The Boots My Mother Gave Me

by Brooklyn James

  “I told him we didn’t know there was a letter. He said, ‘The sister gave it to one of our officers, your husband’s sister, she found it lying on the kitchen table that night.’”

  Aunt Clara? How could she do that? How could she know there was a note and let us think there was nothing? I knew she didn’t like us, but my God, that was just cruel.

  “Apparently, she took it off the kitchen table before anyone got there. She was the first one there that night,” Mom said. “Later on, her daughter saw her messing with the piece of paper in her coat pocket. So she confronted her, found out what it was, and made her give it to the officer on scene.”

  I remained speechless, the pieces finally coming together. No wonder we couldn’t find a note that night. Aunt Clara already found it.

  “He assumed we knew all along,” Mom added.

  “Was it addressed to her or something? Why would she take it?” I tried to justify it somehow, disbelieving even she would do something so rotten.

  “No. It wasn’t addressed to her, not even a mention of her name.”

  “Then why would she think it was hers to take?” Would she really stoop so low? You don’t mess with a man’s last words to his family. Who does that? What kind of human being does that?

  “Why does she do anything she does? Because it suits her purpose.” Mom paused. “The officer confided she even showed up at the police station at a later date, requesting the note be given to her. He said she was very adamant about getting the letter, even demanding it,” Mom said, baffled at the thought. “He explained it was not addressed to her, and for that reason he legally could not give it to her. She had no right to it whatsoever.”

  “So there’s a letter, an actual note with Dad’s words on it?” I asked, still disbelieving.

  “Yes. I’m holding it, Harley, right here in my hands.”

  I have and still am experiencing the symptoms of my addiction. You tried to help me. I wasted it. Now, I will tell myself what I have done to my family. How on earth can someone throw away something as wonderful as I had because of his refusal and denial of his addiction?

  I have wasted my life and damaged the lives of the ones I love. I am one dumb bastard. I have let everyone down. My damned meanness and abuse to my wife and my children is sinful of me. I am a wicked and evil person. If I am a person. A person could not have done to his loved ones what I have done. What in the hell am I? Surely I can’t be human. There is so much devil in me. Only a wicked bastard could have done this.

  I never took the time to tell our daughters how proud I am of them. I apologize to you Marilyn, Harley and Katrina, for everything. I no longer blame anyone except myself. It’s my own fault, what I have done. Why in the hell I would not come out of denial is nobody’s fault but my own. My denial of my addiction and of the things I’ve done has cost me my life and damaged the lives of the ones I love so much. I am so sorry for what I have done to my family. I keep asking myself, how can someone take the joys and happiness of others, as I have, and give them only meanness in return? I am selfish. I can’t believe anyone could commit such terrible sins to a wonderful and precious family as I have. I am truthfully sorry to you all.

  I had it all, everything, and look what I’ve done with it. I can’t stand me. I hate me. To see my family, my girls, my granddaughter, is wonderful, but to know what I have done to them. I don’t deserve...

  And it ended, just like that. Uncertain as to whether he intended to start another page, or if he simply went through with his plan of suicide at that point. His handwriting changed drastically from the beginning to the end of the letter. The ink became darker, and the words became shaky, ill-formed, harder to read, as if his emotional state escalated with his thoughts.

  My mind flooded with relief, accompanied by a steady dull ache starting in my chest. I was relieved he came out of his denial. Relieved he could tell himself the truth, after all of these years. The courage that must have required. Did he know how brave he was? He was on his way, couldn’t he see that? Admitting things, coming out of denial, is the first step, right?

  Maybe he would have been receptive to treatment and rehabilitation at that point. Maybe he could have recovered and lived his life with eyes wide open, a second chance. It hurt like hell to hear him say those things about himself. He wasn’t dumb. He wasn’t evil. He wasn’t a bastard. I didn’t want him to hate himself. I loved him.

  Nothing More Natural

  I lay in bed two nights later, the place that held me since hearing Dad’s letter. My eyes open, staring at the ceiling, embracing the quilt Kat made me years ago, a piece from one of Dad’s old handkerchiefs adjacent to Jeremiah’s high school football jersey. Contemplating things, life, I attempted to find that little slice of heaven where consciousness finally gives in to sleep.

