Painted Boots

by Mechelle Morrison

  A choking sob escapes me.

  Kyle rests his head against mine. He works his fingers between my hands until we’re holding hands, again. But my thoughts are far from him now, in Portland, taking me down the stairs and into our kitchen.

  Where was I, in the rush of that morning, when Mom called out I’ll drop you, I need the car? She joked with Dad as I buttered my toast—I remember that. She poured herself coffee as I gulped down my juice. She set her mug, full and steaming, on the counter then followed me to the car. I’ll add the cream and sugar when I get back, she’d said.

  On the way to school we had talked about the summer road trip I’d planned with my friends. Mom had launched into her lecture on safe sex and birth control and the burden of incurable disease.

  I’d answered her with eye-rolls. I already knew about that stuff and that morning, for some reason, I didn’t want to hear it again. I wanted out. I wanted my day! I wanted it so much that as we neared the school building I had opened my car door. Mom braked hard; the tires skidded; she yelled Don’t do that, sweet! But I was already in motion—grabbing my purse and books and jumping to the curb. I shut the door as she said, Love you, baby. See you at three. I don’t remember what I was thinking at that moment.

  I hope it was Love you, too.

  My day had just begun when Dad appeared—his face like ash—and pulled me from second period calc. At Portland Providence they put us in a little room, one with a view. Time had no meaning as Dad and I sat there, staring at nothing, holding hands and listening to hospital sounds. When the doctor came in I jumped. He said, “The crash killed her instantly.” He said, “She’s too badly burned for you to see.” He said, “I’m very sorry.” He touched my head; he shook Dad’s hand. He left a thin packet of papers on a chair seat. Then he was gone.

  I pull free of Kyle, rest my elbows on my knees, and rake my fingers through my hair. That day! There’s a lot I don’t recall about coming home from the hospital. I mean, I took a sleeping pill. But I remember Mom’s coffee. It was there, still on the counter, cold and black. That coffee will wait for her forever in my dreams.

  I wrap my arms around my body and rock myself.

  Kyle takes hold of my shoulders, twisting me until he’s got me cradled against his chest. I let him hold me while I out-of-control sob. He rubs my back and whispers, “I’ve got you, girl. I’ve got you.”

  I cry even harder. Kyle pulls a green bandana from somewhere, a pocket, maybe, and lays it across my thigh.

  If anyone had told me, five short months ago when Mom was still alive, that I’d be huddled in a vintage Chevy and taking comfort from a teenaged cowboy I hardly know, I would have rolled my eyes. It would have seemed absurd. But nothing feels strange about this moment. The truck shudders in a gust of wind and Kyle smoothes the tears from my cheek. Dry leaves dance into the sky and I work my arm behind his back, just to be closer. The world keeps right on spinning, same as ever. Except now Kyle and I are clinging to each other as though we were the only two people left to notice.

  “I was late for school,” I say after a while, my voice high and nasally. “I missed my ride and Mom drove me. She needed the car.”

  Kyle’s hold on me tightens. I hug him in return. “You’ve been blamin’ yourself,” he says gently.

  All I can do is nod.

  “Maybe you’re convinced you should have seen beyond the moment you were in. But you couldn’t. Stuff happens, girl. It just does. Doesn’t make it your fault.”

  Kyle strokes my hair, his fingers playing through its length. Maybe he’s looking out across the parking lot toward the school, again. But I let go of that thought. I have to. The rhythm of his heart is all around me—in his chest and shoulder, echoing softly in my ear. It’s an unborn baby’s sound, where a heartbeat is everything.

  I press his bandana to my eyes, soaking up my tears. Then I draw a long, shaking breath and curl myself against Kyle’s warmth. His heartbeat quickens, and I wonder if he’s thinking what I’m thinking.

  It’s like we are each other’s everything.

  7

  KYLE STARTS HIS truck and eases the gear stick into drive. The lunch bell rings as he maneuvers the parking lot. I keep cuddled to his chest, lost in his warmth and the rhythm of his heart. I don’t care where we’re going—only that his arm is tight around me. I want the moment to last, but once we’re on the main highway he says, “Up you go, girl.”

