Her hair is falling out of her bun. I reach up and tuck a falling lock of hair behind her ear, encouraging her to look at me “Hey now, what’s wrong?” I ask gently.
“Well, you didn’t need to know all of that. I have this nasty little habit of oversharing every random thought that pops into my head,” Kiera answers with a self-deprecating half shrug.
“Don’t worry about it. I much prefer honest thoughts to coy games. They may be less glamorous, but at least they are real,” I proclaim sincerely. It’s true. I hate the games people play in relationships when no one says what they really mean. I’ve watched my stepdad do that to my mom for years. I also want the kind of love you’re talking about. My grandfather called it being somebody’s everything — a kind of love where you love someone until the stars fall from the sky.”
Kiera’s eyes glisten with unshed tears, “Wow! I’m not the only one with an impossibly high bar to reach. That is beautiful. You must have really loved your grandfather.”
“I did. He was a great role model in so many things. Yet, most of all, I hope to be the husband and dad he was,” I respond, shocked at how deep the conversation had become. I had never shared the majority of this stuff with another soul and here I am spilling my guts to Kiera on our first date. The weird thing is that it doesn’t really feel like a first date to me. It feels like our souls have been connected for a thousand years. I don’t feel like I have to be anything but the real me with her. I can be the shy bookworm that actually likes the History and Discovery Channel. I don’t have to pretend to be a super-stud with Kiera. Since that persona doesn’t really fit me all that well, I am relieved.
I really hope she likes me as much as I like her. Chemistry buzzes between us like its own magnetic force field. We settle into a mundane conversation about our lives and dreams. The next thing I know, I look at my watch and realize two and a half hours have passed in what seems like a blink of time. “I hate to cut this short, but I have to start lifeguarding at 2:00 this afternoon and I still have to swing by the house to change and get my gear.”
Kiera responds, “Okay, I don’t want to make you late. I had a great time Jeff.”
As I lift Kiera to place her in the truck, I hold on to her a couple of minutes longer than I need to. She fits perfectly in my arms; it’s as if she is meant to be there. I set her down on the truck bench then I stand beside the doorframe of my truck and lean in for a kiss. Her lips are soft like a rose petal. They taste like cinnamon and nutmeg from the chai tea and vanilla from the scone. At first, I am able to keep the kiss chaste and reasonably tame.
Suddenly, Kiera grabs the back pockets of my jeans and pulls me closer deepening the kiss. Kiera moans softly and traces my bottom lip with her tongue, “Umm Yummy.” She comments as she strokes my chest. I thought I might spontaneously combust. I pull away and kiss the rapidly beating pulse at her neck and then her shoulders. She smells like an exotic spice tea from Chinatown; warm, tempting and delicious.
“Pip, I need to stop before I don’t want to leave and I really need to take you home so I can go to work,” I quietly pant trying to catch my breath with as much dignity as I can muster. “Please say you’ll go out with me again for an official date with flowers and all the trimmings.”
Kiera blushes bright red, “Of course I will. Did you actually think we wouldn’t do this again after all we’ve shared today?” She reaches up and feathers her fingers over my eyebrows and down the sides of my jaw and taps each of my dimples. “You are a silly, silly man!” she chides softly.
“I just want to be sure that I didn’t cross any lines I shouldn’t have,” I confide, shyly.
Kiera sighs deeply. “Oh my dear, sweet Jeff, I must be a really bad flirt if you don’t already know how many of those lines I not only want you to cross, but to completely obliterate.”
If it’s physically possible for me to swallow my tongue, I think I just did. She gives new meaning to the word sexy. “I’ll call you after work with the details,” I respond as I turn to get in the truck.
Chapter 10: Kiera
When Jeff gently kisses me good-bye at my front door, pulls away, and then second-guesses his decision and returns to kiss me with slightly more force and rhythmically suck on my bottom lip. I’m grateful for the mere functionality of the wheelchair. First, without it. I would have been the equivalent of overcooked Raman noodles. Useless for nothing except some obscure abstract design contest.
