Half Hearted Captive by Fate

The Floodgates

Home seemed a lot more real when there was a house sitting in front of you. I slowly exhaled as my eyes skimmed the surface. It was a stark contrast to Dad’s. His little house was in the middle of nowhere Ohio, somewhere between the fields and forests. It has been in his family for as long as anyone could remember, a small, two-bedroom that he had bought from a cousin when their family had outgrown it. The nearest town was a couple thousand people and a few intersections where you had to watch for Amish buggies.

The massive stone and siding, slice of suburbia was alien to me. I glanced down the street comparing all the houses that were slightly different but exactly the same, like they had been picked out of a catalog. Every tree had been carefully placed in a specific location and every plant was planned. Each little driveway had intricate paver work instead of the normal concrete or asphalt. I had not been previously aware of how many shades of grey there were until I had seen them all collected in the subdivision. It was beautiful in its own way, but unnaturally human.

Perhaps I was taking too long gathering my thoughts or maybe mom was just trying to be helpful, but she had come around the car and opened my door. I gave her a little nod of thanks. I sucked in another deep breath to gather my strength and began trying to maneuver my crutches.

They had given me a pair of them, but I couldn’t quite figure out how I was supposed to use two of them. My knee had been completely shattered, having gone through the glove box and my shoulder had been torn out of its socket and my wrist crushed. There was no way it was capable of managing a crutch. Somehow, I had to brace the crutch to support my left leg, which was wrapped in plaster from my thigh to my toes and stuck straight. It would have been less troublesome from the driver’s side of the vehicle.

Mom looked down at me struggling with a little frown on her lips and a crease on her forehead. Her hands moved towards me like they were going to provide assistance only to pause when she realized she didn’t quite know where to grab to help. I handed her the crutches and managed to turn in the seat so that both my legs were at least out of the car. It was progress. With as much of my weight placed on my good leg and gritted teeth, I pulled myself out with the handle till I was balancing on my right leg. Triumph splashed across my face as mom handed me the crutch. It was fleeting. The door seemed so far away and the four steps that lead up to the porch looked impossible. It is a bit soul crushing when something mundane that was completely effortless and doesn’t require any sort of thought, suddenly becomes a task where every movement has to be planned and all your strength is called upon. I cast a glance up to the sky, trying to keep the tears from falling. I could feel the warmth and moisture building in my eyes.

I had never been more overwhelmed in my life. It wasn’t getting to the door. It was getting to the door, getting to my room, going to the bathroom, getting dressed, unpacking my things. Then there was this odd sense of guilt, a little voice scolding me for being so distraught when I should be grateful I was still alive. A tear slipped out, and I couldn’t even wipe it away without falling over. The floodgates opened, and everything I was feeling poured down my cheeks.

Before I knew it, Mom’s arms were awkwardly around me in a careful hug. It hurt, but it was warm. It was a gesture of pure maternal affection, affection I didn’t know I was missing. I breathed in her scent of pine and lilacs and sobbed. We stood frozen in that moment until I had pulled my thoughts from the swirl of despair. “Mom, maybe we should have got a wheelchair.”

Her pale green eyes, the same eyes she had given me, glanced from my face to the car and back at me. “I don’t really think it would have fit.”

She wasn’t wrong. I could feel the start of a smile. It was enough to give me the resolve that I needed. After the first few steps, I figured out the right rhythm and weight distribution and things became a lot easier. Crutch…. Step… Pause to recenter my balance and swallow the pain, then repeat. Mom nervously stood behind me, braced to catch me as I tackled the stairs. Finally, we made it through the door, and I was rewarded with the aroma of carefully curated summer, citrusy florals and soft bergamot. There was something so delightfully gratifying walking into a space that wraps you up in a pleasant fragrance.

The inside of the house was as perfectly planned as the outside. Each item was like a puzzle piece that perfectly fit with everything else. I had spent the last 8 years living in a house that was owned and decorated by a blue-collar bachelor. I use the term decorated loosely. Appearance did not matter and instead, price, function and comfort were all that were considered. Was this magazine worthy perfection really my home now?

“Your room is going to be upstairs, but I didn’t think you would be able to manage stairs for a while. That gives us time for you to pick out colors and furniture that you like. For now, there’s a guest room down here you can use. Unless you want to claim the recliner in the family room. That is closer to the bathroom and kitchen. I’m not sure what will work best till you can move around more. You just let me know what you need.” Mom seemed to answer the question I hadn’t asked.

“Right now, I really just want the bathroom. Then, wherever is closer is fine.” She guided me down the hallway.

“Rafe is still at work and Jonan is probably out with his friends. So, we have the house to ourselves for a moment before the boys get home. I will have Rafe bring home food. Is there anything you want?”

“Mom, have you ever had Dad’s cooking? For the sake of my own survival, I couldn’t afford to be picky. As long as it is not cold pizza, I’ll be okay.” She smiled and shook her head, amused until there was this awkward bit of complex emotion that flashed in her eyes. Guilt intruded on the light-hearted moment. Was she imagining some awful, neglected childhood? “Don’t do that, Mom. Don’t feel bad. I was happy and loved living with Dad. It wasn’t perfect, but I had a good childhood. Despite how it looks with the broken bones and smashed face, I wouldn’t trade my memories for someone else’s life. Once we get some rest, and I’m feeling better, I will tell you all about it and I have tons of pictures. So, don’t be sad.”

We got our emotions in check and I got settled into the recliner. I was glad I chose it over the guest bedroom. It was the kind of chair that you blissfully sunk into while being embraced by the buttery soft leather. I still hurt, but it was probably the most comfort my body was able to achieve. Mom had given me a throw blanket and had plugged in my phone charger and gave me some space. I think she needed it more than I needed it.