by E Cleveland
“Thank you, Officer. I will.”
“And you are going to march into your grandmother’s house and apologize to her and your aunt for what you’ve put everyone through today. Do you understand me, Christopher?”
He shrugs without breaking his stare out the passenger window. The tears I spilled in the Lieutenant’s office a few hours ago have long since been steamed away by my anger.
After spending the better part of my day at the police station, filling out forms for my son’s upcoming group sessions and to get him released into my custody, I’m kinda over the crying thing.
I pull the car into my mother’s driveway and throw the car in park. Chris doesn’t move, still staring out his window.
“Let’s go, young man! Now!” I bark at him, but he moves with sloth like speed to unfasten his seatbelt.
“Whatever.”
I close my eyes and take a deep breath. I know he’s testing me. I have no idea why, but it’s clear as day that he is. Instead of giving him the reaction he’s clearly searching for, I just leave the car and wait outside the door. I send a silent prayer up to God to give me the strength I need to deal with my boy.
Chris reluctantly joins me as I walk up the short path to my mother’s front door. Before I have a chance to grab the handle, the door flies open with my sister, Chelsea standing in the doorway.
“Oh my goodness! Ma! It’s Chris and Lauren. Are you alright, Chris? What happened, Lauren? I’m so glad you’re home!” she rambles, blocking our entrance to the house.
“Everything is sorted out, for now. You wanna let us in?” I gently remind her to get out of the way. Chris, on the other hand, pushes past his aunt like a linebacker.
“Chris! Apologize to Chelsea right now. You don’t push her around.”
“Sorry,” he rolls his eyes. I can feel heat rising up the back of my neck as I try to keep the flames of my temper extinguished.
My mother walks into the living room with us, with worry etched on her mahogany face. “Oh, Christopher! I’m so glad you’re back. You gave me a real scare today. What were you thinking?”
Chris just shrugs, refusing to look any of us in the eyes.
“Apparently he was thinking that him and his friends should go trash a 7-11 for fun and the cops picked him up. They told me that if it wasn’t for the minimum age for delinquency charges in Colorado being ten, Chris would be looking at real charges right now. Luckily, they made us a deal so I won’t have to pay for the damages he caused, like smashing out a window,” my mother and sister gasp.
“Christopher!” Mom interrupts.
“Yeah, so if he goes to a group therapy thing in town, the police are going to kindly let it drop.”
“Wow, Hun, what’s going on in there?” Chelsea rubs his head affectionately.
“Leave me alone,” Chris shoves her hand off his head.
“Christopher! Apologize right now.” I barely grit the words through my teeth.
Chris sighs exaggeratedly, “Sorry. I’m soooo sorry. Sorry for being alive, ok? Is that what you want? Can you stop being such a bitch now?”
Rage prickles my skin and my mind flashes red. My open hand swats him on the back of the head and everyone stares in silence. I’ve never hit my son before. Never. It’s the one thing I’ve never done.
“I hate you!” Chris’s voice cracks and he flees the front door and stomps down the sidewalk to the car. The passenger door slams and I burst into tears.
“Hey, it’s ok. I would’ve smacked him too with that mouth. He’ll come around, don’t beat yourself up,” my mother wraps her arms around me and I cry into her shoulder.
I don’t know what to do. It’s like everyday that passes is just pushing more distance between me and my son. I don’t even know him anymore.
I’m losing him.
16
Mack
2014
The stairwell echoes as I run up another flight at the hospital. With every step my prosthetic leg thuds against the concrete, despite my best efforts to hit it lightly. I want my feet to sound the same when I walk. I won’t stop practicing until I can’t hear the difference between them anymore. It’s not because I’m ashamed.
Far from it.
I lost my leg so two men could live. I’d call that a fair trade. No, it’s not shame. It’s that I don’t want anyone knowing that I have a prosthetic leg just by looking at me, or by listening to me. I don’t want to deal with people’s questions all the time. And even worse: their pity.
