The Boots My Mother Gave Me

by Brooklyn James

  He picked up Jeremiah’s chart, leafing through his admission data. “What’s your name?”

  “Harley LeBeau.”

  “You’re listed as his next of kin. Let me get his nurse for you.” How strange a concept? I guess maybe I was his next of kin, with his father gone.

  “Hi. I’m Kimber, I’m taking care of Mr. Johnson today,” a pretty, petite young woman, approached, extending her hand.

  Extending my own, I introduced myself, “I’m Harley.”

  She looked at me as if a light bulb suddenly turned on. “Oh...Harley. I thought he was mumbling about a motorcycle.” She giggled, slightly embarrassed. “I admitted him this morning from intensive care, every now and then he would say Harley. He’s been so out of it, but now I see. Let me take you to his room.”

  “How is he?” I asked.

  “If I use too much medical jargon, just stop me,” she said, smiling, as we walked the long hallway.

  “I think I can follow. I’m an ICU nurse.” I smiled back, tapping her empathetically on the forearm.

  “Well, then, this will be a cakewalk for you.” She locked her elbow through mine, as we continued walking toward his room. “They extubated him this morning. He was not a big fan of the breathing tube. And strong...he’s like a bull when he tries to come out of that bed. He gets heavy doses of pain and sedation medications. He’s in four-point restraints, arms and legs. I know that can be tough to see, but it’s for his safety,” she assured. “He needs to be still and let everything heal. Any further inflammation or damage could cause nerve injury, at worst leading to paralysis. His face and body are quite bruised up, nothing that won’t heal. His heart is strong, and his lungs are good, he’s breathing on his own now. We just have to get him to relax. It’s going to take some time, his recovery.”

  “Kimber, bed five needs to be prepped for surgery and Physical Therapy is here for bed two,” the Charge Nurse called to her from the nursing station.

  “Be right there,” Kimber acknowledged.

  “Go ahead. I’ll let myself in,” I said.

  “That would be great. I’ll be back to check on you later.” She hurriedly made her way to bed five.

  I took a deep breath before walking into his room, closing the door behind me to keep his environment quiet and serene, hoping he would remain restful. One look at him and my almond surrendered to my urge for tears. The right side of his face was bruised from his temple to his jaw line with a cut on his cheekbone, held together by sutures. I followed his bruised flesh down the right side of his neck to his collarbone where my vision became blocked by the hospital gown, covering his torso, accompanied by a sturdy wide restraint, holding his body safely down to the bed. I searched his arms and legs to their ends, relieved to find them still intact. His wrists and ankles, hugged by restraints, anchored his limbs.

  He lay there, peacefully unaware of my presence or his own. His eyes closed, I heard a beeping sound from the pain pump as another dose of morphine found its way into his veins. I reached out my hand wanting to touch him, stopping myself midair, I pulled back wringing at my shirt against my heart, fearing if I touched him he might wake.

  I sat in the chair to the side of his bed, watching him, silently anticipating. Seconds turned to minutes, minutes to hours. The sun started to set, another day coming to a close. As I watched the big yellow-orange ball of gas begin to disappear behind the trees, it reminded me of another sunset Jeremiah and I shared long ago.

  All of ten years old, we made a plan to meet at the pond between his house and mine. He wanted to show me how to fish. After wading a quarter of a mile through grass up to my hip, I could finally see the top of his surfer-boy hair, as he sat on an old log, strategically placed in front of the deepest end of the pond, two buckets beside him, a fishing pole for him and one for me. I had no interest in fishing, but I’d try anything, for him.

  “I thought maybe you weren’t coming,” he called across the pond upon seeing me.

  “I had to help put in hay. We got two hundred and fifty-two bales off the side hill today,” I said, excited at the number, a true feat.

  “You should’ve come and got me. I would’ve helped. Didn’t have anything going on anyway. Everyone’s out of town for summer vacation.”

  I didn’t ask him to help that day because my dad was in a raging foul mood. He was just mean. “Where did they go?” I referred to our neighborhood friends, sidestepping his inquisition about helping.

  “Terry went to his grandma’s in Vermont. Brad and Troy went to Disney World. Zac and his family went out west somewhere in their RV. And Danny and Ricky went to summer camp, up in the Poconos. That would be pretty cool, huh? They’re going for the whole summer.”