  I obey, fastening my lap belt before I wipe away my remnant tears. Kyle takes an underpass beneath the freeway then makes a right turn onto the frontage road. From there it’s short-cuts—driving the hard-packed dirt dividing one stretch of land from another. When we hit pavement again we’re on the street leading into my neighborhood.

  “This is where I live!”

  “Yeah. I thought to bring you home. I figured you’ve been crying and the day’s half gone and, well. Lindsey and Em are friends. Sometimes. Maybe you want to put that particular piece of glitter away. For now, I mean.”

  I’d forgotten all about Em. “Is she . . . is Em your girlfriend?”

  Kyle runs his fingers through his hair. “She likes to think so.”

  I point out my house and he pulls into the drive, parking next to the fir trees that line the pavement. He hops out and reaches for me, helping me climb down from his truck. I sling my bag to my shoulder but he’s quick to take it, carrying the strap in his fist as we walk toward the front door. He lays my bag on the little iron porch bench Dad bought when we moved in.

  “You got a key, right?”

  “I do.”

  We stand there for a while, looking at each other. He rubs the back of his hand. “I’m glad we finally met,” he says, and leans toward me. I move toward him, too, wondering if I’m brave enough to kiss Em’s boyfriend. But Kyle doesn’t kiss me. He takes my waist like we’re brother and sister, holding me in a hug that I’m sure resembles the letter A. It feels so strange to stand apart, after sharing my deepest secret with him, that I wrap my arms around his neck and pull myself against his body.

  He freezes for the briefest second, like he’s cast in stone. Then he gathers me up, his hands warm on my back, his arms lifting me until my toes barely touch the ground. He buries his face in my hair. His skin smells good, like sun-dried laundry.

  “Thanks for saving me,” I whisper.

  “Anytime,” he whispers in return.

  When he releases me his eyes are bright. “I want to stay. You should know that. I want to spend the day and talk to you more and hold you, like we just did. I’d be happy to have that chance again, if you’ll give it. For now though, there’s something I’ve gotta do. So if you’re okay, I’ll be going. But I’ll see you soon.”

  “I’ll be all right,” I say.

  He shoves one hand into his pocket and grins wide enough to dimple his cheek. “I like you, Aspen Brand. Being round you has me feeling different. Like my world is finally spinning right.”

  I give him my best smile, then watch him walk away. The wind is strong now, tugging his hair with chilly fingers and rippling like water across his shirt. I shiver and wrap my arms around my body, but when he backs his truck into the street and waves, I wave too. Then I sit on our cold iron bench, pull my bag onto my lap and dig my house key from the little zipper pocket where I keep my phone.

  It’s only then that I wonder what Kyle’s gone to do, and what it is about his world that’s been spinning wrong.

  “Greer Environmental, how may I direct your call?”

  I sound shy as I say, “Graydon Brand, please.” There’s a faint click. Something by Mozart begins to play—or maybe it’s Beethoven. I don’t know. I cradle the phone against my chin and shove two pieces of bread into the toaster. I open the fridge door—it crashes against the counter as I pour myself a glass of milk. I screw the green plastic lid onto the jug and put it back on the refrigerator shelf. With my foot, I push the door shut. My toast pops.

  “Aspen?”

  “Hey, Dad.”


  “What happened? Are you all right? Why are you home?” His questions tumble out too fast for me to answer.

  “Um.”

  “What’s wrong?” Dad asks.

  “I have a headache. A friend gave me a ride.”

  “You’re okay?”

  “I’m okay, but will you do me a favor and call the school? I forgot to tell them I was leaving. They’ll contact you because, you know. Unexcused absence.”

  “Should I come home? Do you need me?”

  “No. I promise. I’m going upstairs to sleep. I locked the door and really, there isn’t anything for you to do. It’s just a headache.”

  “Take aspirin.”

  “I will.”

  “I’ll call the school.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Can I do anything?”

  “No. I just need sleep.”

  “I’ll be home by six. I’ll cook tonight. Get some rest.”

  Dad and I say “Bye” at the same time and out of nowhere, I smile. Smiling makes me think of Kyle, which makes me think of Mom. It doesn’t hurt as much to think about her as it did in the truck, and though my smile feels a little sad, it stays.

