Until the Stars Fall From the Sky

by Mary Crawford

  Finally, I can no longer hold back the questions that are swamping my brain and I blurt them like paintballs from a high velocity paint gun, “Can I ask you a question? Things were going so great last night. What happened? Why did you decide to be a jerk this morning? Was it something I did?” I stop my stream of questions as I realize I’m beginning to sound like an insecure witch, but it’s too late to pull them back now. Darn my stupid curiosity. Why can’t I just learn to leave things well enough alone? I’m like a four year old that has to pick at a scab.

  Based on the surprised expression on his face, Jeff was not expecting the barrage of questions during this phase of our conversation. He speaks slowly as if he’s formulating thoughts as he answers the questions, “Those are fair questions. I’m just not sure I have coherent answers for you. You didn’t do anything wrong. This is all my sh–stuff. You had some extreme muscle spasms last night that came really close to triggering an autonomic dysreflexia episode. Seeing you in that much pain freaked me out and brought back memories of watching them resuscitate Donda when she weighed 81 pounds and was in the ICU. I felt really helpless, and I don’t know if I’m strong enough to be there for you. Frankly, I don’t know if I can be good enough for you. You deserve better than me. I took all sorts of classes and joined several support groups to help Donda with her anorexia and substance abuse problems and she still struggles every day. Having me in her life seems to bring destruction. I don’t want that kind of stuff to even come close to your life.”

  I have to take just a moment to absorb all of what he just told me and even then it doesn’t really make all that much sense unless I’ve run it through what I’m beginning to learn are “Jeff Filters“ where everything on the planet is his fault. “Well, it’s going to take me a minute to unpack all that.” I cautiously say, “First, Donda’s anorexia and substance abuse issues aren’t your fault any more than you are to blame for my spinal cord injury. They are medical diseases; there have been many causes identified for both diseases and never has having a pesky little brother been identified as a scientifically valid cause of either condition.”

  Jeff is drinking coffee and lets out a startled laugh at the cheekiness of my answer. After he stops choking, he salutes me and acknowledges, “Point taken.”

  I return his grin, but continue answering his questions, as my expression turns somber, “Look, I understand why you were scared and defensive. I haven’t helped matters any. I’ve done a terrible job of explaining my own life and issues to you. I guess I am afraid if you see the hassle of it all you might just decide I’m not worth all the trouble — ”

  “Pip, honestly, I’m so tied up right now that I can’t really make any promi — ” Jeff starts to say, but he trails off and I continue my thought.

  “Living with me is not for the faint of heart. It is messy, gritty and in-your-face. If you decide that I’m worth the risk, I’m going to warn you right up front that there are a lot of things in my life that are going to make you really uncomfortable. I have pain in my life. A lot of pain. The good news it is that I’ve lived with it for a really long time, so for the most part, it doesn’t really faze me. I deal with it at the moment and move on. The bad news is, it’s one of a million things in my life that have to be ‘managed’. Managing all of those things is a giant pain in the asterisk. For example, I’m physically capable of having children. In fact, I would really like to someday. But — and this is a big but – my autonomic dysreflexia makes it dangerous for me to be pregnant. I’ve thought about adoption too. However, I know how the selection process works and I know that the way the scoring process is weighted, agencies are unlikely to choose me because of my disability regardless of my professional accomplishments.”

  Jeff gives a strangled gasp of frustration as he declares, “That’s totally unfair!”

  I smile at his instant defense of me. Despite his assertions that he is a world-class jerk, I know better. “Tell me about it. Stereotypes are rarely fair. I’m sure you face your own set of them. A relationship between us is going to be messy,” I offer. “Although it would be devastating for me because I really, really like you, I understand if you don’t feel like you’re ready for the level of commitment that it would take to be in a relationship with me. Unfortunately, I can’t just give you the good, happy parts and hide the ugly, painful side. I can’t forget that we’ve got career issues to deal with too. You are working so hard in law school, and I don’t want to do anything to damage what you’ve got going on there. We haven’t even talked about race because it is a non-issue for me, but ultimately it may impact our relationship, so I think it needs to be something you think about when you decide whether I’m worth the risk.”

