by Rose Hudson
“I wanted to hold your hand all day. Every minute. Every time you brushed by me in the kitchen or the grocery store. Every time I saw pain or worry in your eyes. I wanted to grab your hand and hold it because I was scared you wouldn’t know I’d catch you if you needed to fall.” His words capture every dream, every want. All the hidden pieces of what I’m made of. I can’t hold his eyes, so I look down at our clasped hands. Thinking of all the times he did touch me today, remembering how it felt so much like he could read my mind, I run my thumb over the side of his, collecting my words.
“But you did. I think I would’ve fell completely apart if it hadn’t been for you. And when you did touch me, every time I remember feeling like it was an answered prayer; like the glue holding me together. Somehow you knew. You always know.” I stare deep into those fiery gray eyes, hoping he sees every emotion I’m feeling played back in them.
“If there’s an answered prayer in this room, it’s you. And you’re right, I do know. I feel it…feel you.” I can hear the emotion in his voice and I’m fighting the urge to weep, but lose the battle as a single tear spills over and down my cheek. “When my mom was getting really sick, close to the end of her cancer, we would sit for hours and she would talk to me about the man she hoped I’d become. I remember every single word she said, and I’m lucky for that because most kids don’t really cherish what their parents say. But I did, since unlike most kids, I knew that I only had so many of those conversations with her, not endless days of nagging and lesson teaching. Only so many. It’s been a long time since I’ve had good dreams, most nights that I have any kind of vision at all, are usually nightmares. Until you. After that night, I started having dreams about those talks and it’s all came back to me, just as precious as the first go around, if not more so because I thought I’d never get them back. But now I remember every single word and you gave that to me. She gave me some good advice recently, and I think I’ll listen to her.” My face and neck are soaked. My heart is pounding and I want to ugly sob, but I don’t. I watch the beauty of his features brighten at the mention of his mother and I want to know her and hug her and give her back to him at the love I see overflowing from his words.
“What advice is that,” I ask through falling tears. He stands and holds out his hand, pulling me up and walking me around to my side of the bed before laying me down and pulling the covers over me. My mind reels in preponderance as he walks back to his side. He climbs in beside me, scooting under the covers and pulling my body flush to his from behind, looking down to meet my eyes.
“She told me that when a woman you love cries, don’t ask questions. Don’t make promises. Just hold her while she does.” His lips are filled with a new and previously foreign depth and emotion. The sobs break free and I take his mouth deeper, kissing him through them. It’s not until the kiss ends and he has my back pressed to the heated skin of his chest, holding me tight, letting the pain from the day slowly drain from my body and my heart, that I realize what he’s just proclaimed.
IT WAS HARD TO leave Erin this morning, but I managed to slide out of bed without waking her. Instead of going out the front door and risk waking up Ruth who was fast asleep on the couch, I went out the side door from the kitchen, thankful there was a knob lock I could lock behind me. I mean we are in Memphis and not the best part of Memphis either. As I drive down the questionable streets of the neighborhood Garon and Bobbie Jean live in, I wonder how much it has changed since Erin was a teenager. I find myself hoping that she was safe, and that if she wasn’t, someone had been there to protect her. Kind of like how I’d felt yesterday when that little punk had been messing with Ruth. I only wish I’d have been there to see his face when he scrolled through his feed and saw that pic. Prick. If teenage girls looked like Ruth, meaning a mini version of Erin, when I was that age? Fuck. My pubescent dick would had to have been taped down just to walk from class to class. I damn sure wouldn’t have been playing the field given the chance to go to the Winter Formal with a girl like Ruth. Just wait until I meet this dude. On another note, I’m thirty-two years old and plotting to kick a twelve-year-old’s ass. Wow. It would appear the Abram’s girls have got my ass whipped. But ya, know what? I’m okay with that.
