The Boots My Mother Gave Me

by Brooklyn James

  “Harley, I’m mature for my age. It’s simple biology that makes me boy crazy. We learned that last year in sex education. For all I know you’re fully charged, too. You and Jeremiah do spend an awful lot of time together.” She smiled at me in the rearview mirror. Embarrassed, I glanced in Jeremiah’s direction.

  He grinned. “How about it, Harley, are you fully charged?”

  “Only college girls are fully charged,” I said sarcastically. “I don’t have time to be fully charged. Between work and school and figuring out how to get out of here, I have enough on my plate.” I paused momentarily, pulling into the driveway at Mom’s. After shutting off the engine, as an afterthought, I continued under my breath, “It might be nice to be fully charged sometime.”

  Jeremiah slapped the dash. “I knew it!”

  “What did she say?” Kat yelled from the back seat.

  “Don’t you worry your pretty little head over it. Get to the house, it’s near your bedtime.”

  “Mom won’t be home from her shift at the restaurant until ten o’clock. Will you come in with me, Harley?” I knew she didn’t want to be alone with Dad.

  “How about I take you by the restaurant and see if it’s okay with Mom for you to stay with me tonight? We’ll rent a movie and eat some popcorn.”

  Kat wrapped her arms around the back of my driver’s seat, hugging me tightly. “You are the best! Let me run in and get my pajamas.” She impatiently tapped on the back of Jeremiah’s seat. He pulled it forward, letting her out of the car. She sprinted toward the house.

  “What’s that?” Jeremiah asked. I looked in the direction he pointed, toward the front porch. Kat stopped dead in her tracks at the end of the sidewalk nearest the road. I jumped out of the car and went to her.

  “What are you two doing?” my father’s gruff, deep voice probed, as he held a twelve-gauge shotgun pointed straight at us. I couldn’t even see his face, just his silhouette from the pole light in the front yard. He had the door cracked, the barrel of the gun sticking out of it. Holy shit! What the hell was he doing now?

  I grabbed Kat, wrapping my arms around her as we stood there, frozen in time. Nothing compares to the feeling of staring down the barrel of a shotgun, especially when your father stands on the trigger end. He has really flipped his lid this time. Will he use that thing on us?

  I heard the car door open and Jeremiah’s feet hit the dirt in the driveway. Miah, get your butt back in the car, I pleaded in my mind, motioning him away with my hand. As usual he didn’t listen. “Who’s that?” Dad shifted the gun in Jeremiah’s direction.

  “We just came to get Kat’s overnight bag. She’s staying with me tonight,” I blurted out, trying to divert his attention.

  My father started in with his creepy laugh. “You’re that goddamn Johnson boy.” He engaged the action bar, emitting the familiar sound of a shotgun being loaded and ready to fire. I started backing up with my arms around Kat, pulling her with me until I felt the car against my backside. “Get the hell off my property.”

  Gladly! I thought. Jeremiah helped me get Kat into the back seat. As I started for the driver’s side, catching me in mid-stride, he steadied my shaky body directing me through his door to the passenger seat.

  “Get the hell out of here,” my father ordered again, holding the gun on Jeremiah.

  “You’re a crazy son-of-a-bitch,” he said, making his way to the driver’s seat.

  “Miah, get in the car!” I pulled at him until he got in under the steering wheel. My father’s laughter echoed through the night air as we floored it out of the driveway.

  “What the hell was that?”

  “We have to go get Ma at the restaurant. She can’t go home.” I ignored Jeremiah’s question because I didn’t know what the hell that was.

  “She won’t listen to us, Harley. She always takes his side,” Kat said.

  “Jeremiah, get out at your house.”

  “I’m not leaving you with all of this.”

  “It’s not your mess. Please, get out at your house.”

  He reluctantly pulled into his father’s drive. “I can handle this, Harley. Let me help you.”

  “You never should’ve been involved in the first place. This shit isn’t good for anyone. Just let me do this my way.”

