Arizona Allspice

by Lewin, Renee

  “I’ll write one, Joey,” says Denise from my shoulder.

  “Me, too,” Tia bounces on the bed.

  “I don’t know,” Brittany rests her chin in her palm.

  “I’ll think about it,” Morghan tilts her head to the side.

  “How are things lately?” I ask no one in particular.

  “Miserable,” from Brittany.

  “Same old, same old,” from Morghan.

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” says Tia quietly.

  “Heartbreaking,” Denise moans dramatically.

  There is a sudden anxiety tumbling inside me. I want to know the problems, but I can’t help these girls anymore. I’m practically bedridden right now. I can’t be Superman, so I don’t ask the girls to elaborate.

  “Crushing,” I say finally.

  “What?”

  “I can’t feel my arm. You’re crushing it.” Denise sits up quickly and pouts.

  Brittany pokes Denise in the shoulder. “Girl, you almost broke his good arm!”

  I brush off the ‘good arm’ joke. She doesn’t know the extent to which I feel broken.

  Boyfriends, parents, and jobs eventually pluck each girl from my bedroom hangout and back into their daily lives. I remain.

  I can’t believe it. My hands are still tingling. Elaine felt that energy between us. But the way she leapt away from me when my untimely mother dropped in says she’s either afraid or ashamed of what she felt. I honestly thought it was an innocent move to hold her hand. The disgusted look she gave me for touching her stirred up old insecurities and prodded at new ones. I was offended and made some smart remarks I shouldn’t have. Only because I can deal with her being angry with me, but I can’t handle being treated like I’m a degenerate, like I’m beneath her. She’s the one that started this charade about us dating each other. She’s the one that begged me to help her. Oh, I’m going to do my very best to help her with her lie. I don’t care anymore if it’s going to make Elaine mad. Besides, she’s sexiest when she’s passionate.

  Who knows? Maybe she’ll get used to me holding her hand and then realize I’m not so bad. Or she could use it as a reason to never talk to me again. She promised my mother she’d take me to physical therapy, so I don’t think she’ll leave me forever. She wouldn’t leave handicapped Joey all by himself. Would she? She did just walk out on me. Elaine must think I’m a player who can’t live without female attention. I’d be bored for a few minutes, but I could live without it. The girls aren’t usually that touchy feely and attentive, but they missed me and were worried about me. I could see how that would look sickening to other people. I wish Elaine knew that her attention is the one I really want.

  TEN

  Dumb.

  That’s what Joey is. Isn’t he? I never gave Joey a reason and yet he hung onto me, the idea of me, so intensely. Man, he’s so intense. Every glance, every undercurrent in his voice, every stroke of his fingers against my skin threatens to cloud my thinking. Knowing what I shouldn’t know only makes things more confusing and emotional and awkward. It would wreak havoc beyond my control if I acted on any of my misguided romantic feelings. My life has been turned upside down and rattled enough.

  He was so silly to allow me to influence how he felt about himself. Does he not see that we can’t get along for more than five minutes? How rude do I have to be to him to make him understand that I’m not what he’s looking for? It wasn’t my fault he liked me. It’s his fault. I didn’t lead him on like Denise did to Manny. I gave him no reason.

  Why do I feel so guilty then? I feel so remorseful that, even though he and I are fire and gasoline most of the time, I stand knocking on the front door of his house waiting for him to answer so that I can fulfill a promise to take him to his two-hour appointment, three times a week, indefinitely. What am I doing? Why didn’t one of his female friends offer to take him instead? Oh, because I’m his girlfriend. What a twisted joke I played on myself.

  I’ve been standing here an entire two minutes. Answer the door already, Joey! Irritated, I raise my fist to thump on the front door again, but my hand goes limp and falls to my side before I can knock. He can’t come to the door if he can hardly walk, dummy.

  I would like to go back to my truck and leave this situation but there’s an emotion that outweighs my fear: worry. I want him to get better with all my heart. Though I am adamant that I do not and should not have feelings for Joey, I still worry about him. He was a friend to us; to Manny, Mom, and me. Sometimes the emotion of caring about him and the knowledge of his feelings for me get tangled. Now that I recognize the pattern of my mind’s own game I can be victorious over it. I can do this.

  “Joey?” I let myself in. “It’s Elaine! I’m here!” The house is silent. Not even some television noise or a clock ticking, just silence and a note on the counter. It has my name on it. “Don’t listen to any of his excuses. You’re doing good, Sweetie. Love, Amelia.” I refold it and slide the paper into the pocket on the inside of my vest. I smile inwardly at Miss Kinsley’s encouragement. I needed that. I lumber past the living room and down the hallway. Apparently fear doesn’t make me graceful. I stand outside Joey’s door and try to calm my nerves. I take a deep breath. Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one… ten, nine, eight, seven, six, fiveHis door has the sticky gray outline of where a bumper sticker used to be. It probably said something like “No Trespassing,” a sticker put up at a time when all you had to worry about as a tween was whether your parents would respect your whiny demands for privacy. Those were simpler daysfour, three, two, one…

  “Joey?” I turn the knob and push his door open to find him sitting on the edge of his bed. He is hunched over with this elbows rested on his thighs. Shirtless, in red soccer shorts, he sits at the edge of his bed staring down at the green carpet between his bare feet. A rumpled gray t-shirt lay tossed on the bed beside him.