For weeks, a part of my heart has belonged to Erin. But on the drive here I recognized that part of it belonged to Ruth, too. As much as I’ve tried to be friendly with her, somewhere along the way I’ve fallen in love with her too. It’s so weird though because I can honestly say I’ve never really been around kids. I was an only child. Uncle Greer never married or had children. And mom was from Arkansas, so we never saw much of her family at all. For ten years Dawson has worked alongside me and has been my only friend or family. When I say I’ve never been around kids, it’s the truth. So to meet Ruth and fall for her in the matter of a few weeks, I’d say she’s pretty damn special. It’s crazy because I don’t just think of Erin singularly now, I find myself thinking of the two of them. I wanted to tell Erin all of this when I held her this morning, but with everything that’s going on with Garon, the time didn’t feel right. And most importantly, like she said yesterday, she doesn’t even know me. I never thought I’d say this, but I want her to know me. I want to tell her that she’s right, she doesn’t know me, that I’m not even who she knows me to be. I want to tell her the hell I went through as a teenager. I want to tell her about the evil woman that was my stepmother. I want to tell her what she did to my family and how she made me pay for it. What will she say when she sees the darkest parts?
Maybe that’s another small part of why I’m here, pulling into the parking lot of Baptist Memorial Hospital. Only a small part. The bigger part is I know what it’s like to lose your parents. In this case, a father specifically. I know what it’s like to lose him when there’s so much making up to do, so many words left unspoken. All that’s left after death is regret. I want them to have a fighting chance at making things right. So I’m here, pleading with God, trying to make it happen.
The woman at the front desk refers me to the third floor, so I step onto the empty elevator and push the button. Getting off and walking toward the front desk, I see an older woman, ebony skin, short hair, reading a book with glasses set at the end of the bridge of her nose. Hearing the ding of the elevator bell as it descends back to the ground floor, she looks up from the thick novel in her hand just as I approach.
“Can I help you?”
“Yes Ma’am. I’m looking for a nurse by the name of Sharon Jones.”
“Well don’t you just have impeccable timing.” She removes her glasses and places them atop the novel, setting both to the side and standing.
“You did say your shift ended at six, right,” I ask, thinking back to our phone conversation yesterday.
“That’s right. Just surprised you’re here in time for me to draw your blood before I clock out is all.” She walks around the counter and proceeds to the right, gesturing for me to follow. Walking down a hallway, we come to the third or fourth doorway on the right and walk into a room labeled ‘Lab’. Pointing to a blood drawing chair, aptly colored red, I settle down and place my right arm across the surface of the platform.
“You know, with it being Thanksgiving, I hadn’t really anticipated your phone call or that I’d be taking donor samples today. Must be for someone pretty special.” She wipes the bend of my arm vigorously with alcohol pads. Sitting down on a short rolling stool, she discards them in the trash before turning back to look at me questioningly. “So you gonna’ tell me or make me pull it out of ya?” I turn my head up at her words and a burst of laughter explodes from my lips, causing her to look at me with narrowed eyes. “Now what’s so funny?”
“You’ll have to forgive me, Ma’am. It’s just my girlfriend and I say that, and it’s pretty fitting since I’m here for her father.” She wraps my arm with a long band, pulling it tight and searching my arm for a generous vein.
“Is that right? Your girlfriend, huh?” Her index finger settles on a plump blood ves
sel and she pulls a thick needle with a clear tube attached from the tray on the counter beside her, placing the sharp point against the vessel. “Big stick.” I watch as my blood runs down the line and into the tube, silently praying that somewhere in that collection of cells and platelets is the HLA marker needed for me to save Garon. “It sounds to me that she is a bit more than your girlfriend if you’re rushing here on Thanksgiving Day to be a donor for her father,” the nurse speaks up, pulling my attention up to her. Her statement makes a smile form and I nod slightly.
“Yes Ma’am. I’ll tell her in time, but for right now she’s just my girlfriend.” Sharon Jones pulls the needle from my arm, quickly replacing it with a cotton ball and bandage. She writes some information on the multiple tubes and places them in a small plastic bag before sealing it and placing it in a transport cooler.