  “That would be awesome,” I agreed, coming to rest beside him on the log. “Are you going anywhere?”

  “Not this year. My mom’s supposed to come through town sometime and Dad wants to be sure we don’t miss her.”

  “Do you? Miss her...your mom?” I asked, taking the fishing pole he handed me.

  “I don’t know. I don’t know her that well, really. I mean...it would be nice to have her around, you know, like a real mom. I haven’t seen her since I was five.” He stuck his hand in the bait bucket, coming up with a long, black, slimy worm. “Here, take one of these and put it on your hook.” He demonstrated poking the worm onto his hook, smooshing its guts out the other side.

  “Euw! Gross!” I exclaimed. He laughed. “Yuck! I’m not doing that.” Tomboy or not, that was disgusting and I wanted no part of it. “That poor worm!”

  “Oh, come on, Harley.” He continued laughing. “It’s not that bad. Quit acting like a girl.” I rolled my eyes at him, somewhere between offended and amused. “Here, I’ll bait it for you,” he said.

  “No. I want to bait my own hook.” I grabbed my pole, reached my hand into the bucket, pulling from it a plump, juicy nightcrawler. I squirmed as much as the worm, my hands clumsily guiding it onto my hook. “Oh, this is so gross.”

  “Now be careful you don’t catch your finger...”

  “Ouch!” I interrupted his thought, as I did exactly what he warned me not to, catching the tip of my finger on the point of the hook. “Euw, aw yuck!” My finger hurt a little, but I was too disgusted to care. The worm just kept squirming, even after I hooked the poor, defenseless thing. I couldn’t even look at it.

  Jeremiah took my hand, inspecting my finger, accumulating blood at its tip. “Here,” he said, putting it to his lips. I looked at him oddly as he pulled my finger from his mouth free of blood. He shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly. “That’s what my dad does.”

  “Thanks...I guess.” He cast his line, demonstrating for me. After a few muddled attempts, I had success. “Now what do we do?”

  Jeremiah took a seat on the log, patting the one next to him. “We wait, until we catch something.” No wonder I never cared to fish. How boring, I thought to myself, joining him. There wasn’t much I wouldn’t do to spend time with Jeremiah. We sat a few minutes, silent before he spoke, “Do you think she loves me, my mom?”

  “I’m sure she does. You’re a great kid. What’s not to love?”

  “It just doesn’t feel like she loves me. If she loves me, why did she leave?”

  “I don’t know. Parents have funny ways of showing their love sometimes. Mom says my life is all black and white right now, as a kid. But she says when I get older, become a woman, that changes, and there’s a lot of gray area. I think adult love is more complicated.”

  “I guess so. I mean, I love my football, and I would never leave it. I might leave it at the house, when I’m at school, or doing something else, like fishing. But if I went somewhere, far away, I’d take it with me. I wouldn’t leave it. Would you leave something you loved?” At that moment, the tip of my pole started bobbing. “Harley, I think you got something.” We stood alert.

  “What do I do?”

  “Start reeling it in,” he said, pointing to the crank. I did as instructed, while
he cheered me on. I was so excited, until I saw that poor fish come out of the water on the end of my pole, flopping its tail and wriggling about. Jeremiah went to the end of my line, pulling it, fish and all back to me as I stood there on the bank. The hook had gone through its jaw, its eyes bugged out, it just looked petrified, completely agonized.

  “Help it, Miah. Do something.”

  “I’m going to help it, right off this hook and into that bucket. Hope you like fish, Harley-girl, that’s what we’re having for dinner,” he bantered about happily.

  “No, no, no,” I whaled. “We can’t eat that thing. Look at it. It’s just pitiful. Put it back in the water. Please Miah, let it go.”

  He disdainfully removed the hook, carefully from the fish’s jaw and walked to the pond, throwing it back in. “You eat fish from the grocery store. Where do you think that comes from,” he muttered, returning to the log. He sat down, picking up his pole, as he reeled in his line and set the rod off to the side.

