“Did the jersey give me away?”
His tone was playful, unmocking. She regarded him warily, silently for a stretch. They stood in the middle of the hallway, the crowd bisecting around them as though Jimmy was Moses parting the Red Sea. His body shielding her from another collision. Nervously she tucked her light brown hair behind her ear and smiled. “I suppose. What position?”
“Receiver.”
“And that means…?”
He smiled. “I catch the ball; make touchdowns.”
“So you’re one of those guys that do those silly dances in the end zone?”
“Why don’t you come to the game tonight and find out?” he proposed.
And that’s precisely what she’d done. She’d sat in the bleachers, chanting the Marlins to victory along with her peers. And when her football hero caught the winning touchdown, he dropped the ball, celebrating the team’s six-point gain with a spur-of-the-moment back flip.
The home crowd went wild as the band played a victorious tune. And as he returned to the sideline, Jimmy’s milk chocolate gaze sought and found hers. She couldn’t deny the shiver of excitement that’d surged down her spine; his performance had been choreographed with her in mind.
Lana gained a boyfriend and encountered her first real kiss that evening. The rest was history.
Collapsing onto the weathered tan recliner Jimmy had spent countless hours lounging in when he was alive, she took a gulp of white zinfandel and sighed. She desperately needed a change. Everywhere she looked she was accosted with memories of Jimmy and the promise of what might have been.
In the beginning the familiarity of his belongings brought an odd sense of comfort. Like he was away on shift at the fire station (a very long shift) and was expected to return home at any moment. Sometimes, after she’d put Connor to bed at night, she’d sit in this chair, listening for the sound of Jimmy’s keys rattling… Of course, that’d never happened. Her husband was buried in a white casket six-feet below ground.
He wasn’t coming back.
More than anything she wanted to wallow in her despair. Wanted to curl up in a ball and cry until her body shriveled from dehydration. But she couldn’t. She refused to surrender to the insanity nipping at her heels. Connor had already lost his daddy; he didn’t deserve to lose his mommy, too.
Glancing around the room, she conceded that the “change” she so desperately needed had to begin with her environment. Maybe she needed to purchase new furniture or redecorate. Yeah, that was a good place to start.
It was time to forge ahead with life on her own two feet. Time to take charge as the head of the household. Time to cease her procrastination.
Time to begin healing.
“Okay, let’s put your Spiderman mask on and then we’ll be ready to go”, said Lana as she reached for the thin spandex material lying on the coffee table. She carefully placed it over Connor’s head and fastened the Velcro along the back. “There. Can you see?”
“I don’t gotta see good, Mommy; I can use my spider sense”, he assured her.
Lana smiled at her little superhero. “You’re right—I keep forgetting. Grab your trick-or-treat bag and let’s go.”
If it were up to her, she’d forego the whole trick-or-treating thing altogether this year. She was more than happy to stay in, stuff her face with buttered popcorn, and watch reruns of old scary movies. Every time Lana left the house—for groceries, PTA meetings, for work—she was bombarded with inquiries from nosy residents.
“How’re you holdin’ up?”, or “How’ve you been?” or “Can we do anything to help?” became tiresome rather quickly.
She fully understood the repetitious questions, and the concerned residents that fielded them, meant no malice. People were just curious and were only trying to be nice. But just once she’d like to answer truthfully, explain how she struggled to get out of bed every morning and typically cried herself to sleep most nights.
That was one surefire way to end the curious inquisitions.
As tempting as it was, she was raised to be polite. And so she’d paste a grin on her face tonight as she accompanied Connor—ahem, Spiderman—through the neighborhood, even if it killed her. Connor had lost so much this year already; faced an unspeakable tragedy no child should have to endure. It was past time for his childlike innocence to return.
Gripping her flashlight, Lana locked the front door, making sure her fake smile exuded cheerfulness, strength, and confidence. “C’mon, Spiderman, let’s save the city’s supply of candy from the evil Green Goblin.”