“We will process this and I will give you a call when we have the results, let you know if you’re a match.” I stand and shake her hand.
“Happy Thanksgiving and thank you for your help” She nods and gives me a polite smile, following me as we walk back to the front desk. I push the button for the elevator and watch the numbers increase on the display as it makes its ascent, the indicator sound dinging in the empty floor as the doors open.
“Have a good Thanksgiving Mr. Lawson.” I wave at her as I step toward the elevator, preparing to step aboard. “Oh and Mr. Lawson?” I place my palm against the frame of the door, keeping it from closing.
“Yes Ma’am?”
“Look at the man you’re here for when you get back. Time isn’t something we have in abundance.” She nods and sits down in her desk chair, placing her glasses back on the end of her nose and picking her book back up.
Walking across the parking lot to my truck, Googling the nearest pastry shop, what Sharon Jones said ricochets around my head. Bouncing from one wall to the other, making a game of Tetris out of my apparently empty skull. How much time did I think I had? Have I been under the impression that time is insurmountable? That while I’ve been trying to grow a pair and tell her who I really am, we’ve been falling deeper for each other, intertwining our lives and allowing our feelings to take root.
Although the words haven’t been spoken aloud, our hearts are visible, right out in the open and ripe for capture. But as I turn left, something doesn’t feel right. Time is counting down and the black cloud is back.
THE TRIP TO MOM and Dad’s was so good that it was hard to leave and come home. Seeing them, talking to them, hugging their necks and making plans to come back over Christmas break is the only thing that made it feel temporary. I feel as though the gaping wound of the past is somewhat closing, on the mend and replenishing. After learning about his mother, Evelyn, and hearing the regret in Patrick’s voice, I lay there for what seemed like forever going over everything and deciding that I would make a suggestion to my parents. In hopes of being able to spend time with my father and be a support system for my mother, I knew asking them if they would consider moving to Alabama was the best thing. With me becoming majority owner of the store and all the other things we have going on at home, having them close by would make everything so much better for everyone involved. Anymore, they don’t have anything keeping them in Memphis other than the fact that it’s where they have lived for twenty years. Sitting around the table, eating the delicious dinner we had prepared and laughing, all feeling right in the world, I couldn’t hold it in. I let the words fly and hoped for the best. Of course their response hadn’t been immediate, and it hadn’t been a ‘yes’, but it had been promising. Patrick had even offered to come back and move their belongings for them if they decided to go through with it. Ruth had jumped up and down in sheer giddiness at the idea, which is what I think swayed my father to the ‘I’ll consider it’ side of the fence. Of course Momma was all in, as she is usually along for the ride wherever it takes her. My goal this week, along with preparing for the madhouse of Christmas shoppers that will be piling through the doors for the next two weeks, is to find them a house or apartment near Ruth and I. Maybe if I can present them with all the necessary puzzle pieces it will make the move more appealing.
Although I’ve felt melancholy the majority of the ride home, pulling up in front of the house eases the discomfort, reminding me of all I have to be thankful for. The months since we moved in have gone by so quickly and in that time I’ve grown so attached to it. It’s our home, and now it actually feels like home. I look back to see Ruth asleep and she takes my breath away. True beauty personified, completely captivating my heart with each rise and fall of her angelic shoulders. If only she were still small I could wrap her up in my arms and carry her up to her bed, tuck the covers tight around her and watch her sleep. I love you forever. as long as I’m living, my baby you’ll be.
“Ruth, wake up baby.” I rub her knee, slightly shaking her sleeping form until I see the ocean blue of her eyes looking back at me. “We’re home. Go upstairs and crawl into bed.” With a sleepy smile and groggy dismount, she gets out and closes the door behind her. Patrick passes her on the porch, returning to the vehicle for another armful of our belongings. Opening my door, he leans in with a questioning look on his face.
“You okay? Looks like you were deep in thought.” His lips are a whisper away from mine as he speaks, eyes searching mine.