  “Sorry, I just never saw a fish...on a hook...like that. They’re usually on my plate, no eyes bulging out, no gills flaring, no tails flipping. I felt bad for the thing.” I took a seat beside him. “Bet you’ll never ask me to go fishing again. Don’t put your pole away. Just because I threw mine back doesn’t mean you have to.”

  “I wouldn’t feel right about catching one now, in front of you. I don’t really feel like fishing anyway.” His mind preoccupied with thoughts of his mom.

  “No,” I said.

  “No, what?” he asked.

  “I wouldn’t leave someone I loved. I’d carry them with me...in here,” I expanded, putting my hand over my heart. “I think that’s what your mom does, ya know? Like that E.E. Cummings poem, I think she carries you with her, in her heart, that way she’s never without you.” Jeremiah put his hand over mine, holding onto it as we sat, quiet and still, watching the sunset fall behind the trees.

  My memory ended when the last warm ray of color disappeared from the sky, as I sat in the hospital at his bedside. I stretched my arms over my head, accompanied by a yawn, momentarily closing my eyes, when all of the sudden the bed started rattling. I jumped up and went to him, realizing he was fighting against his restraints.

  “Miah,” I spoke soft, controlled, approaching the head of his bed. “Be still love. You’ve got to quit fighting.” I gently ran my fingers through his hair. He listened, relaxing his body. His skin instantly wet with sweat from exertion.

  His eyes searched mine in disbelief. “Where am I?” he whispered, his voice raspy.

  “You’re in the hospital. They sent you home, Georgia, PA baby.” I smiled, trying to ease the anxiety in his expression, as well as my own.

  He reached for me, unable to find me as the restraints held him down. He banged his fists and kicked his legs against the bed. “Why am I tied down? Am I crazy or something? Get me out of here, Harley, please.”

  I put my hand in his. He squeezed firmly, settling. “You’re pretty banged up.” I grinned, looking at his bruised flesh, holding back the urge to cry—again. “You fractured your back in a few places. Even broke some ribs. And you won’t stay still. That’s why they’ve got you tied down,” I explained, kissing a small spot on his forehead, one of the only areas left unscathed.

  “What time is it? What day is it?”

  “It’s quarter after nine in the evening. And you better put your earplugs in because it’s the Fourth of July. I have a feeling we’re in for some fireworks. I got caught behind the parade today,” I warned casually.

  “It’s the Fourth of July? I’m in the hospital on the Fourth of July?” Making an attempt to smile, he winced. “Does my face look as bad as it feels?”

  I shook my head, taking him in with my eyes. “Still handsome as ever.” It was good to see him, to be near him.

  “Why do I feel so out of it? I could fall asleep talking to you right now.” The pain pump sounded. “And there goes that damn beep again. What is that? I’ve listened to that all day.”

  I chuckled lightly. “Morphine.”

  “No wonder I feel like I’m doped up.”

  “From what I hear, dealing with the grogginess is a walk in the park compared to the pain.” The morphine must have taken effect, as his eyes grew heavy.

  “Do you think since its Independence Day, they’d let me free of these things?” He pulled against the restraints.

  “Maybe. If you’d promise to be vewy, vewy quiet, and still as Elmer Fudd when he’s hunting wabbits,” I mocked. We loved Looney Tunes as kids.

  He attempted to smile, catching himself as the pain shot through his bruised cheekbone. He squeezed my hand. “I’m glad you’re here.” His eyes closed, he was out again, asleep.

  I pulled my chair closer to his bed so I could hold his hand as he slept, a reminder I was there. For the next week and a half, that’s how it went, he came in and out of cognizance for short periods of time. The plan was to keep him as inactive and comfortable as possible, allowing the fractures to heal.

  By day fourteen, his doctors were happy with the radiology exams, his back and ribs improving, the bruises healing on his face and neck, nearly gone. He looked like my Miah again.

  I returned to his room with a fresh collection of books. I read to him often as his entertainment was limited, seeing how he had to lie flat on his back, staring at the ceiling. I was happily surprised to see him sitting up in his bed for the first time, eating breakfast.

  “Look,” I pointed out, pulling books out of my bag o’ goodies. “The Last Juror for you. The Jane Austen Book Club for me,” I enticed, holding both of them up as I grinned excitedly. His smile evaporated in a flash, his fork falling from his hand to the side of his plate, his eyes moved slowly from mine to my left hand.