  Jeremiah threw his hands up in the air. “Fine.” I walked to the driver’s side where he was holding the door open for me. “I’ll be right here if you need anything.”

  I knew he was only trying to be helpful but I didn’t want him involved. I didn’t want anyone to be involved in this revolving, embarrassing joke of a life I found myself in. Who the hell in their right mind would want to be involved in something like this?

  The next morning, Mom, Kat, and I sat around the kitchen table at my apartment, trying to figure out our next move.

  “I should just go home.” Mom looked at me, her eyes bloodshot as sleep had escaped us.

  “Mom, I’m telling ya, he’s crazy. He’s not right. Something is seriously wrong with him.”

  “How can he be any worse than he’s always been? Besides, if I don’t go home, he’ll come over here bugging you, trying to get to me. He has told me time and again I will never be happy without him. He won’t ever leave us alone.”

  “Let him come. I’ll call the cops. This is my apartment and he can’t come over here and harass us.”

  “There’s no need to call the cops.”

  “Why, because someone might find out the truth? What’s worth more, your dignity or your life, Ma?”

  “I should have gone home last night. I don’t have anything here with me, my toothbrush, change of clothes, nothing.”

  I paced, instantly aware of my discontent with her response. She had a tendency to focus on the trivial, avoiding the real issues. My father pointed a twelve-gauge shotgun at Kat and me last night. She never once asked if we were okay, she never once asked how any of this affected us. All she could think about was Dad and how it would affect him and her toothbrush and her clothes! Give me a freaking break, lady! There are other people involved here, what about us? They were both so incredibly sick and co-dependent, the abuser and the enabler. A dysfunctional, ill group, that’s what we had become, effortlessly fulfilling our designated roles.

  “We can get you a new toothbrush and clothes. Why are you even worried about that stuff?” Kat asked.

  “It’s not just stuff, Katrina. It’s my stuff, my things, things that mean something to me. The last time I tried to leave, he broke up the bedroom set your grandfather bought us as an anniversary gift. That set had sentimental value for me. It meant something to me. He’ll destroy my things if I don’t go home, or at least go get them.” Tears filled her eyes. Kat apologetically placed her hand over Mom’s.

  I never could stand to see my mother cry. “I’ll go get your stuff. You can’t go or he’ll talk you into staying, again.”

  “I’m going with you,” Kat said.

  “Do you think I should call the police to see if they can send someone up to the house with me?” I feared what he might do.

  “Forget it. I’ll get my things.”

  “He’s not just going to let me walk in the house and take your stuff. He kicked me out, Ma. In case you haven’t noticed, he’s not exactly my biggest fan.”

  “Depends on what type of mood he’s in this morning.”

  “It always depends on what type of mood he’s in. I’ll go get it, what he’ll let me have anyway.” Putting on my coat and boots, I continued, “I am so sick of him running the show, always getting his way while the rest of us bow and nod our heads in agreement, no matter how wrong we know it is. Whatever. It’s fine. Everything is just fine.” I mumbled to myself as I walked out the door, “I can’t wait until I’m out of this hell hole.” Kat chased behind me.

  She and I rode in silence to our father’s house. I knew her stomach had to feel much like mine, in knots, so nervous I could throw up at any moment. We had no idea what we would walk into.

&nbs
p; How did children find themselves in such precarious positions in the world of adults? Why, when people know they’re doing wrong, do they continue to do it anyway? Why do parents have one set of standards for their children and a completely different set for themselves? Why is my father so rotten? Why does my mother accept it? Why do I keep helping her, enabling her, the same way she enables him? What makes us do that? Is it the guilt, the shame, the love, the fear, what?

  It’s apparent neither my mother nor my father gives a shit about what I want. I wanted a nice solid family, like the Cosby’s. That’s not what I got, not even close. My wants, desires, and dreams were secondary to theirs. Why do I care about what they want? Why do I want the best for them? Why do I want their approval, their acceptance, or their love? What’s the point? Why do I even care?