  He doesn’t look up. I take in the half-naked sight of him a moment. “You’re not dressed? We’re going to be late.”

  “I didn’t know you were still taking me,” he eyes the floor. His tone is matter-of-fact. I want to say something to defend myself, but the way I blew him off yesterday when his company arrived can’t be explained by anything other than immaturity. I don’t blame him for thinking I would bail. He sits up straight and meets my gaze. “I’m really not up to going, so if you don’t want to take me that’s fine by me,” he smiles.

  I fold my arms across my chest authoritatively and rock my left boot back on its heel. “I’m definitely taking you.”

  “Then you’ll have to help me get dressed,” he grins.

  “Don’t play games with me, Joey. Get dressed and let’s go.”

  He just grins at me as if he finds great amusement in testing my threshold for disrespect. I know he has a crush on me, but he’s not going to exploit my kindness so that it includes inappropriate favors. He’s proving my point that he doesn’t know me at all. If he did, he’d know I will hold his words against him for a long time. I give him a simple displeased look with a slight shake of the head. Again, he insists I help him get dressed.

  “Come on,” he presses, “help the crippled guy out. I haven’t been fawned over all day. Help me put that t-shirt on.” He nods at the gray shirt strewn on the bed. “You know you want to.”

  I quickly scan his bare torso. His arms and shoulders are tanned from years of playing soccer under the Arizona sun. I take in his face, still handsome even though there is light stubble coming in and his buzz cut hair is so drastically different from the full curls he once had. As I study his face, I see that his smirk doesn’t reach his blue eyes. He doesn’t quite mean what he’s saying. His arms haven’t moved from his lap this entire time, so I know there is truth in his words.

  I sigh. “Maybe you should try a button-down shirt that you don’t have to really lift your arms too much to get into?” The smirk is erased from his lips. “Duh,” I add.

  His closet holds a meager wardrobe: soccer shirts
, soccer shorts, a few jeans, two pairs of black slacks, and one long sleeved, white button-down shirt with a stubborn grass stain on the cuff. Where is all his money going? He and Manny were working the same job, making about the same money. I know Joey can afford some trendier pieces. Not that I think Joey should be a slave to the trends. I just think he would probably look good in anything with little effort. Lucky him. I look over my shoulder at Joey still sitting on the edge of the bed and staring down at the fingers he’s picking at. I don’t want him to feel ashamed of himself for needing some help.

  I turn back to the closet. “No worries, Joey.” I pull the white shirt from the closet. With a warm smile I turn around. He stares at the shirt in my hand a bit wearily. “Something wrong with it?” He glances at me and then back at the shirt.

  “No,” he replies softly.

  He obviously isn’t enthusiastic about the shirt. Oh well. As I walk from the closet towards him I undo the top buttons on the shirt and pull the hanger out. He watches me continue to unfasten all the buttons down the shirt. Once the shirt is completely open and I step nearer to him, he again lowers his eyes to his hands in his lap. I raise the crisp white shirt and get it situated around him. It hangs on his shoulders like a cape and I pause a moment to figure out the easiest way he can get into the long sleeves. I decide to hold the sleeve across his stomach, keeping them close to his body. That way he won’t need to raise his arms up, just slide them across. I pick up his left sleeve and hold it in position. “Can you slip your arm in this way?” He nods and gets his arm through. We repeat the motion with the right sleeve.

  To my annoyance, my stomach flutters as my nose picks up his scent of body soap and nothing else. I don’t think he’s ever worn cologne. I’ve never noticed any. The soap smell is fresh and soft but still very masculine, a mix of mint, oak moss, and a dash of citrus. I fight the memories of Mom knotting Daddy’s tie and being repaid with a tender kiss as I carefully straighten the fold of Joey’s shirt collar. I move down to fasten the buttons, skipping over the first three. I catch myself eyeing his freckles. Happy little brown dots spring up all over his lightly tanned skin. They cascade across his collar bone and broad shoulders, where they are darkest, and scatter down his chest where they lighten and almost vanish as they near his navel.

  “Noticing my freckles?”

  I stop buttoning and lift my eyes up to his face where he has a few faint freckles only across his nose and outwards across his cheeks. My own cheeks flash with heat.

  “Yeah,” I smile nervously and continue buttoning.

  “Sort of looks like bacteria multiplying on my skin. They’re kind of gross.”

  “Not at all,” I say firmly and sincerely. “They remind me of confetti or even the negative image of a night sky, light sky and dark stars, with all types of constellations. I like them.” He stares up at me. I bend my knees some and keep my eyes on my work as I get to buttons further down his shirt. His silent gaze makes my skin temperature spike. I feel as though I’ve revealed a secret. “I mean, I don’t hate them or anything. I like my freckles so why wouldn’t I like yours?” I defend myself.

