for you to live,” I explained, tidying up his room. “And that tube down your throat was a breathing tube, filling your lungs with air, keeping you among the living.”

“Kat said you’re a nurse in the city. You like it?”

“It’s okay.”

“You still writing?

“Not so much these days. I’m trying to heed my mother’s advice and get a
real
life.”

He grinned. “How’s that working out for ya?”

“Aw, I hate it, Miah,” I blurted out, surprising myself with the truth, taken aback as my feelings revealed themselves. “It felt good to say that!”

“Say it again.”

“I hate it. I really, really hate it. That’s such a strong word. Okay, I dislike it. Yeah, I feel better about that one, dislike. It’s so...stifling, heavy, constrictive,” I searched for words of emphasis. Jeremiah looked out the window deliberately, his eyes searching. “What are you doing?”

“I’m looking for flying pigs. Did hell freeze over and I’m the last to hear?” he ragged. “I never thought I’d see the day Harley LeBeau took advice from anyone on how to live her life.” I ducked my head shamefully. Really, it was a sad thing. How did I end up here? Doing the
right
thing, the responsible thing, what’s expected of me? It wasn’t a bad life, just not the life I planned for myself.

“People change. They evolve,” I said, smiling.

“Sounds like you’ve expired,” he joked. I swatted him playfully on my way to gather shaving supplies from the bathroom, returning with them. His smile dissipated. “I knew this girl once. The quickest way to get her to do anything, tell her she couldn’t, she shouldn’t. She would, just to prove you wrong.”

“Maybe I’m tired of proving myself.” I sat beside him on the bed, putting a bowl of hot water, shaving cream, and a razor on the bedside stand. I pushed the button on the bedrail, sitting him upright.

“You can’t please everybody, Harley. It’s not your responsibility to make your mom happy. You can’t live your life for her.”

“I do want to make Mom happy. I always have. That’s why I tried so hard, pushed myself in school, academically, athletically, everything. She had enough disappointment at home, she didn’t need any trouble from me,” I said. “But I make my own choices. Nobody twists my arm.” I dipped a washcloth into the water. “Lay your head back,” I requested, a familiar scenario. I became highly skilled in grooming him at the hospital.

“You don’t have to do this. Now that I can sit up, all I need is a mirror,” he said.

“Oh, so you don’t like my shave?”

“I didn’t say that. What man doesn’t like being catered to?”

“Well, then lay your head back.” He did as I instructed. “I kind of like it. Maybe I’ll become a barber, for a while.” He smiled, shaking his head. “I even picked up a barber brush yesterday at Calvin’s. You remember, down on Main, catty-corner to Benny’s, Calvin’s Barber Shop. ‘Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow,’” I quoted the slogan that had been painted on his window for years.

“Dad and I used to go there once a month to get our ears lowered.” He grew silent with the memory. I held the moist towel to his face, allowing it to soften his stubble before removing it, applying the shaving cream with the brush as Calvin had instructed, softly, thoroughly. “That feels good,” he said.

“I miss your dad. I wish he could be here, to see what you’ve done with your life. He’d be so proud.”

“Ya think?”

“No doubt.” I worked the grain of his hair with my razor.

“Yeah, he would, wouldn’t he? He always had a way of making me feel larger than life.” I tenderly scolded him to hold his lip still as I shaved above it. He waited until I finished before continuing, “He’d get a kick out of this, tomboy Harley delicately shaving my face.”

“I can get rid of the delicately,” I teased, coaxing his head toward me with my hands. “Here, let me have the other side.” I felt his eyes on me, watching me as I attempted to manipulate the razor skillfully, with just enough, but not too much pressure against his skin. “When are the guys coming out from your recon unit?”

“It’ll be a little while. They’re still on assignment,” he spoke tight-lipped, as I continued to shave him, my eyes focused on his jaw line, freeing it of stubble. It was square, rugged, and exquisitely handsome. I loved shaving his face. It was intimate, really. Maybe there’s something to be said about the natural instincts of animals to groom each other. It’s truly bonding.

“What?” I asked, unable to ignore his eyes taking me in, as I moved down to his neck, shaving it up toward his face with the grain.

“You still do that...with your lip, bite the inside of it when you concentrate.”

I annihilated one last stretch of stubble, wiping at the residual shaving cream. Filling my hands with aftershave, I lightly tapped his face and neck with the soothing concoction, my hands resting a little too long on his face at times. I had to remind myself to pull them away.