“Yeah!”
The radiant sun burned a path in the sky, leaving vibrant hues of violet, coral, and magenta in its wake, another twenty minutes and the colorful heavens would be replaced by inky darkness.
They’d been at it for well over an hour, Spiderman’s bag practically bursting at the seams with enough candy and chocolate to last until next Halloween. They really needed to head back home; Connor still needed a bath and Lana desperately needed to lose her shoes.
“Mommy, look!” Connor shouted excitedly as he pointed toward the black Ford F-150 up ahead.
So the rumors were true…Randall was back.
“Can we go say hi?”
“I don’t know, Connor. We really need to head ba—”
“Please? I’ll be real quick! Pretty please?”
“All right, fine”, she conceded softly.
Lana’s heart hammered against her chest, the swooshing sound of her rapid pulse blaring in her ears. With knees aquiver, she climbed the front porch steps as Connor eagerly pounded on the front door. Swallowing hard, Lana braced herself. She hadn’t seen Randall since the funeral—hadn’t spoken to him since the night she’d learned of Jimmy’s accident.
Refusing to return to that dark memory, she pushed it aside. “Connor, honey, I don’t think he’s home.”
“But his truck’s in the driveway”, he whined.
Lana sighed. “Well, maybe he rode into town with someone, or maybe he’s inside sleeping.”
“Grown-ups don’t go to bed this early, Mommy. And I really, really wanna show him my costume! Can I knock again?—just one more time—please?” he begged.
She hadn’t seen her son this excited since he found the golden egg during Butler Island’s annual Easter egg hunt. Every year one golden egg was strategically hidden along the boardwalk and the person lucky enough to find it was first in line to meet the Easter Bunny.
Truthfully she wanted to run as far away from this house as possible—not because she was angry with Randall. She knew it wasn’t his fault Jimmy had died. No, her reasons for running had to do with her embarrassing reaction to his death: specifically the part where her right palm had struck Randall’s dirt-smudged cheek.
“One more time and then we have to go.”
Connor pounded on the door with both fists and then took a step back, fidgeting while he waited for the door to swing open. But that never happened.
“See?—he’s not home. C’mon, we have to go now.”
“Okaaay”, he acquiesced, hanging his head as he descended down the porch steps. “I just really wanted to show-off my costume.”
“I know, honey. Maybe we can get the pictures developed this weekend and you can show it to him. What do you think about that?”
Connor nodded listlessly as they traveled down the sidewalk toward their home four streets over. She hated seeing him like this—especially when he’d been in such great spirits earlier in the evening.
Her son adored Randall. And now that he was obviously back in town, it was past time to apologize for her erratic behavior. Connor had lost his father; she didn’t want him to lose Randall, too.
Randall removed his fingers from the wooden blind slats and drew in a deep breath. He’d lost track of how many times he’d heard a knock on his door tonight. So what possessed him to peek through his blinds this time?—he hadn’t a clue. But when he’d separated the wood slats with his fingertips, the image of Lana, and who
he presumed was Connor dressed as Spiderman, accosted the segment of his heart ravaged with grief. His heart was damaged, forever tarnished with sadness and guilt. But one look at Lana and Connor standing on his front porch had him feeling emotions he hadn’t felt in months. A twinge of hope blossomed in his tainted chest as he peered through the window pane, his body frozen as the unfamiliar sensation flickered light into his dark existence.
He’d stood speechless, motionless—his legs heavy as though his shoes were constructed of concrete. Randall hadn’t seen Lana and Connor since the funeral, since the day he’d hurriedly fled the congregation of grieving beings in route to his truck. That day seemed like a lifetime ago.
He’d pointed his Ford F-150 East along I-10, spending his five-month leave-of-absence near Steinhatchee, a small Gulf coast community located along Florida’s big bend. He’d rented a rundown motel room along the river—the kind of place that offered rooms by the week, by the month, or in some cases, by the hour. There wasn’t a lick of luxury in sight, but that didn’t matter; its sole purpose was to provide a roof over his head, a bed to lie on, and a bathroom to shower in every night.