The muscle fibers in my ribs wrench angrily, making me stop dead in my tracks. When did I become such an old man? I throw my arms over my head and lean back against the cool wall closing my eyes. I remember when I first went to West Point, I could march ten miles with a sixty-pound ruck sack in the morning, hit up the gym in the afternoon and then stay up all night fucking the brains out of my flavor of the week. The energizer bunny was a pussy compared to me. Fuckin’ pink rabbit.
Speaking of old men, I wonder how Cameron Armstrong is making out. When I went to Walter Reed to learn to function again, he made good on his word. He didn’t renew his next military contract and went to Colorado University instead. When I was first learning how to walk with my prosthetic, Armstrong sent an e-mail my way. He thanked me for doing what I did and for saving his life. He let me know that he made it onto the Buffaloes as a quarterback. He even got kinda gushy at the end when he said he’d never had a brother, but that as far as he was concerned I was his brother, not just in arms, but blood.
His e-mail was kind, thoughtful and uncharacteristically vulnerable.
It pissed me the fuck off.
Instead of being happy to hear about him following his dreams, I was jealous. There I was, sweating my sack off trying to learn to walk like a damned toddler again, and he was set up to be the star of his college football team. Yeah, jealous doesn’t really cover it.
I should really look him up now that I’m here. Let him know I’m happy for him.
I pop my eyes back open, dropping my arms back by my sides. Time to get back at it. I pull the air deep in my lungs and get mentally prepared to continue my run.
Thud!
A door opens into the stairwell a couple floors above me. I tilt my head and listen. Just because the door opened doesn’t mean anyone’s in here. Several floors above me I hear a huge sigh. So much for that theory.
Suddenly sniffles ring off the walls. It’s a woman. At least I assume so, from the crying. Not to say I’ve never shed a tear or two, I’m well aware that men cry too. It just sounds different when it’s a lady, that’s all.
I guess that’s the end of today’s run. I should just head back down to the lobby exit and give this chick some privacy. I think about it, I have every intention of going, yet for some reason that’s beyond me, I keep moving up the stairs.
Now, I’m no white knight. Sure, you might be inclined to think differently because of how I lost my leg. You’d be wrong. I’ve never been the kind of guy to swoop in and dry some girl’s tears. Women cry too much and for too many reasons to get tangled up in that. Yet, I can’t stop my legs from guiding me up toward the sound of her cries. Something about the noise tells me her tears are deeper than a bad day. Her sorrow sounds like it’s rooted deep in her soul.
The space between us closes and her sobs shatter the quiet. The empty stairwell reverberates her pain from the walls. I come up around the last flight of stairs and my heart clenches in my chest.
It’s Lauren.
I stop dead in my tracks and my chest feels like it’s been hollowed out as I watch her. She’s sitting, slumped against the door with her knees pulled up to her chest and her head lying against them like a pillow. She’s got her arms wrapped around her legs in a hug she so clearly needs from someone.
From me.
She looks like someone who has lived two full lifetimes of pain and suffering. I’m not saying she looks old or haggard. Cause, damn it, I don’t know a woman on this earth that is more radiant or sexy t
han she is. It’s not at all that she’s aged, it’s that she’s defeated. She’s broken down. Stomped to the earth.
And it’s all my fault.
“Lauren, I’m sorry.”
As I close the final stairs between us, she looks up, startled. She wipes fat tears from her perfect face with her knuckles. I reach the landing and hold my hand open to her, to help her off the floor. Plan B is to sit next to her, if that’s what she needs. Instead, she grabs my hand and springs from the floor like a jack-in-the-box as I give her a tug.
“You’re sorry?” Her eyes travel over my face, searching for something. Maybe it’s for a shred of sincerity. It’s not like I’ve been very open with her since I showed up here. Maybe she’s searching for more.
“I’m sorry. I never meant to make you cry.” I brush the last of her tears away and cup her chin in my hand. She looks at my lips and it’s all the invitation I need. I wrap one arm around her, pulling her tight to my body.