  Had he set us free? Mom learned to fly, making her own way, taking a chance on herself, finding it a safe bet. She delivered, starting her life anew in her mid-fifties. Kat and Megan moved to Philadelphia, settling into their new surroundings. Kat would start at The Art Institute summer semester to begin her Bachelor’s degree in fashion design. She stepped out, making waves in the ocean of life with Megan in tow, always a brave one, my sister. Everybody was leaving Georgia, Pennsylvania, nothing holding them back. Hopefully Dad was free, too, at least his spirit at peace.

  What was I to do? I had nothing and no one to run from anymore, nothing to fix, no one to rescue, no one to run to. What would I do? Oddly enough, dysfunction becomes completely normal, functional to those who live in it most of their lives. Could I function without dysfunction? It’s like Batman and The Joker. Could you have one without the other? So much of myself defined by, in spite of, because of, my father. Who was I without him?

  Maybe I was softer, less guarded. Maybe I was weaker without him, nothing forcing me to be strong. So often in life, we are assigned a role in childhood, and we play that role to the hilt in all we do throughout the rest of our lives, or we push against it with the rebel yell.

  I grew accustomed to Mom and Kat needing me, depending on me. With Dad gone, they didn’t need me anymore. They were free to find their own way. I now found myself with nothing to rebel against and no calls to answer, completely alone with me, myself, and I.

  How scary, I chuckled with the thought, as I reluctantly got out of bed, convinced sleep was not mine to find. A road trip, that’s what I needed. That’s what nights like this were made for.

  I piled in my beloved chariot, Charlene. I would not be satisfied until the rubber hit the pavement, my radio blasting through the speakers as I sang along, soul soothing, indeed:

  The loneliness can be so cold,

  The pain in my heart needs to be consoled.

  My mind goes back to you,

  Lying here next to me.

  I’m running back to you again,

  Touch me the way you did back then.

  The heat from your hands,

  I can feel them all over me.

  You’re the pill that takes my pain away,

  I know better but I do it anyway.

  Just one fix and that’s all I need,

  To get me through the hardest part.

  Ain’t nothing more natural,

  Than your old lover,

  Nothing else can compare.

  I remember how to love you,

  From head to toe,

  It’s gonna be an all night affair.

  Ain’t nothing more natural to me.

  Three days later, thirty hours on the road, I rounded the corner, pulling up to Jeremiah’s house, relieving Charlene’s engine as I turned the key off. I sat there, taking in my surroundings. I didn’t even know if I would find him home, if he still lived here. A moving truck sat backed up to the front porch, blocking my view of the house. Was he moving out or was someone else moving in? I got out, making my way to the lawn. I came this far. No time to back out now. I heard a familiar voice coming from inside the house, through the screen door.

  “
Come on, Tate.” Cassidy stepped out onto the front porch. She stopped, her vision catching sight of me on the lawn. Tate ran out behind her, his arms outstretched. I hugged him to me, spinning him around.

  “Where’s Megan?” he asked, his eyes hopeful. Cassidy made her way to us.

  “She’s in Philadelphia,” I said, helping him regain his balance from the circles we had turned.

  “Can we go to Phiwadewphia, Momma?”

  “Maybe someday.” Cassidy ran her hand over the top of his head. “Load up, baby.” She pointed to her car parked next to the street.

  “See ya later, Harwey!” He ran to the car.

  “Bye, Tater bug.” I watched him momentarily, turning back to Cassidy.

  “I was wondering when you would come around.” Her lips curved into a smile. “Go get your man.” She gave me the ubiquitous football butt-slap as she walked by me to her car, giggling. “Claim his fine ass.”