  The corner of Jeff’s mouth quirks up in amusement. “I am proud of my heritage, but I’m diverse enough to be whatever you need me to be” he quips. “I just don’t think it would be that big of a deal. If it is, we would just add it to the pile of issues we face. Planting his hands at my waist, he contemplates my face as he declares, “Seriously, Pip it never has been an issue of whether you’re worth it. It’s an issue of whether I can overcome my fears and be enough for you.”

  “Jeff, I hope you do — more than anything I’ve hoped for in a while. I’m not going anywhere in the foreseeable future. The decision is up to you. It sounds like you have some things to talk through with your family and friends. If you weigh the pros and cons and decide I come out on the plus side of the equation, you know where to find me,” I affirm softly as I brush a kiss across his cheek and ruffle my hand through his hair, Before I let my body override my brain’s better intentions, I turn and wheel down the hallway leaving Jeff standing there in the middle of my kitchen looking lost.

  Funny, that’s exactly how I feel.

  I go into my room and stick my ear-buds in, blasting my playlist on my iPhone so that I can’t hear what Jeff is doing in the living room. I am doing a reasonably good job of pretending to hold it together until Bryan Adams comes up in the rotation, and my mind is immediately transported back to our first slow dance. Tears start to stream down my face. This is what I’ve been afraid of all along. I am not good enough for him. He was really nice about putting it nice politically correct terms and all of that, but the problem boils down to the fact that I scare him. I understand completely. Some days I scare me too. Looking back on the situation, I know that I need to take lots of ownership of what went wrong. I didn’t warn Jeff about my fatigue level, didn’t tell him about my muscle spasms, and I didn’t tell him that people taking care of me is a “hot button issue” for me. Geez Kiera, set the man up for failure much? Well, when I screw it up, I screw it up in spectacular fashion. Now the issue is how do I fix it? I really don’t know the answer to that. Jeff might be ready to give up on what we’ve started, but I think we can work through whatever all of this is. To me, the problems seem to be external to the bond between us. It all seems solvable; I just have no earthy clue how.

  Sometimes my lack of relationship experience really comes back to bite me in the asterisk, and this is one of them. As I go into the kitchen to get a cup of tea, I find a sticky note on the refrigerator printed in Jeff’s bold handwriting.

  Pip,

  I’m sorry.

  Some of us butterflies

  Are slow learners.

  I know I’m going to

  Regret my decision.

  Please be patient.

  --Your Sad PC

  I smile at his use of my fake cuss words. For a self-professed jerk, he certainly has a well developed inner Boy Scout. It shatters me a little inside to know that I have brought sadness and additional stress into Jeff’s life. Law school has to be tough enough without me piling it on. I need to see what I can do to fix the mess that I’ve made.

  I glance at the clock on my cell phone and pull up a number from my contact list.

  “Daddy?”

  “Hi, Pipsqueak, my dad answers.

  “Is this a good time to call? I inquire.

  “
Yeah, the race doesn't start until late today. Earnhardt Jr. doesn’t really like this track anyway,” he explains.

  “Where’s your loyalty to Casey Kahne, Dad? He’s from our neck of the woods,” I tease.

  “Well, you root for your favorite and I’ll root for mine. I know you didn’t call to talk about racing, what’s up?” he asks.

  “Oh Daddy, it’s awful. I had a boyfriend for like twelve hours. But, I’ve already screwed it up, and I don’t know if it’s fixable.” Saying it out loud makes it so much more real and I have to choke back tears.

  My dad responds in a soothing voice, just like he used to when I skinned my elbow as a kid, “Come now, it can’t be as bad as all that. What happened?”

  “You would love him, Daddy. He calls me Pip and he uses our pretend cuss words. I’m not really sure I understand all of what happened, but he has a really tragic background and my medical issues kind of freaked him out. I don’t think I did a good enough job of warning him about what could happen and then I got pissy when he tried to help.”

  “How long have you known this young man? Is he worth all of this boohooing?” he asks.