“Yes. Sorry. Just thinking about how quickly Ruth has grown. Mom stuff,” I say, trying to disguise the thick emotion, my voice betraying me totally.
“Mom stuff huh? Well then you’d probably think it’s strange that I’ve wondered what she was like when she was little, then.” My eyes search his now. He turns me to the side, pulling my center to his waist where he stands just outside the open passenger door.
“She was a spitfire. Hilarious. The star of the show.” My voice feels as far away as that memory of her. He pulls his arms tight around me, kissing the tip of my nose.
“I guess she hasn’t changed much then.” His chuckle reverberates deep, waking me up for him. I reach up and brush his hair from his brow, distracting my heart from the emotion corroding thick with every beat for him. Needing to feel that deeper connection to him, something tangible telling me that he’s mine, boldness pushes away all doubt.
“Stay here tonight.” The crisp fall leaves rustle in the trees around us and my heart hammers in anticipation of his response. His hand slips under my cotton shirt, exquisite and wanton on my back, pulling my chest into his.
“Just tonight.” The feel of his smile around his words, reminiscent of our dance together, is pure bliss as he pulls me off the seat. He closes the door behind us as he holds my hand and pulls me to the house.
“What? No piggyback rides anymore? Well, I never,” I say sarcastically, giggling as we walk inside. I expect him to give me shit, crack some joke. But he doesn’t. Instead he continues pulling me toward the stairs, finally pausing briefly after I tug his arm to slow his progression. Looking at me from the first step, his eyes are heavy with heat and something else I can’t identify.
“Tonight, I just need you to take every step with me. I want to know that you want this as much as I do.” Unable to speak at the sudden seriousness of his tone, the depth of his words. and the heat of his stare, I simply nod and step up beside him on the stairs.
With every step we take and every echo of his breathing beside me, time slows and my feelings manifest into a storm of meaning, emotions, and desires. Vulnerability thick and foreign need billowing from deep. Foreign because I need him to love me. I need him to want my heart as much as he wants my body and to give me his in return. I’ve needed it from the beginning only unable to identify it for what it really is then- like I am now.
I’VE STOOD HARD AND ready in this room more than once. But as I stand behind Erin, hands holding her hips, looking out at the same moon that’s shown through the very windows of the very room I’ve taken this woman in more than once, this is a first for me. The feeling in my chest. The words that want to come. The love I want to
give. All a first.
I bend and kiss the nape of her neck, reveling in her sharp inhale, the smell of her delicate skin. Unable to expel the words on the edge of my tongue, I try with every touch to tell her how I feel. Turning her, I take her mouth, tasting cherry lip gloss and Erin, a combination I won’t ever tire of. Her hands slide up my sides, pulling my shirt with her as they skim higher, making me curse the invention of clothing as our kiss breaks to pull it over my head. Watching, captured by her every move, her eyes follow the path of her finger as it traces the line of my chest. Moving painfully slow down the middle of my stomach, through my navel, stopping on the button of my jeans. My jaw clenches and I wonder if she hears the fractious scrape as it sounds in my ears. Bringing her gaze back to mine, fingers slipping under the band at my waist, my mind runs wild with questions, trying to read her thoughts as she unhooks the button and slides my zipper down. Needing to pause the rapid climb of my heart, I step back slightly, taking in the full sight of her as I push my jeans from my hips, the cool air of this room, a contradiction to the throbbing heat of my dick as I kick my legs free. I don’t know if it’s all the shit in my head, or the heavy knot of unprocessed emotion in my chest, but every straight line and curve of her is somehow amplified and blurred at once. The light bleeding through the open blinds both casting a spotlight and tucking her away. She appears to me like the half moon, part of her covered in shadow, a striking resemblance to the way I see her- fragments of her always shadowed and hidden. But I don’t want her to hide from me. I don’t want to hide anymore and I’m certain that all I’ll ever know of her is what stands before me right now, unless I bare all the things I buried so long ago. Fear is a bitch. An all-consuming life-altering bitch, and I’ve had it with controlling bitches.