  After a fifteen-minute ride, we stood on the front porch of the house looking through the window of the front door. My father passed through the kitchen, cup of coffee in hand, and noticed us. Too late now to turn around and leave; he already saw us. We let ourselves in, wiping off our shoes on the utility rug before coming into the house.

  “What are you girls doing here?” he asked flatly.

  “We came to pick up Mom’s stuff,” I said.

  “What stuff? Everything in this house is mine.” He walked from the kitchen to the living room toward us. The phone rang.

  “Katrina, get the phone,” his tone, somewhere between asking and demanding. She obliged, making her way to the kitchen answering the phone, as I stood in the living room with the Big Bad Wolf. I purposely kept my body at an angle to his, making sure I didn’t square off against him. He would only take that as a challenge on my part. All he needed was an inch to push me a foot, always waiting for me to make one wrong move, jumping in at the chance to put me in my place.

  “I’m not here for anything of yours, just Mom’s personal things.”

  “If your mother wants her personal things, she can come get them herself. You’re not welcome here anyway. You’re not taking a goddamn thing.” He took another step closer to me, smirking that nasty little grin, once again letting me know he was boss.

  I felt my temper rising as my cheeks and ears grew flushed. I was so sick of his shit. I turned my body and squared off with him. “Fine, we’ll leave. But I’m coming back for Mom’s things with the police. Come on Kat, let’s go,” I yelled to her to hang up the phone.

  I turned to walk away when I felt his hand on the back of my head. He had a handful of my hair. He jerked me backward, pulling hard enough to feel the fibers ripping from my skull. I stumbled back into him, creating a domino effect. As he began to fall he let go of my hair, scrambling to steady himself.

  I turned toward him and saw his fist doubled up and aimed at my face. I ducked and ran at him, planting my shoulder in his ribcage as I watched Jeremiah do the night he kicked me out. I couldn’t believe I was in a fistfight with my father! Father’s don’t hit their daughters, right? I felt guilty as I did it, but it was either hit or be hit, fight or flight.

  He pounded my back with his fist. I don’t know which hurt worse, my back or my heart. I pushed against him with all I had until he fell to the floor. I came down on top of him knocking the wind from his lungs. I sat upright, drew my own fist back, and aimed at his face as he lay there. I wanted to let my arm follow through so badly, but I couldn’t.

  He looked up at me nothing but hate in his eyes, almost daring me, wishing I would release my fist in his face, making me no better than he. My chest heaved as I tried to talk myself into swinging. I couldn’t. I wanted to tell him he wasn’t worth it, like he always told us. I couldn’t even bring myself to say that. I pushed off of him, attempting to stand on what felt like legs made of rubber. Kat’s shaky hand steadied me.

  “Let’s go,” she said, pulling me toward the door. I heard my father rustling behind us, picking himself up off the floor. I turned to face him, not trusting him enough to keep my back to him. He lunged at me, grabbing me by the collar of my shirt. My chest burned as his nails and knuckles buried into my flesh, my shirt collar tearing with his force. With every step, he pushed his fists into my chest backing me up, no wall close enough to stop me.

  “You want a piece of the old man? You’ve been nothing but trouble from the goddamn day you were born, always causing problems between your mother and me. You’re the goddamn reason we can’t get along.”

  “Leave her alone!” Kat stood behind me, her hands against my back providing support.

  I felt myself begin to go blank, a sea of black before me like someone flipped a switch. As a child I loved the Incredible Hulk, and that crossed my mind, Bruce Banner pushed so far he turns into the big green guy.

  I didn’t care anymore that he was my father. He pushed me and pushed me, and I couldn’t take it any longer. With surprising strength only adrenaline could provide, I doubled up my fists and swung them alternately into his chest, one after another, backing him up as he had done to me. I couldn’t hit him in the face, I just couldn’t. I drove him across the living room in what seemed like milliseconds. As his back hit the wall he slouched down into the corner. He sat there in a slump, looking up at me in pure disbelief as I stood over him. Shame, my all too familiar friend, finally found me. What had I done?