  “What’s that?”

  I forgot about my ring, having worn it long enough, it rested autonomically, like an appendage. “A ring,” I said, uncomfortably fumbling with it.

  “Just a ring? Or the ring?” My silence, all the answer he needed. “I think you should go. Thanks for everything. I appreciate it, but you need to go, now.” His jaw flexing, he looked away from me, out the window.

  “I can’t just leave you.”

  “Saturday, June 7, 1997. Ring any bells, Harley?” he referred to the morning after our graduation.

  “Why are you acting like this?”

  “Doc’s sending me home tomorrow. I’ll be fine. I can take care of myself. It’s evident you’ve got other things you should be taking care of.” He finally looked back at me and then to the ring. “You shouldn’t be here, with me.”

  “He knows I’m here, Jeremiah. He’s perfectly okay with it.” I shut the door to his room, as our voices grew loud.

  “He’s okay with it, huh? He’s okay with you coming out here to take care of some other man? He’s okay with you spending time with the guy who had you, your first time? The guy you spent a weekend in Maui with, locked up in a hotel room, barely coming up for air?” he charged. “Did you tell him, Harley? Or does he think I’m just some guy, some friend from the neighborhood?” His chest, now rose and fell, steadily at a heightened pace. I could tell he was hurting, his ribs expanding to an uncomfortable volume. He shifted himself, pulling a pillow tightly against his abdomen as instructed, in an attempt to quench the pain, stifling the expansion of his ribcage.

  “Lower your voice. It’s not good for you, getting all revved up. And no, I didn’t go into details.”

  He ran his fingers through his hair, irritating the crap out of me. He always did that. His hair had grown, thick and dark. It looked good. He looked good. “Why? Are you embarrassed? Ashamed? You want to pretend it never happened? What?”

  “None of the above,” I snapped. “I didn’t see what good it would do to tell him everything. My fiancé doesn’t need to hear about my sexual trysts with some other man. And quit running your fingers through your hair.”

  “Some other man? Sexual trysts?” he repeated vehemently. “Like it was just some kin
d of fling. As if it meant nothing.”

  “That’s not how I meant it and you know it.”

  “That’s how it sounded to me. And I’ll run my fingers through my hair any damn time I please,” he contended, taking both hands, running them haphazardly through his hair. He winced with the movement, quickly pulling his arms back down to his sides. His breathing shallow and rapid, his head fell back against his pillow as he closed his eyes, focused on calming his breathing.

  “We shouldn’t be doing this right now. You...we need to calm down. I came out here to stay with you.” I drenched a washcloth with cool water. “To help you until you’re back on your feet, and that’s what I’m going to do. That’s what friends do. What we’ve always done.” I reached my hand out to put the damp cloth on his forehead, my left hand. The ring caught his eye, again. How stupid can you be, Harley? I cursed myself at the realization.

  “Please, don’t touch me,” he spoke low and painful, turning his head away. “I don’t want you here,” he whispered, grimacing, his skin flushed and moist.

  I made my way to the door, quickly calling for his nurse. I watched her from the doorway, as she pushed the drug through the IV in his hand, hoping my distance would ease his agitation. What had I done? I came here to help and now he couldn’t even stand the sight of me. He continued to look out the window.

  “You should start feeling some relief within five minutes, Mr. Johnson,” the nurse encouraged. He nodded his head, acknowledging her. She walked from the room.

  I watched him, my arms folded tightly across my middle, my left hand hidden, out of sight. After a few minutes, he pulled his head from the window, finding me, my eyes. He stared at me, his eyes dark and empty, until the pain medication hit his system in its totality. His long, curly lashes heavy, they came together. He rested.

  Can’t Get It Right

  I called Kat to stay with Jeremiah and take him home the next day, as I prepared his house, his dad’s house, to accommodate the delivery of his medical bed. If I knew Jeremiah, he just needed a little time. Kat got him settled in and stayed with him that night, while I stayed with Gram and Megan. Since Kat had to work early the following morning, I relieved her before sunup, tiptoeing through the house in the boots Mom gave me, yet again needing a little guidance. Mom was a great caregiver, and I hoped the boots would rub off on me to help Jeremiah get back on his feet, if he’d let me.