  “Really? You have freckles?”

  I can’t help but laugh at his wide, surprised eyes. His eyes move over my face and neck and arms.

  “Where?” He’s smiling and I feel better that he’s in a better mood.

  “Wouldn’t you like to know?” I tease him with a raised eyebrow. His bright, curious eyes resume their travel across my body. “Hey. Mind out from under my clothes, please,” I joke. Quickly he averts his eyes down to my hands buttoning his shirt as his cheeks redden a little. I force myself not to laugh. I shouldn’t mess with him like that but it’s so amusing. We settle into silence. I button lower and lower and, no matter how hard I try not to, my fingers keep brushing against his stomach. However slight and innocent the touch, I find myself holding my breath. After the third time my hand makes contact with his warm firm skin, he grasps my wrist. Startled, I peer up at him, into eyes dusky with restrained desire. My insides quiver.

  “I’ll take it from here,” he breathes.

  Slowly, I step away from him. I roll my eyes as he buttons one of the last three buttons. If he could button his shirt himself why didn’t he say something before? Figures. I find some flip flops on the floor at the foot of the bed, pick them up and set them at his feet. He slips them on. I wait for him to stand up from the bed. He doesn’t.

  “They gave me a walker to use.” He pauses to scratch his cheek in need of a shave. “A walker, like they give to busted old men in nursing homes,” he elaborates.

  I nod sympathetically.

  “Nurse Candy?” He moves his hands as if grasping and maneuvering a walker, and imitates the shaky toothless voice of an octogenarian. “Mah sponge baff please and thank ya’.” I cup my hands over my mouth to stifle my laughter. I didn’t know Joey was so silly. “Nurse Laney?” He calls me in that funny voice and I almost start giggling. I take my hands from my mouth and laugh openly. He watches me laugh. “Would you hep me wit my britches, Nurse Laney? I’d be honored on account of you’s the prettiest nurse in all the home, yes indeedy.”

  I chuckle and angle my face away. I’m relieved when his eyes finally leave mine. His shaking left fist has his attention. He fans his fingers out and his hand trembles visibly. He returns to his own voice. “I don’t even have to fake the shakes.”

  I’m not sure what to say to that. I change the subject. “Umm…do you seriously need help getting some pants on?”

  He looks down at himself and shrugs. “These shorts will do.”

  They’d better! “So, do you need the walker?”

  “Probably.”

  “Where is it?”

  He hesitates. “On the other side of the bed.”

  I look over at the space on the other side of the bed but I don’t see the walker. I make my way to the other side of the room to get a closer look. What used to be a walker is on the floor. It resembles a four-legged aluminum insect, dead on its back, with its legs curled in. “Whoa.” My mouth hangs open. I stare at Joey, worry and astonishment written all over my face. How angry was he that he found the strength to bend all four legs of a metal walker?

  His face colors with embarrassment. “It was a stupid thing to do. I ought to have more self-control. The doctor told me not to strain myself. I did that to the walker this morning and now the strength I regained in my arms by resting and medication is gone. Hence, I needed you to dress me.”

  The time reads 12:30 on the clock on his nightstand. I sigh. “We’re gonna be late. Is it possible for you to just lean on me for balance, or is that more embarrassing than using the walker?”

  “Nothing is more embarrassing than using a walker.”

  So I become Joey’s human crutch. He rests his arm across my shoulders, I hook my arm around his waist, and we start walking to the front door. We stop for a moment and stand by the pale blue couch in the living room so Joey can rest.

  “Sorry, Laney. My leg is cramping. I know I’m slowing us down.”

  “No worries, Joey.” I give him a friendly pat on the back and ignore the flushed feeling I’ve been experiencing all over my body from the moment he pressed his body next to mine. As I help him up into the passenger side of the truck, I cringe. I get a glimpse of the surgery scar at the back of his head for the first time. His short hair is still not full enough to cover the triangular scar. I close the door behind him. As I walk around the truck, I brush my fingers against the miniscule scar I have on my lip. Is this what you call ‘an eye for an eye’? Manny hurt Joey because Joey hurt me. Joey is scarred because he scarred me. I’ve been hurt, so I have hurt Joey. Joey’s been hit, so he hit Manny. I hurt Joey so Joey hated himself. I hate myself for hurting Joey. This cycle has got to end one way or another. It seems like everyone is blind with hurt. We need to give each other our eyes back.

  ******

  “Do you mind if I read some of it?” I ask. From the time I saw her journal tucked
between our seats and the gear stick, my hands have been itching to flip through its pages. Nevermind that my hands have been aching to touch her. In half an hour, we’ve gone from no contact, not even a handshake ever shared between us, to having her arm around me and my arm around her and I want to experience more of this new level.

  Are we moving too fast?

  “It’s nothing you would find interesting,” she answers.

  Nope. We’re not moving too fast at all. She still thinks I’ve headed too many soccer balls to possibly have any brain cells left to be literate. “Why? You don’t think I like to read?”