personal code of ethics. Dominion and power have elevated Miranda, in her mind, to untouchable status. A place where decency is exempt and treating others like shit is her norm. It’s ruined her. And I have a feeling it’s going to ruin us all before she’s done.
You might need your own sign
present
Miranda is in town again.
She has my kids until Sunday morning, exactly twenty-four hours from now. I didn’t want to let her take them because the nauseous feeling that started in my stomach seemed to bleed through my veins until it filled me, making me burn with the very real possibility that she may make some kind of screwed up play and take them back to Seattle with her. So, to quiet my fears, I followed her to the Hilton a few miles away. I considered parking my car on the other side of the lot and staying there to monitor her, but then figured that was probably a bit extreme and decided to leave and wait it out.
I drove straight to the beach and sat in the same spot on the sand until the sun went down. The water has always had a soothing effect on me. I don’t know if it’s the sound of waves crashing, or the sight of waves crashing that does it, but it’s the reason I’ll always live near the water. That and it makes me feel closer to my mom.
By the time I drive home, I feel like I’ve taken a sedative. I’m relaxed for the first time in ages.
I hear the buzzy exhaust of Faith’s scooter pull up outside her apartment just as I hit the W…E mat. Stupid unwelcome mat. My hand is in my pocket searching for my keys. I don’t know why but my heartbeat is beginning to gallop. Like it’s in a race. Or trying to escape.
“Are you avoiding me, Seamus?” Faith yells, as she kills the engine on her scooter. I know she’s yelling because I hear it loud and clear and she’s a story below me.
The gallop holds steady at her words, but I don’t answer. Where are my damn keys?
“Well?” That’s closer, she’s moving.
I hear footfalls on the stairs.
I stop searching my pockets, and my heart rate begins to slow as if someone’s pulling the reins hard against the gallop. I stand and wait, but I don’t turn around.
There’s a hand on the center of my back. The touch is apprehensive and apologetic, so is her whisper. “I’m sorry if my gift offended you.”
Normally, I would be quick to accept an apology. I’m the type of person who will accept an apology despite the genuineness of either the apology or of my acceptance of it. I’d say, It’s okay , to get past the moment, even if it was far from okay. But, I’m still feeling some of the peace from the beach even though my racing heart interrupted it. It’s enough peace to deliver honesty, not cruel, unfiltered honesty, but unguarded, truthful honesty. “I don’t want to use it.”
Her hand is still on my back. It’s still apprehensive and apologetic. “But you need it. I’ve watched you struggle for a month now,” she whispers.
“I don’t want it,” I repeat. I’m not angry; it’s an admission. My back is still turned to her, making it easier to deliver the words.
“Why?” It’s one of the softest things I think I’ve ever heard. Not soft as it relates to volume, but soft as it relates to comfort.
It prompts me to share one of my biggest fears. “There are stages to the progression of this disease. I feel like if I already give in and use the cane that the inevitability of a wheelchair isn’t far behind. I do not want to be in a wheelchair. That scares the hell out of me.” I’ve barely let that thought cross my mind; I can’t believe I just verbalized it to another person.
“Don’t let fear rule you.” She’s not whispering anymore, but there’s no edge to her voice. It’s still soft. Still comforting. A soft place to land if I fall.
“I don’t.” It sounds like a question.
A question that she responds to. “You do. It takes one to know one.”
I huff out a laugh, if this weren’t such a serious
You might need your own sign
present
Miranda is in town again.
She has my kids until Sunday morning, exactly twenty-four hours from now. I didn’t want to let her take them because the nauseous feeling that started in my stomach seemed to bleed through my veins until it filled me, making me burn with the very real possibility that she may make some kind of screwed up play and take them back to Seattle with her. So, to quiet my fears, I followed her to the Hilton a few miles away. I considered parking my car on the other side of the lot and staying there to monitor her, but then figured that was probably a bit extreme and decided to leave and wait it out.
I drove straight to the beach and sat in the same spot on the sand until the sun went down. The water has always had a soothing effect on me. I don’t know if it’s the sound of waves crashing, or the sight of waves crashing that does it, but it’s the reason I’ll always live near the water. That and it makes me feel closer to my mom.
By the time I drive home, I feel like I’ve taken a sedative. I’m relaxed for the first time in ages.
I hear the buzzy exhaust of Faith’s scooter pull up outside her apartment just as I hit the W…E mat. Stupid unwelcome mat. My hand is in my pocket searching for my keys. I don’t know why but my heartbeat is beginning to gallop. Like it’s in a race. Or trying to escape.
“Are you avoiding me, Seamus?” Faith yells, as she kills the engine on her scooter. I know she’s yelling because I hear it loud and clear and she’s a story below me.
The gallop holds steady at her words, but I don’t answer. Where are my damn keys?
“Well?” That’s closer, she’s moving.
I hear footfalls on the stairs.
I stop searching my pockets, and my heart rate begins to slow as if someone’s pulling the reins hard against the gallop. I stand and wait, but I don’t turn around.
There’s a hand on the center of my back. The touch is apprehensive and apologetic, so is her whisper. “I’m sorry if my gift offended you.”
Normally, I would be quick to accept an apology. I’m the type of person who will accept an apology despite the genuineness of either the apology or of my acceptance of it. I’d say, It’s okay , to get past the moment, even if it was far from okay. But, I’m still feeling some of the peace from the beach even though my racing heart interrupted it. It’s enough peace to deliver honesty, not cruel, unfiltered honesty, but unguarded, truthful honesty. “I don’t want to use it.”
Her hand is still on my back. It’s still apprehensive and apologetic. “But you need it. I’ve watched you struggle for a month now,” she whispers.
“I don’t want it,” I repeat. I’m not angry; it’s an admission. My back is still turned to her, making it easier to deliver the words.
“Why?” It’s one of the softest things I think I’ve ever heard. Not soft as it relates to volume, but soft as it relates to comfort.
It prompts me to share one of my biggest fears. “There are stages to the progression of this disease. I feel like if I already give in and use the cane that the inevitability of a wheelchair isn’t far behind. I do not want to be in a wheelchair. That scares the hell out of me.” I’ve barely let that thought cross my mind; I can’t believe I just verbalized it to another person.
“Don’t let fear rule you.” She’s not whispering anymore, but there’s no edge to her voice. It’s still soft. Still comforting. A soft place to land if I fall.
“I don’t.” It sounds like a question.
A question that she responds to. “You do. It takes one to know one.”
I huff out a laugh, if this weren’t such a serious
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