Upon his arrival he’d visited the local marina and leased a boat, haggling the owner down in price considerably. Randall’s routine didn’t change much from day to day. He’d wake up before sunrise and grab what remained of the Jack Daniels bottle from the night before, slowly winding down the river until he reached Deadman Bay. Cautiously he’d maneuver his small vessel around oyster beds until he was further into the Gulf, throwing his anchor overboard to watch the sun peek over the horizon. He couldn’t explain it, but somehow watching the sun rise, feeling the warmth of the rays as they touched his tan skin felt… therapeutic. Like the streams of light flickered vivid color into his somber soul.
Like Jimmy’s memory was shining down on him.
It sounded silly, really, now that he thought about it. But that hadn’t stopped him from rising before the sun every morning to witness the birth of a new day. It’d become as necessary and routine as brushing his teeth—and he didn’t see that changing any time in the near future.
Stepping away from the window, Randall shuffled into the kitchen, rattling ice against his almost empty tumbler. He may’ve started a tradition of waking before dawn, but his preferred method of ending each day involved another bottle of Jack Daniels poured over several cubes of ice. Reaching for the bottle, he poured the amber liquid over the remaining ice and took a satisfying sip.
Nights were the worst—when memories, should have’s, and regrets haunted him. When the piercing pain of losing his best friend could only be dulled by ingesting eighty-proof liquor.
He’d escaped reality and now it was time to return. Randall’s five month hiatus would officially end tomorrow morning at seven when he reported to the fire station for shift. Throwing his head back, he swallowed the remainder of liquid in his glass and slammed the tumbler onto the counter. Like a magnet, his eyes settled on the bottle of Jack Daniels, his mind debating whether or not to finish the remains.
Picking up his glass, he shook the empty tumbler, ice clanking against the sides. The familiar sound spoke to him, encouraging him to pour one more round to deaden the ache from within.
And Randall was more than happy to oblige.
Toddling into the living room, he sank into his favorite chair, making a mental note to contact Mr. Morgan in the morning about the old Boston Whaler he’d had for sale last spring. Restoring the neglected vessel was just the kind of distraction he needed. He just prayed the marina owner hadn’t sold it to someone else in his absence.
And, of course, it went without saying that he needed to talk to Lana. He owed her an apology for walking out on her and Connor when they’d needed him most.
But not tonight.
No, tonight he hadn’t been ready to face her.
Raising the tumbler to his lips, Randall took another satisfying sip, finding comfort in the warmth that trickled down his throat. He hadn’t been ready, but he would be eventually. Soon…
Chapter 4
“I just don’t know if I’ll have time to play catch tonight, Connor. I have to finish dinner and I still need to finish typing the minutes from last week’s city commission meeting”, Lana explained as she dumped a fistful of spaghetti into a pot of boiling water.
“But you promised!”
“I know I did, but I hadn’t anticipated on getting a call from your teacher today when I made that promise”, she uttered as she cautiously stirred the noodles. She’d learned the hard way during the first year of marriage that failing to stir pasta within thirty seconds often led to a gummy clump of starch, which wasn’t the least bit appetizing.
Satisfied that the noodles were swimming gracefully and freely in the pot, she added salt to the boiling water and carefully laid her stirring utensil on the counter. “We’ve been over this countless times, Connor: leaving early from work means I have to bring home the work I wasn’t able to finish. Which reminds me”—she said as she turned to face her son—“I thought we discussed you aren’t to have Mrs. Wilkes call me to come pick you up unless you’re really sick.”
“But I was really sick, Mommy: I had a mega belly ache!”
“Well then, I guess it’s a good thing I can’t play catch tonight. You’re sick, remember?”
“Oh—I feel lots better, now”, he assured her.