“Oh! Um …”
She doesn’t get a chance to make actual words because I smother her sentence with my kiss. Tenderly, my lips find hers. I let my lips tell her everything. How much I’ve missed her. How much I need her. How sorry I am for breaking her heart. My lips spill all of my secrets, without ever speaking a word.
I feel the tension melt from her body as she sighs happily into my mouth. Our tongues gently collide and I run my hand up her back until I reach her hair. The rest of my body is coming alive from her kiss. Like she’s breathing life back into the void she left in my soul. Of course, with the rest of my senses waking, the urge to make her cry out in a different way builds up in me.
I walk her back until she’s pressed against the cold wall, without breaking our kiss. My hand slides down from her chin and I quickly reach up, under her uniform and unsnap her bra with one hand.
Haven’t lost my touch.
Her breasts drop slightly under the weight of her heavy tits. I can’t wait to run my tongue over her dark nipples and fuck her until the only thing she’s crying out is my name.
“Wait, what are you doing?” Lauren squirms sideways from beneath me, putting inches of space between us that feel like cold miles.
“I’m just trying to make you feel better. I want to say sorry for making you cry.” I give her a smile and she pauses, like she’s thinking about it.
Instead, she snakes her hands up under the back of her shirt and hooks her bra back up.
“What? Jesus, Mack, you can’t fix everything with your dick you know.” She smoothes her hands down over her shirt.
Ms. Professionalism is back. That cock-block.
“Are you sure? How about I give it my best shot? I bet I can make you happy for a while,” I murmur and step toward her, trying to shake off Lauren’s prim and proper act.
Just because it’s been a decade since I’ve had her, doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten her wild streak. I know it’s not buried that deep beneath the surface. Besides, from what I saw in her tight, little spandex gear the other day at the track, her body has blossomed in ways that would really do that wild side some justice now. The memory of her curves makes me hungry for her.
“No. Mack, I’m being serious.” She looks at me with her large brown eyes. I know she’s trying to be stern with me, but it’s just making me want her more.
“So am I.”
“Listen, I’m not one of your bimbo fan-girls. I know you, the real you. At least, I used to.” Her voice trails off sadly and her eyes soften. Lauren quickly composes herself though, throwing her shoulders back and jutting out her chin. “Anyway, I’m not even crying over you. You’re such an ego maniac!” Her eyes snap back up at mine. This time they stop me dead. She’s not screwing around.
“You weren’t?” I step back and run my hand over the back of my neck. I guess it was presumptuous to think she’s got nothing else going on besides thinking about me.
Lauren might be right about the fan club bimbos. It’s hard to remember that you’re not the center of everything when every chick you meet acts like you are.
“Then, what are you so upset about?” I take another step back, giving her the space she needs to talk and giving me the distance I need to concentrate on more than her round ass and her tight little …
Focus!
Lauren looks up at me sideways, like she’s not sure if she can trust me. Or maybe it’s my intentions she’s struggling with.
“I seriously want to know. Maybe I can help or something?”
She tilts her head and shrugs, and I don’t think about running my tongue over the soft skin of her neck. Well, not for more than a second. Two seconds, tops.
“I don’t know if you can,” she talks to our feet. “It’s Chris. He’s completely out of control.”
“Hold old is he?”
“Nine,” she swallows hard.
“Nine.” I’m no genius, but it doesn’t take one to do that mental math. “Wow, you and Joel didn’t waste anytime after I left, huh?” Lauren looks at her hands and I realize that I’m making this about me.
Again.
“Never mind, sorry, that’s none of my business. But, nine-year-old boys love to stir up shit. I can tell you that from experience.”
Her full lips twist up for the first time since I’ve seen her. Her face lights up and almost knocks the wind from my lungs with a simple smile. “I remember.”
“Yeah, well, so you know it’s probably nothing. Normal guy stuff.”