  Kat hurriedly placed herself between us. She wrapped her arms around my waist and backed me up toward the door. “Let’s get out of here,” she urged. We made it to the front porch before I heard his footsteps approaching.

  “That’s right, you run off like a goddamn coward. Anytime you want another piece of the old man, you know where to find me.” He leaned against the doorway as Kat guided me across the sidewalk.

  I pushed against her, instinctively wanting to meet his challenge. “Coward? You’d know all about that, shoving your wife and daughters around.” I seethed, my body shaking.

  “I don’t have any daughters.” His cocky grin predictably turned to harsh laughter.

  “Harley, get in the car,” Kat said, pushing against me with all her body weight.

  “Keep laughing! We’ll see how funny it is when the police show up to get Mom’s things.”

  “Send them up to see the old man. You better tell them to bring a goddamn army because I won’t come out with my hands in the air. They’ll have to bring me out in a body bag. Who are you kidding? You don’t have the guts to call the cops.”

  “We’ll see about that. Mom’s not here to protect you today.”

  “Harley, get in the car. Please.”

  “Your goddamn mother should’ve come home last night!” he yelled as we ducked into the safety and comfort of Charlene, started her up, and drove off.

  Anywhere But Here

  I stood naked in my shower, basking in the warmth of the water running over my body. It stung as the tiny beads trickled over my chest, softly falling on my bruised, scathed flesh. I turned my face up to the spout, inviting the drops of moisture to blend in with those that fell from my eyes. In the intimate environment of my shower, my almond failed me. I was unable to reign in my tears. I don’t know if it was the symbolism of my nakedness, unclothed and unprotected, allowing me to display my true heart, or if it was the beautiful disguise of the falling water allowing me to lie to myself, convinced I was not crying as my tears hid in the barrage of wetness trickling down my face.

  I always took the hottest showers, steamy, scorching. How great it would be if our bad memories could be stored in our skin rather than our brains, and we could lather them up, scrubbing incessantly until they sloughed off the surface, gathering at the drain of the tub, completely washed away.

  My thoughts suddenly were interrupted by a heavy knock at the door. Must be Mom and Kat. I turned the shower off, threw a towel around my body, and left a trail of dripping water from the bathroom to the front door. The knock became urgent, loud.

  “I’m coming,” I said as I neared the door, pulling it open to find Jeremiah’s inquisitive dark browns staring back at me. He stepped insid
e, throwing his arms around me, holding me much too long for my own comfort.

  “Thank God,” he whispered. Pulling himself away, he looked me over limb to limb. The concern in his eyes grew when he saw the bruises on my neck and chest.

  “It looks worse than it is. It doesn’t hurt that bad,” I lied, closing the door behind him. “How did you know?”

  “I was doing a ride-along today with Officer Ward when he got the call to bring your dad in.”

  “Is he okay...Officer Ward?”

  “He’s fine. Your dad came out with his hands in the air. No problem.”

  “You were there?” I grew embarrassed.

  “Yeah. It couldn’t have happened to a better person.” He came to me, lightly tracing the bruises on my chest. “Harley-girl,” he spoke affectionately, his moniker for me since childhood. “Nobody should ever put their hands on you like that.” His hand warm and gentle inspected my flesh. Did he have any idea how intoxicating he was? God, he smelled good.

  I moved from him definitively, creating a safe distance. “It’s not that bad. I’m going to go put some clothes on.” I stumbled over the chair behind me, almost losing my towel in my efforts. Jeremiah steadied me as I grabbed at the terry cloth, jerking it back in place. Gathering myself, I quickly made my way to my bedroom.

  “I didn’t see anything,” he yelled after me, chuckling.

  “Where did they take him, my dad?” I asked through the wall of my room.

  “Over to county.”

  “What will they do to him? Will he go to jail?” I continued, pulling my jeans on.

  “Oh yeah, he’s definitely going to do some time. All I know is, he deserves whatever he gets.”

  “My mom doesn’t think so. Did he give you guys a hard time?” I returned to the kitchen fully clothed, joining him at the table.