Usually, a wheelchair is pretty good at hiding wet spots caused by lust. Yet, it might be already too late for me. Rather than be afraid to touch me like most people, Jeff seems to relish the idea. Presently, he has me gathered in a full-bodied hug from chest to knee in the front and one arm is crossing my shoulders in the back. His other hand is cupping my bottom and he can surely feel the obvious sign of my desire.
Jeff breathes a sigh of relief, “Whew. I’m glad I am not the only one who can’t control basic bodily functions when we’re together.” He gives me another deep lingering kiss which only exacerbates my problem.
Jeff sits me back in the chair as if I’m a Faberge egg on loan from the Louvre. “Pip. I know this sucks, and I’m sorry. If I ran the universe, we’d have five days instead of five minutes. Unfortunately, reality intrudes and I have to go to work. With 100% certainty, I know I would rather be with you. Hands down, no questions asked. I promise,” he continues earnestly as he plants a light kiss on the end of my nose and brushes another along my jawline, “I’ll call you later,” he whispers in my ear as he heads to his truck.
I watch as his truck leaves the small parking lot leaving a cloud of dust in its wake. I hear a loud boom as his truck backfires again. I shake my head and snicker. No one is going to miss him coming or going. Man, I hope he spends more time coming than going. Kiera! You dirty, dirty girl. I smile at the lascivious direction my thoughts are going, and I notice my hands tremble. Girl, get a grip. That stuff only happens in steamy romance novels and chick flicks. At the moment, my life bares no resemblance to either. I’m getting my Master’s degree online while I’m interviewing traumatized kids in a mud-colored cubical. There’s nothing glamorous going on in my world. It’s very likely that I’m just a puzzle he needs to examine before moving on.
Speaking of classes, I should check to see if the book list is up for my very last class. I have been putting this one off. The very title makes me shudder. Research Statistics. Really? I’m going to be a social worker. Since when does talking to people require graduate level math? It’s enough to make me break out in hives.
I check online, and I am relieved to find that it’s available on my Kindle. Score! One less albatross to carry around. I order it. I hop in bed and gamely start reading it and work on the problems that accompany each subchapter. As I check my answers three and a half hours later, I find that I’ve only succeeded in correctly answering two out of twelve correctly. Seriously? An untrained monkey would score higher than this! I’m a smart woman with a 3.80 GPA, why can’t I understand math?
I toss my Kindle and spiral notebook paper aside and slam my body into my wheelchair in frustration as I head to the bathroom. I stop by the linen closet and practically growl as I knock over a whole stack of towels trying to reach one. Real smooth Einstein. What do you plan to do for an encore? Pull down the drapes? I use the restroom and then undress and transfer to the bath bench.
I turned the shower on full blast, forgetting that I have to pull a little stopper to engage the hand-held sprayer. Consequently, I let out a screech that would wake the dead from my resulting assault with ice water from the over-head showerhead. I quickly pull the lever on the faucet to redirect the water. Ahh, much better. There’s a lot to be said for a good quality showerhead, and my friend doesn’t skimp on the fixtures.
I unbraid my hair and get it wet. Heather is a caterer, but she has been branching out into soap making. She has made me some shampoo that smells so much like peach pie that every time I use it, I’m tempted to eat it instead of wash my hair. The bod
y soap she developed is like swimming in orange spice tea. All of her scents are food related, and since she creates each one privately based on her clients’ taste, she won’t tell me how many she has done.
As I finish shaving and rinse off the rich lather, I close my eyes and allow myself to imagine what it would be like if Jeff’s strong hands were stroking me. I imagine him giving my breasts the same gentle, but very thorough treatment he gave my lips earlier today. My body tingles at the memory, my heart rate increases and my breathing shallows.
As I fall further into the clutches of my own fantasy, my nipples harden and my clitoris swells. Almost without conscious thought, I rest my head against the back wall of the bathtub enclosure and aim the massaging showerhead between my thighs. I draw a deep breath as I feel the tension growing in my body. Waves of pleasure wash over me and I have to catch my breath.