“No. It’s more than that. He’s on a path of self destruction, Mack. He was expelled from school and then the next day he was picked up by the police for trashing a convenience store with his friends. This isn’t just normal boys will be boys type stuff anymore. He’s turning into a criminal.” Tears fall back down her cheeks as her chin quivers.
“Hey, hey, come here. It’s ok,” Lauren steps back against me and I wrap my arms around her. “It’s ok. Let it out. You’re dealing with a lot right now.”
“I just don’t know what to do anymore,” she confesses as she nuzzles her face against my chest. I run my palm over her black hair and try to figure out how I can help.
“Bring him here.”
“What? Why?” She looks into my eyes.
“Bring him here and I’ll talk to him, man-to-man. Good ol’ Captain America might not do much for you,” I give her a wink, “but a lot of guys Chris’s age think it’s cool or I’m cool or whatever. I bet if I could chat with him, I can help. At least a little.”
Lauren dries her tears and contemplates my offer. “That might not be a bad idea, actually,” she admits.
“Yeah, every once and a while I have a good one.” I give her a playful squeeze and she laughs.
“Ok. You know what, I will. I’ll bring him tomorrow. It’s not like he’s in school or anything.”
“Sounds good. That’ll give me time to think about what to say to him.”
“Ok. Thanks, Mack. I mean it. I think that you’ll really help. But, even if it doesn’t, I appreciate you stepping up like this.”
Lauren steps up on her tip-toes and quickly pecks my cheek with an innocent kiss. Just as quickly, she steps back, opens the door and disappears through it.
“You’re welcome,” I whisper to the empty stairwell.
Lauren is right, she does know me. The real me. And I know her. She still has feelings for me. I know that’s why she just smoke-bombed me. But, that’s ok, because I still have feelings for her too.
And by feelings, I mean I love her.
17
Lauren
2014
“C’mon, Chris. Quit dragging your feet and get a move on.” I call back over my shoulder. He’s not too happy that I’m forcing him to come to work with me today. I told him I was gonna make him mop floors, not that he’ll be meeting one of his heroes.
It was nice of Mack to offer to talk to him. I think Chris might actually listen to someone he admires so much. With all the media coverage Mack has gotten, I think Chris sees him as a bit of a
father figure.
Little does he know.
My gut twists with guilt when I think about how I still need to figure out how to discuss that with Mack. After all, he has a right to know that Chris is his son. I just need things to calm down a bit first. It’s hard to bring up his paternity in casual conversation. Between his son making me run off to get him out of trouble every five minutes, and Mack trying to make a move on me every five seconds …. Well, it makes it difficult to throw it in the mix.
“I’m coming, jeez, calm down.” Chris sulks behind me.
That does it.
I whirl around on my heel with my finger already drawn like a cowboy at a quick draw. “Listen to me, young man. I’m not one of your little friends. You talk to me with respect, Christopher. If you want to keep pushing me, I swear, I’ll have you scrubbing bed pans by the end of the day.”
His eyes grow about two sizes bigger. He doesn’t need to know I don’t deal with bedpans at my job. “Now, stand up straight and get your attitude in check.”
I wait for the smart remark, or the eye roll, or the sigh. My shoulders are so tense; I feel like a cat ready to pounce on a field mouse. However, Chris just nods at me, straightens up and walks beside me.
“Ok, let’s go,” he agrees, leaving me in far deeper shock than if he would’ve tried to curse at me again.
I might be surprised, but I’m not about to let him know. “That’s right, let’s go,” I parrot his words and march my son into the hospital.
We make it all the way to the elevator and Chris still hasn’t given me anymore flack. This has to be some kind of record.
When the elevator doors pop open on Mack’s floor, I’m actually feeling something I haven’t felt in a long time: optimism. It’s a cautious optimism, but I’ll take it over the bleeding-ulcer-worry I’ve been dealing with all week.
I guide my son, our son, to Mack’s room with a little spring in my step. Maybe all of this was just the storm before the rainbow. Maybe Chris will go back to being the sweet kid I knew before Joel was taken away from us. Maybe … Mack’s room is empty.