  “I haven’t known him long. But, he is definitely worth it. Dad, I think he’s my version of what you found with Mom,” I announce softly.

  I heard my Dad draw a startled breath, “Are you sure Pip? If he calls it quits on you so easy, he might not be worthy of my little girl.”

  “First of all, I’m a big girl now, and I’m calling you for advice because I don’t think he really wants to walk away. He is just a little overwhelmed. How can I convince him to stay?” I ask, sniffling.

  My dad gives a soft chuckle as he replies, “Well, Pipsqueak, if I know you, you probably pulled some version of the same number that you’ve been doin’ since you were two. It goes a little something like this: ‘No! I can do it myself!’ Now, I know you well enough to know you don’t mean anything by it. But, your fella there may have taken it to mean that you don’t trust him enough to help you.”

  “Oh Soufflé! I totally did that! Jeff has special training as an EMT too. Oh man, he must have been so insulted,” I answer in a horrified voice.

  “Sweetie, guys like to solve problems and fix things. It makes us feel useful and provides a sense of accomplishment. It doesn’t have anything to do with you being needy. It’s just in our DNA,” my dad advises in a sage voice.

  “So, that’s why he offered to tutor me in math? I thought he was joking,” I remark.

  “If I were you, I would take him up on it. A slice or two of your fresh peach pie wouldn’t hurt your cause either,” he suggests.

  “Okay, Daddy. It’s a plan. Why only a slice or two? You aren’t by any chance angling for the rest are you? How about if I make two whole pies and give one to each of you?” I tease.

  “I suppose that would work too. By the way, a strategically placed ‘thank you’ and a heartfelt apology never hurts either. When am I going to meet Prince Charming?”

  “Well, that depends on the success of my mission,” I say with a heavy sigh.

  “I hope it works honey because I want to meet the man who thinks enough of my daughter to call her Pip,” my dad replies.

  “I hope it works too, Dad. I love you. Bye.”

  I hang up the phone. Once again, I send a prayer of thanks heavenward for my Dad. I’m grateful to have a plan.

  I send a text to Heather.

  Hi. Want to bake?

  What r we baking?

  Peach pie.

  Oh Lord Child, What did U do 2 Ur Dad?

  Nothing! Long Story.

  I’m in. Just to hear the story. I’ll bring peaches from Sat. Market. Time?

  10ish? Tara?

  She has work.

  :(

  Ok, TTYL at 10.

  ~*~

  Heather and I bake in a contented harmony. We have done this many times before, as I often help her with her catering business. At the moment, I’m peeling the peaches Heather has blanched.

  “So, he didn’t bat an eyelash when you told him you were a virgin, but he freaked out when you had a cramp?” Heather asks.

  “Well, I don’t think it’s quite that simple, but in a nutshell, yes,” I admit.

  “How did you react to that? Did you go all bossy-pants on him in your big bad therapist's voice?” she inquires, raising an eyebrow.

  I groan as I confess, “That’s precisely what I did. How did you know?”

  “I’ve been your friend for a really long time,” Heather responds. “I’ve been on the receiving end of some of those ‘helpful’ conversations and they can be pretty intense. I know you always have the best intentions, but sometimes you get so focused on giving the perfect advice that you forget to listen to what’s really being said. Sometimes I want less social worker and more friend.”

  I totally need to plead the fifth on this one. The irony of this is not lost on me as I just had a relationship crash and burn because I told him pretty much the same thing. If separating his occupation from his core values and personality are as hard for him as for me, I understand his waffling better now.

  “What am I supposed to do about the health stuff? I can’t exactly change that,” I ask, starting to feel defensive.

  “No, Sweet Pea, you can’t. I just don’t think you realize how gut wrenching it is for your support team every time you have a health crisis. Each time it happens, my heart drops and I wonder if this is the one you don’t come back from,” Heather admits.

  I look at Heather in shock. We’ve been friends since college, and she has never breathed a word of this to me. “I’m sorry, Heather. I had no idea — “, I whisper.