  Upstairs, in my room, I set my milk and toast by my laptop then kick off my shoes. I remove my earrings and Lindsey’s aunt Carol’s pin, all while staring at my puffy, tear-drained reflection in the mirror. I unwind my scarf from my neck and hang it on a hook inside my closet door. Then I change into my pajamas.

  My eyes burn and I’m weary. I really do want to nap. But I’ll never sleep unless I check out KDT. So I bring up YouTube and punch in the initials. Twelve videos pop up. I choose one called “Return to Me.” It’s had over two hundred thousand views.

  I slowly check Kyle’s other videos. Maybe he never mentions he has stuff on YouTube, but the word has gotten out. Every one of his songs has been viewed into the hundreds of thousands of times. Doing the math in my head makes me almost laugh. I didn’t consider that someone in a place like Gillette would be popular with the world, but Kyle’s known.

  I find that kind of cool.

  After setting the image to full screen, I click the play arrow. An ad begins for cameras, or maybe skydiving, and I watch it. Then the screen goes dark.

  I wait.

  There’s a quiet snap, like the breaking of a twig, and a cone of light reveals Kyle sitting on a stool. His head is bowed over an incredible acoustic guitar, one made of white-grained wood edged with flecks of ebony inlay. Light softly traces the rim of his black cowboy hat; his white shirt almost glows. I’ve never seen the black-stitched boots he’s wearing. He’s never worn black jeans to school. He begins playing, the chords expressed by a complicated pick. He takes a breath, looks into the camera, and sings.

  If I didn’t know I was watching Kyle Thacker I’d wonder, unsure if it was him. His eyes are amazingly blue, the only color in a video that at first seemed shot in black and white. He has maybe two days’ worth of stubble on his cheeks and chin which makes him seem older, model-hot and vulnerable, all at once. I’ve never heard the song he’s singing, but I don’t know why. It’s beautiful—the melody and tender lyrics weaving round each other like a slow and loving dance. The husky sound of his voice could melt an ice planet for how tenor and smooth it is. As I watch I somehow know this is the way Kyle sees himself, deep inside. And it’s weird, because I’d swear I’m looking into a mirror. It’s like this guy has always been a part of me, and will always be.

  I start another song called “Wander,” and lie down on my bed. The tune is gentle and sweet, and reminds me of summer. Kyle’s voice drifts over me like fine mist, finding every small fissure my heart has been leaking through since the day Mom died. As I listen, the melody fills cracks I didn’t even know were there, healing me with lyrics so personal it’s like they’re torn straight from my soul. His song is a gift.

  I’d swear it’s one he’s giving, just to me.

  8

  WHEN I WAS younger I thought the month following September was called Halloween. It was my parents’ fault, really. They were into ghosts and goblins and fear. By kindergarten, when Mom tore September from the big calendar on our fridge, I knew to start snooping for fake eyeballs and gummy worms. At night I’d check my bed for rubber snakes. I’d practically stroke-out working up the nerve to peek into my closet before turning out the light. One year Dad put a gnarly stuffed scarecrow in there; another, plastic insects were hidden in my clothes.

  In those days I’d race home from grade school after class, dreading, but at the same time hoping, it was the day my parents had turned our house into a haunted wonderland. I never knew which day would be the day I’d find my house creeped-out to the rafters. The suspense almost killed me. It was worse than Christmas. I loved it.

  Last year mummies and zombies and guts hung from the eaves. Fake bloody arms and broken legs grew in the soil of our autumn-weary flower beds. Our walkway was a tangle of webs, the strands imbedded with gooey spiders and take-it-if-you-dare treats. Old mason jars, filled with fake hearts and fingers and ears, were stacked in the windows facing the street. Purple and orange lights dripped from the roof; a smoke machine belched dry-ice mist across our porch; rubber rats crept along the stairs and railings. I was sixteen. Yet the moment I saw our house I squealed like a five-year-old.

  But this year every day of October has been as ordinary as the one before—and today is Halloween. If Dad’s new khaki-and-glasses demeanor is a reflection of what’s going on inside his head, I’m pretty sure he’ll spend the day at work. I’ll come home to the same old house I’m leaving. There won’t be any pumpkins on the porch. There won’t be gore in the gardens. Dad won’t dangle bats from the windows or clutter the lawn with minions. I guess I could have done something—a witch poster or a skeleton cut from paper plates, a fake bloody toe in Dad’s bathroom drawer. But I didn’t. It’s too heartbreaking to think of ghosts, now that Mom’s become one.