  I watched her pull away behind me. Turning back to face the house, there he stood in the doorway, his hair grown out a bit, currently disheveled and curled up at the ends, his facial features heightened by a generous five o’clock shadow. He looked like he had been working out, probably weights of a different form today, furniture and the like. His arms were sculpted and defined, exposed by a form-fitting t-shirt, paired with his lightweight cargo pants and flip-flops. Throw a suit jacket and tie on him, he was ready for the cover of GQ magazine. Taking him in with my eyes, I briefly forgot why I came in the first place.

  “Are you lost?” He grinned, stepping out onto the porch.

  I shook my head, returning his smile. “You going somewhere?” I gestured to the moving truck.

  “Los Angeles.” He continued out onto the porch, taking a seat on the top step of the stairs.

  I remained in position on the lawn, twenty feet away from him, nervously skimming my foot over the top of the grass. “What’s in LA?”

  “A job, LAPD SWAT. I start in three weeks. You can come a little closer, ya know. I don’t bite, much.”

  I walked toward him, stopping at the bottom of the steps. “When are you leaving?”

  “As soon as I drop my keys at the realtor’s. Why, you want to catch a ride back with me?” And there was that smile again.

  “I like LA. I could live there.” He returned his gaze quickly to me, as if he misheard, waiting for me to elaborate. “Do you ever get scared?”

  He shrugged his shoulders, wondering what in the heck that had to do with anything. “Yeah. Everybody gets scared now and then, I guess.”

  “I was lying in bed the other night, three nights ago, before I drove here...”

  “You just got here? From New Mexico?” I nodded my head. “I figured you were in town for something. You came here first?” He looked at me quizzically. “Anyway, you were in bed, three nights ago...”

  “Yeah. And I’m lying there, and I’m nervous, kind of scared. And I realize, I’ve done that my entire life. Gone to bed scared. Growing up I went to bed scared, wondering what I would wake up to. When I moved out on my own, I’d lay awake at night, scared, trying to talk myself to sleep. I’ve always had trouble sleeping at night. My mind goes a mile a minute.” I continued to ramble, “I lie there, tossing and turning, reflecting on life, what I’ve done, what I haven’t done, and what I need to do. I’m not scared when I’m not trying to go to sleep. I’ll even get up out of the bed, get something to eat, or watch TV, and boom, I’m not scared. I’m fine.” I paced the ground in front of the steps, my hands flailing about in time with my words. “But then I lie back down, convinced I can finally go to sleep...and instantly, I’m scared all over again. Even now, I go to bed, I lie down and I’m scared, nervous, alone. And I don’t know why.”

  “Maybe you should see a sleep specialist.” He smiled.

  “What I’m trying to say is...I’m not scared when I’m in bed with you,” I finally spit it out. “From the time we were kids and I would sneak in your bedroom window, sleep in your bed when you weren’t even in it, to the times when I fell asleep in your arms, I always feel safe when I’m with you.” I stopped momentarily, my chest heaved with anxiety.

  He just stared at me. I continued, “When I’m with you, in the still, dark loneliness of the night, when my mind has all the time in the world to play tricks on me, I am completely unaffected. At the end of the day, in the nearness that is you, all is right with the world. It could literally end, and I would be okay. As long as I’m with you.”

  “So, what are you saying, exactly?” I didn’t blame him for doubting, given our history.

  “Do you remember your big truth table,” I accentuated with air quotes, unable to abstain from smiling.

  “Yeah.” He grinned.

  “When I tried to convince you, and myself, I was made for something more, not really sure what the more was. And you told me, maybe I was made for you?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You said if I came back here, to you, I should consider myself committed, tied down.” I pulled a pair of pink, padded handcuffs from my back pocket, holding one cuff, letting the other dangle in front of me.

  “Are you serious?” He lit up.

  “I just drove all the way from New Mexico,” I began to explain my seriousness. He came off the porch scooping me up, his lips covering mine. We spun in circles until he sat down in the grass, my legs straddling his waist, his arms and knees supporting my back, holding me up against him.

  “You would have stayed in Georgia, Pennsylvania? With me? For me?” His hands guided my disheveled hair from my face.

  “It would have been a long commute.” I kissed him through my smiling lips. “I just want to be with you.”

  “What changed?”