“Really?” Lana crossed her arms and leaned her backside against the edge of the counter. It still amazed her how quickly Connor came down with an ailment (and how miraculously he’d recover once she picked him up and brought him home). “And when did that happen, huh?” she questioned, amused.
Connor shrugged his tiny shoulders and stared at an imaginary spot on his shoes like it was the most interesting thing he’d ever seen. “A while back ago.”
“Uh-huh…”
The doorbell chimed just as a bubbly sizzle sounded from the pot. The pasta water boiled over, temporarily diverting her attention to the stove. “Shit!” Lana quickly reached for her kitchen mitts, scooting the pot away from the glowing red circle on the glass stovetop.
The doorbell chimed again. “Shit”, Connor mumbled, “guess I’ll get it.”
Seriously…?
Yep, Lana’s life could be summarized into one four-letter word: shit. She was a twenty-seven-year-old widow and her five-year-old son was a cursing hypochondriac. Needless to say, she was failing miserably as a single parent.
A low groan escaped her mouth as she glanced at the ring around the burner. She’d just cleaned the stovetop last week. Apparently scrubbing the burnt-on pasta water would be yet something else she needed to add to her growing to-do list tonight. Realizing there wasn’t much she could do about it until the burner cooled, she returned her attention back to dinner, using her pasta utensil to transfer the cooked noodles into a waiting skillet of marinara sauce.
“You don’t hafta play catch with me no more, Mommy!” Connor shouted from the living room. “I got someone else!”
“Really? And who might that be?”
“Hey, Lana…”
Randall hadn’t meant to scare her. He’d been on his way home from the fire station and the next thing he knew, he’d been idling in Lana’s driveway. It was past time to look her in the eyes and apologize. And he figured there was no better time than the present.
He’d stepped into her kitchen, the delicious aroma of Italian cuisine wafting through the familiar room, reminding him of the countless nights he’d stayed for dinner when Jimmy was alive.
At the sound of his voice Lana jerked, no doubt startled by his presence.
“Ouch!” she cried as scorching-hot marinara sauce splashed onto her wrist.
“Shit! Are you okay?” He asked as he dashed toward the stove. Carefully, he took her hand and led her to the sink.
Lana stood by, watching as Randall placed her wrist under the running faucet. The cool water eased the sting, but his presence still left her speechless. Stunne
d. She’d expected one of the neighborhood boys Connor sometimes played with—not Randall. His concern touched her, infiltrating a segment of her heart that’d been numb for nearly five months. She didn’t deserve his kindness, tenderness—not after the way she’d treated him after Jimmy’s accident.
He held her hand as cold water trickled over his fingertips. And when he seemed satisfied that the remedy had alleviated much of her pain, he turned the faucet off.
Her eyes tracked his thumb as he gently caressed her wrist. “I’m fine. Really”, she assured him. “It was just a minor splash.” Silence enveloped them, for how long she couldn’t say. But when Randall finally found his voice, the two words he spoke were the last two words she expected to hear.
“I’m sorry.”
Lana tore her eyes away from her injured arm, her orbs settling on the two gray eyes staring back at her. “For what?” she asked confusedly.
Shifting his weight nervously onto his left foot, he leaned his hip against the counter and shrugged. “Where do I begin…”
“Randall, please—”
“Hey, Randall”—Connor shrieked excitedly a moment before his bedroom door slammed behind him—“can you eat wif us?”
“Um, I’m not really sure if—”
“—Please?”
Randall resettled his focus on Lana, attempting to gauge her reaction. She didn’t appear appalled by the idea, but then again her five-year-old son was present. She’d been raised to be polite, and besides the slapping incident, he couldn’t remember a time when she’d ever lost her composure. Randall figured she’d had good reason to lose her cool that dreadful day; he certainly wouldn’t hold that against her.
His eyes continued their journey over her exhausted face. Dark circles cradled her midnight blue orbs, further substantiating that the transition to single parenthood had been tiresome.
“Stay… There’s plenty”, Lana reiterated.
Rescue Me (Butler Island) Page 3