  And Halloween is only the beginning. Next comes Thanksgiving and Christmas and my birthday. Then it’s New Year’s Eve and Valentines, Easter and Dad’s birthday, Mom’s birthday and Memorial Day weekend, and the new one. June third. The day Mom died.

  My room blurs into a watery mess. I shouldn’t think of her right now. I shouldn’t think about the holidays. I need to get ready for school. I haven’t had breakfast, or gathered up my books. But I can’t help it.

  Mom made holidays shine. She filled our house with guests. She made sure the special people were always there—the people back in Portland who aren’t coming to visit this year because they’re all from Mom’s side of the family—her sister Marti and Uncle Bob, her half-brother Joe and my cousins, Gabby and Griff.

  I miss Mom’s cooking. I miss the way she made any meal into a feast. By this time last year our house smelled of sugar and baking bread, cooked apples and pumpkin pies, fudge and cookies and home-made caramel.

  Dad yells, “Hurry up, Aspen! I can’t be late today!”

  I flop across my bed. Minutes pass, then a half hour, and all I’ve done is cry. I ache for Mom’s arm round my shoulder. I miss the sound of her voice, so much I almost hear it. Dad knocks softly on my door. I hold my breath and wait for our creaking stairway to confirm he’s gone downstairs.

  I can’t tell him how Mom is fading away. I don’t want to hear those words spoken out loud. It terrifies me to realize that the longer she’s dead, the more I’m forgetting: her smell, her laugh, the way she loved me so completely. I wish I’d said ‘I love you’ just one last time. I wish I’d said ‘Good-bye.’

  I’m sorry for that, Mom. I’m sorry.

  I nibble on the breakfast Dad made for me—toast and apple slices—though I’m not hungry. I’m late for school and I’ve made Dad late, too. But he drives like he always does, anticipating the traffic lights and keeping five miles under the speed limit.

  “Maybe we could get a second car,” I say.

  Dad glances at me and frowns. “I’ll do the school driving for now.” From his tone I k
now I’ve made him think of Mom, which makes sense. I mean, I’m thinking of her, too. I want to talk about her, but there’s a sticky kind of silence in the space between us, like someone has peeled back the Jeep’s roof and filled it to the brim with molasses.

  As we near the school I notice Kyle’s truck, parked sideways across two corner stalls at the edge of the lot. I haven’t seen his shiny black clean-as-clean Chevy since the day I sat in it, crying like the biggest baby ever.

  Dad stops at the curb and idles, waiting for me to get out. “Cool old truck,” he says.

  I munch on my apples.

  It’s been four weeks since I poured my heart against Kyle’s sleeve. Four weeks since we gave each other a full body hug on the front porch of my house. That day had me feeling so good about things: about Mom and life, about going on. But since that day Kyle and I have hardly spoken.

  I don’t get it.

  He frowns through class, with his head down. No more poetic insights. No thoughtful answers. When we cross paths in the hall he says, “Hey Aspen,” and keeps on walking, pretending he can’t see the questions burning in my eyes. It’s pathetic, but the more he ignores me the more I listen to his music on YouTube, feeling stupid for telling him about my mom, stupid for falling apart in his arms. I hate how inside I seem broken, like telling Kyle the truth has come back to mock me, shredding my new-found happiness with the same precision a magpie exhibits for road kill.

  A stray vampire wanders by and Dad asks, “You didn’t know to dress up today?”

  “I am dressed up.” I smooth the black warmth of the wool dress I’m wearing. It’s a simple cut: straight and tight as Saran Wrap. The sleeves rest at my knuckles, the hem three inches below my knees, the deep scoop neck a perfect showcase for Mom’s looping strands of beads. I even painted the heels of my boots black, just for the occasion. It helps, I think, that I’ve been crying. My face is washed of color. My eyes feel too big.

  “Lily Munster?” he asks.

  “Who?”

  “An old TV character.” Dad raises his eyebrows. “It was a guess.”