  “I’m a late bloomer, slow to grow, slow to know. But, it’s always been you, Miah. It just took me some time to figure it out.”

  “I knew it. I knew I always had you. I was just waiting for you to find what you were looking for. And I waited, and waited...” I put my hand over his mouth.

  “It’s easy to miss what’s right in front of you.”

  “And Los Angeles is good for you?”

  “It’s perfect. I can get back into my music. Maybe do a little acting. I can finish my broadcasting degree. The ocean, we’ll be by the ocean again.” My mind ran with all the possibilities.

  “I can’t believe you’re here. You’re going with me? We’re really going to do this.”

  “Now, I might get flighty every now and then, restless or something.”

  “I don’t care, get restless, go walkabout. Just remember where home is. I’ll be there when you get back.” He turned me over onto my back in the grass, as he lay next to me.

  “I can do that,” I said.

  “You have perfect timing, Harley-girl.” He grinned. “I hear the dating scene in LA is brutal. I wondered how I would get a girl on a SWAT salary.” I laughed momentarily, until his mouth met mine, pressing, seductive. I couldn’t wait to share his bed, always. He stood, extending his hand, helping me to my feet. The handcuffs lay in the grass. “We better take these, just in case,” he said, bending over, he picked them up.

  “Yeah, I’m thinking maybe later, we could use them.” I walked backward across the lawn in front of him. “See, I could be the perp. You be LAPD SWAT. And I’m so sorry officer,” I purred, “but I’ve been a bad, bad girl.”

  “Why wait until later,” he said, picking up his pace. I laughed contentedly, reveling in what was to come as I ran up the steps into the house, Jeremiah hot on my heels.

  Reflections

  Four years later:

  Jeremiah and I enjoyed a bath together in our perfectly roomy claw foot tub, the same claw foot tub he had in his childhood home in Georgia.

  I shaved his face like old times, and we started a new tradition; he shaved my legs. Now, that was interesting. I watched him there in the bubble bath, my leg extended, my heel resting on his shoulder as he meticulously focused, running the razor through the shaving cream, mak
ing one smooth swipe after the other, gently, thoroughly.

  He looked so effortlessly cute, his hair wet, as I had washed it for him, running my fingers through it, leaving it disheveled and spiked on top. His face smooth and balmy, his skin glistened from the water and the moisture in the room. A few sparse bubbles here and there graced his muscular torso, absolutely the most beautiful man.

  Why did it take me so long to see it? God had molded me for him, and him for me, and put us together from the time we were four years old. Why would I think I was made for anything else? I assumed I was put here for more, something big, something that was of my own making, made to be different, not like others who settled down, got married, had kids, and stayed with the same person for fifty years.

  I thought my parents’ relationship, their lives, represented the universe’s way of warning me to steer clear of such a path, a red flag that love was a big, lousy joke and commitment couldn’t be trusted. And here sat this perfectly delicious man, made just for me. I watched him carefully shaving my leg, exchanging and giving of his time freely, fully content.

  “I love you,” the words flowed with ease from my mouth. Love was not schmove, after all, it was love, actually. It didn’t need to be defined, as I so often thought it should be, not quite sure how to define it, never fully knowing if I was capable of it with a man. It was a feeling, simple as that, like Gram said. And I felt it, in my mind, my heart, from the tips of my fingers to the ends of my toes, even in my soul. I felt it always, in the company of Jeremiah Johnson.

  He looked at me, that gorgeous smile curving his lips. “I love you, too, Harley-girl.”

  Does every action cause a future reaction? Are our lives intertwined beyond our own comprehension? Do things, planned or unplanned, conscious or unconscious, really happen for a reason? Is life a school, the sum of our experiences equaling our education, and how we manage those experiences our reward, that which is a life well-lived or otherwise?

  Looking across the tub at Jeremiah, I felt completely overwhelmed. If karma is real, if the universe truly gives what it gets, how did I deserve to be so lucky? What was it I ever did to deserve him? Was it reparation for my childhood? Because I certainly didn’t feel worthy of all I had, grateful, yes, but worthy, no.