  “I don’t blame you. It is just how it is. I can’t imagine how much worse it is for Jeff, having been on the front lines of medicine. Didn’t you tell me he almost lost his sister too? If those two things together don’t add up to a slight case of PTSD, I’d be shocked,” she continues.

  “What can I do?” I probe.

  “Let him help if he offers. He is a man. He is going to want to take on your disability as if it’s an opponent in the gladiator ring. Don’t deny him that honor. For most of us, the guys are killing our spiders and removing garter snakes. He’s just facing down bigger monsters for you,” she suggests, like a 1950’s housewife.

  “So, I need to sit back and be docile? What about Women’s Lib?” I ask, somewhat sarcastically.

  “Trust me, you’ll be so distracted by your new extra-curricular activities that you won’t even have time to notice your newfound level of domesticity,” Heather drawls as she gives an exaggerated wink. “Seriously, I have to say from what I’ve seen, if I were to go to an online dating site and invent a fantasy guy for you, Jeff would come close to ticking off all the boxes.”

  “What if math tutoring and peach pie don’t work?” I question, as I practically tie my hair into knots. What a mess! I’ll never get it untangled. I really need to sit on my hands or something when I’m having an emotional crisis.

  “We move on to pecan and print out wedding invitations,” Heather quips, “because my pecan pie can work miracles.”

  Chapter 15: Jeff

  Fu– French toast! It’s official. I can’t even cuss correctly anymore because Kiera occupies my every waking thought. I can’t believe I was boneheaded enough to do what I just did. I regretted the words as soon as they came out of my mouth. Then, I felt stuck and acted like a bigger jerk. The sad part is that Kiera’s probably right and I need to just get over it and stop letting the past rule my life. I could have chosen not to be a jerk, I just didn’t. I need to sort out my crap so that I can invite Kiera back into my life where she belongs.

  I take Kiera’s advice and start with a call to my mom. “Hi Mom,” I say tentatively, not yet sure I want to open this can of worms.

  “Hello Jeffery,” she answers, sounding surprised to hear from me. I feel a twinge of guilt; I really should call more often.

  “It’s Jeff now Mom,” I gently chide.

/>   “I prefer to call you Jeffery — or would you rather be called Jefferson after your Grandfather?” she asks, pointedly.

  “No thank you, ma’am. Jeffery will work just fine in a pinch,” I say, feeling chastised. “Mom,” I continue awkwardly, “can I ask you some questions about Dad?”

  “Of course you can!” my mom exclaims. “I have been waiting for over two decades for you to ask me because the therapist said I should wait and let you ask on your own terms. Reluctantly, I agreed to wait, because she was a professional and all, but I didn’t know it was going to take 25 years,” she replies, sounding distressed.

  “It’s okay, Mom we don’t have to talk about this,” I offer, feeling guilty for even broaching the subject.

  “Jeff! Don’t be silly, I want to talk about him. He was my one true love. It makes me happy to remember the good times. Why do you ask?” she inquires.

  I answer her carefully, “Kevin said something devastating to me as a child that I’ve always believed to be true, until I met a woman who challenged those beliefs.”

  “Why would this girl think that?” my mom demands. “She doesn’t know anything about us.”

  “That’s just it Mom,” I explain, a touch of pride in my voice, “Kiera understands so much that it’s almost spooky. She told me to talk to you today. I need to know why Dad went jet skiing in the middle of the week. Was it because I was bad, like Kevin said? Did I kill my dad?” I exhale a shaky breath, feeling better having voiced my biggest fear out loud.

  My mom let out an audible gasp as she exclaims, “Kevin told you that? I’m going to kill the rotten bastard.”

  Butterfly. I mentally correct her. Man. I’m so far gone; there’s no hope now. I need Kiera back ASAP.

  She continues, “Don’s death had nothing to do with you or your sister. Don and his friend Lewis had just received news that they had been accepted into the Air Force academy. They went to play on the lake to celebrate. In fact, he was supposed to take you kids to IHOP the next morning. You were looking forward to it, and you were so sad that you never got to go. It was years before you could look at a pancake without throwing up.”