It’s weird not being able to feel everything that’s happening yet to experience parts of it or the side effects of it. It just doesn’t seem to be the great big event like in “Harry Meets Sally.” Don’t get me wrong. It feels great. I know I’m lucky. Not all of my friends with spinal cord injuries are able to experience any sort of orgasm. One of my girlfriends who is a quadriplegic swears she acquired the ability to have an orgasm from her husband merely kissing her neck. It’s sometimes referred to as “phantom orgasm.”
Before meeting Jeff, I was dubious; now I’m not so sure.
At any rate, I am now over my “math tantrum” and I’m in a much better mood. I put on one of my dad’s oversized T-shirts in faded hunter orange with “I made it! I’m a TRUCKER!” emblazoned across the front. As I curl up in bed, and flip through the channels, I find an episode of America's Next Top Model. They are seriously arguing over who has the best buzz on. What would they do if they had real problems other than being 5’8 instead of 5’10? My phone rings and startles me, causing me to jump.
“Hello?”
“Hi Kiera? This is Jeff. How are you?”
“Umm. I’m fine, how are you?” Geez Kier, way to sound like a rocket scientist.
“I am sorry this isn’t going to work out”
My heart drops to my toes. “It’s okay, I understand,” I utter, wanting to beat him to the punch for a change. I’ve been on the receiving end of this speech far too many times.
“Actually, you don’t understand because you didn’t let me finish,” Jeff chides with a heavy sigh. “The next few weeks are crazy for me. In reality, the whole next two years are going to be insane. But, I’m willing to roll with the punches if you are. I have to train my replacement as a lifeguard. Then, I have to do a two-week orientation at the prosecutor’s office. The New Lawyers Division is holding a dinner and reception a week from Friday. So, even though this isn’t working out the way I wanted because I have to wait far too long to go on an official date with you, will you please accompany me?”
“Can I have a crowbar, please? I need to pry my foot out of my mouth,” I mutter quietly, under my breath.
“No, worries, I gave you a chance to jump to all the wrong conclusions. Is that a yes or no that I hear implied in your answer?” he asks, chuckling.
“You mean to tell me that, amongst all the crap I just spewed, you’re having difficulty sorting out my yes?” I retort with a giggle and an unattractive snort, “I guess we’ll have to work on our communication style.”
“Well, since I plan to ask you out many, many, more times, you’ll have plenty of opportunities to practice saying yes as many ways as you’d like, Pip.” Jeff retorts. I can hear the smile in his voice.
“Yes, I think I may be able to do that, Counselor.” I quip.
Jeff gives a sigh of frustration, “Unfortunately, nine months of school and the bar exam stand between me and that title.”
“I understand, but I have every confidence you are going to be a rock star, so I’m going to call you my personal PC.”
“PC?” he asks, clearly puzzled.
“Pre-Counselor,” I answer him confidently. “Because you’ve got this. It’s just a matter of time.”
It got strangely quiet for a minute, I worry that perhaps I have ticked him off with my nickname. I’m disheartened. I meant it as a show of support, not disrespect.
Softly Jeff’s voice comes back on the line. It is rough with emotion. “Thanks Kiera. It’s been a while since someone has been in my corner. It means a lot to me. But, I’ve gotta let you go because I have tons of stuff to do tomorrow. I’ll try to text as often as I can. Bye, my Pip."
My eyes fill with tears at his frank admission, but I’m also smiling “Good night, my personal PC.” I whisper as I snuggle down in bed and hang up the phone. It’s amazing how just talking to him makes me grin from ear to ear.
~*~
As I come back from my lunch break on Wednesday, there is a little girl sitting in Playroom A. She looks to be about six; her ringlets are so matted they look as if they are dreadlocks and she is wearing a torn baseball shirt that is two sizes too big. I know this can’t be good. I make a quick stop by my desk to review her file. As I scan the file, I draw in a quick breath. I have been doing this for nearly two years, but I will never, ever get used to what one human can do to another. I know that I am supposed to develop some sort of shell to protect my psyche from the horrors of my job, but I can’t seem to fully separate myself yet. Each case still matters to me. Brushing away tears, I look to see if she has any allergies. I don’t see any noted, so I hit the stash in my desk and head to the playroom.