“I missed you,” he said softly, as if the sentiment escaped his lips without his knowing. “Sorry.” He turned his head from me, clearing his throat. “So, why am I upstairs?” He changed the subject immediately, looking around the room. “I mean, I’m not a nurse or anything, but even I know the guy who can barely walk might not perform his best on a flight of stairs.”

“There’s a method to my madness,” I assured, cleaning up the shaving supplies. “Studies say people recover better in their natural habitat.”

“Sure,” he said, making fun, “because I didn’t live in the whole house. I lived in my bedroom.”

“There’s a bit more to it than that.” I giggled, swatting him on the leg with the washcloth, as I walked to the bathroom to rinse out the shaving basin. “It’s about the
feng shui,
your room is perfect, it has great direction and natural sunlight pushing through the window every morning, and it has good energy, perfect to promote healing.” I returned to his bedside, fluffing the pillow behind him. “Also, it’s about identification. This was your room when you were a sweaty, hormonal, adolescent jock, strong, indestructible, and driven. So it’s the perfect place for you to identify those feelings and use them in your recovery. You’ll need that part of yourself when we start rehab in two weeks.”

“Two weeks? I can’t lay in this bed two more weeks.”

“You have no choice, sweet cheeks.” I chuckled at the moniker to which he grinned, rolling his eyes. “Strict orders, no pressure on the lower back for at least a month, two weeks in the hospital, two weeks at home. Enjoy it while it lasts. Think of yourself as man’s best friend, your primary tasks, eat, sleep, sit, and lie down. We’ll work on sick’em and fetch when you get on your feet.” I smiled, pushing the button on his bed, causing him to lie back. He grimaced slightly with the movement, finally settling into a comfortable space.

“I think you missed your calling, Harley-girl. You would have made a good drill sergeant, as many orders as you’re throwing around.”

I ignored his rebuttal. “What will it be this morning, a book, a movie, video game, peace and quiet...what’s your poison?” I inquired how he wanted to pass the time.

“How about some music? You have any songs I haven’t heard?”

“I haven’t played in a while, and my guitar is at Gram’s,” I quickly dismissed.

“My old Fender is in the closet, amp and everything.”

“No way!” I helped myself to the contents of the closet. “I remember when you guys...you, Terry, Zac and Danny...were going to start a band.”

“Yep, we wanted to be musicians because musicians got the girls.”

“Like you needed any help with the girls,” I added, tuning the guitar. “I do have this one I was thinking about last night.”

“Let’s hear it,” he said.

Even though I hadn’t played in a long time, I went with the riding a bike adage, hoping my fingers would remember the chords. They did, unsure at first, settling into the rhythm, playing my newest theme song. Jeremiah listened intently, as I sang along:

Can’t get it right,

I’m always wrong.

Think I know what I like,

Then I want it gone.

Don’t wanna be rich,

Don’t wanna be poor.

Don’t wanna be a bitch,

Or a nice girl anymore.

Complicated, Aggravated,

Being me gets me so frustrated.

Wanna give you everything you’re missing in your life,

I just can’t get it right.

F
or the next few weeks that’s what we did, holed up in his bedroom, reading books and poetry, playing music, watching movies, talking for hours, passing the time, like teenagers again. Kat continued to take turns with me, the two of us at Jeremiah’s or Gram’s most of the time.

Mom and my aunts had set up camp at Gram’s, wanting her to feel loved as she left this earthly place. Mom’s biggest concern, she did not want Gram to die alone. It was a beautiful thing to be a part of, the women of the family coming together, taking care of her and one another, such givers and nurturers. With a woman, you know you’re always going to get as good as you give. There was so much love, laughter, caring and sharing at Gram’s house. It felt like what heaven might feel like, joyful, light, and safe.

And again, I found myself reminded of life’s ironies. Gram prepared for her passing, her life, as she knew it, as we all knew it, coming to an end while Jeremiah healed, improving steadily to resume his life, preparing to live the rest of it. He fussed at Kat and me that he was fine, we should be with Gram, not splitting our time between them.

One afternoon at his house, I prepared the spare bedroom for a delivery of rehabilitative equipment while he napped. The doorbell rang. Sure it was the physical therapy company, I swung the door open to find a stunningly attractive woman, looking as inquisitively at me as I did her. She didn’t look like she had any rehab equipment to deliver. Tall, statuesque, with wavy black hair, deep brown eyes, high cheekbones, and full lips, she was gorgeous, a regular Raquel Welch. Something about her features seemed familiar to me.