I knock softly and enter the room. It is then I comprehend the full atrocity of the situation; I swallow hard, trying not to recoil from what I see. Her left hand is bright red as if someone had dipped it in paint. Sadly, I know her grandmother held it over boiling water. It is still unclear whether she will ultimately need skin grafts. “Hi Mindy, my name is Kiera. You sure have a cool Barbie. Can I tell you a secret?” I ask with a tone of conspiracy, dropping my voice to a near whisper. Mindy’s eyes light up with interest, losing their glassed-over look for a minute as she nods shyly. “My Barbie has red hair, just like me. Can you believe that? Would you like to see it?” I offer, watching her response carefully for signs of distress.
Mindy’s eyes grow wide with delight, and she takes her fingers out of her mouth as she nods, “Uh huh.” I reach behind my back to grab the doll from my backpack. “Whacha doin”? Mindy asks, suddenly unnerved.
“If you’d like, I’m going to let you play with my special doll. But, I have to get her. She is in the pack on my wheelchair. Is that okay with you? I have other cool stuff in here too,” I reply with a casual shrug.
She carefully scrutinizes me from head to toe and back again, “How’s come you can’t walk?” Mindy asks, sucking on her hair.
“Well, Mindy it’s kind of a hard story to share, but I’ll share it with you because you’re my friend. Let’s get comfy first, shall we?” I say pointing to the two oversized beanbag chairs.
Mindy shrugs apathetically as she mumbles, ”‘Kay.”
I hop down on to the beanbag and pat the one next to me, “You’ll be able to hear my story better over here. At first, she hesitates, and then she perches on the very edge of the beanbag, ready to flee in a blink of an eye. I pretend not to notice as I start to share my story, “Sometimes, grownups do really bad things that hurt people. When I was a small girl, my mom pushed me down the stairs and hurt my back. Now, my brain can’t talk to my legs, so I use a wheelchair to get around.”
Mindy’s eyes well with tears and her nose turns red as she regards me with new interest. “Did it hurt lots?” she asks in a small voice as she trembles.
“Sweetie, I was so young, I don’t remember,” I answer, “My daddy told me I had to spend weeks in the hospital and months doing exercises to get strong. So, yes, it did hurt bunches. But, my daddy held my hand tight and helped me feel better.”
Mindy slides very close to me and cups her hand to my ear. “Miss Kiera,” she says in a stage whisper, “somebody
hurted me too.”
I fight my inner compulsion to hug her as it’s forbidden by protocol and professional ethics. Some rules just make no sense. I nod slightly and ask her, “Would you like to tell me about it?”
Mindy draws a deep shuddering breath and looks down at her hand as she reports in a soft voice, “I jus’ wanted to watch my cartoons. I didn’ know Nana was watchin’ nothin’. All of a sudden she drug me by my hair into the kitchen. She was screamin’ at me so much her teeths was comin’ out. I was so ascared.” She pauses to take a breath, and I remind myself to take one with her because I know the toughest stuff is still to come. Mindy seems to compose herself for just a second as she continues, “Nana said I was ebil an’ ebil girls get punished. Then she tried to cook me like p’sgetti. I woked up in the hop-spital.”
I make eye contact with her and hold it. “Mindy, I’m so sorry that happened to you. Your grandma Nana didn’t have the right to hurt you, no matter how you behave. No one ever has the right to put you in danger.”
“Even grownups?” Mindy asks gravely.
“Especially grownups!” I state emphatically. Even though she isn’t quite six, sadly she is already quite disillusioned with humanity. I can’t imagine anyone with more reason to distrust people. “Hey, we have a Barbie tea party to attend don’t we?” I announce placing some graham crackers, cheese sticks and juice boxes on a small table. With a flourish, I produce a slightly garish pink Barbie carrier which my dad may have thought was an appropriate birthday gift for a 14-year-old girl many years ago.
Mindy looks at the case with longing, “I migh’ break it ‘cause I’m a bad girl,” she reveals, chin trembling.
Until the Stars Fall From the Sky Page 5
