Hannah has maneuvered herself around the front door as I’ve scooted back a few feet. Although I reach for each of the arm braces, I don’t have the strength to pull myself upward, and Hannah assists me.
“Momma, you know you shouldn’t be moving about the house without me,” she scolds. “And you shouldn’t open the door for a stranger. Who knows what could have happened?” Her voice fades as she easily lifts me under my arms. Her reprimanding tone rivals a displeased parent. When did she become an authority? It’s a rhetorical question I don’t need to answer.
Since the accident, Hannah and I have practically traded places. Previously, I was the single head of household, and now she’s the sole provider. At first, I needed her to assist me with everything, and it’s a humbling and humiliating position to be in as a still-young woman when your barely adult child has to care for you in all manners. Somehow, the power shift remained. I’m the constantly-errant toddler doing what I shouldn’t and getting caught.
Like the time I took Hannah’s old Cadillac and collided with a car owned by one of those Winston boys in the church parking lot.
Or the time I drove to the Piggly Wiggly for chunky chocolate ice cream, and Sara Stokes had to drive me home.
I wasn’t allowed to drive after the accident. I’d lost my license, and with my condition—lacking controlled use of my legs—I really am a hazard on the road.
Not as bad as I was the night of the accident, though. Never that bad again.
Still, sometimes a woman needs to get to church for a little prayer or the grocer for some sinful ice cream.
Each time I escape, Hannah finds a new hiding place for her car keys.
“We hope you live a happy, healthy life in your new home. Until next time on Nailed.” My eyes glance at the television set and the fading credits of my program. Oh, Tripper.
“Where’s the chair?” Hannah asks, searching the living room after settling me in my rocker, but she doesn’t mean this chair. She means my wheelchair. That chair and I are old friends, and Hannah prefers I use it. It makes it easier for her. However, not one to do as I’m told, I use the braces to get around the house instead.
My forehead bears a sheen of sweat from the energy exerted to hold myself upright and spar with Jedd Flemming. He hadn’t introduced himself to me, I recall, but something about the name rings familiar.
“What were you doing standing without your crutches?” Hannah asks, disapproval still evident in her tone as she looks down at me. With her hands on her hip, she almost looks like my mother.
It isn’t that I can’t stand. It just takes considerable effort to get upright, and then once I’m in the position, I need support. Movement takes determination, and no matter what I do, the limp persists.
“You need exercise and practice,” the physical therapist had said.
“She needs me,” Hannah had rebuked. Somewhere along the way, it became the truth. Our family stratosphere shifted. She was no longer the quiet, shy child who hid behind me, but a force of patience and resilience. She’s the one constant in my universe. My sunshine, despite her employment decisions.
“Are you just getting in from work?” It’s midmorning, and the word tastes bitter on my tongue. I’m caught on a double-edged sword between hating what my daughter does and needing the money she makes doing it.
“Momma,” she states, ignoring my admonishing question and waiting on an answer to hers. I can’t say I understand why I tried to stand up to Jedd, literally facing off with him at the door, but the moment he saw Hannah, my energy gave out. Something snapped in me, and it was more than the protective nature as her mother. My chest swelled. My belly dropped. And down I went with emotions I don’t wish to admit.
Jealousy. And fear.
“Who was that might be a better question…” Hannah asks, peering up at the window and our vacant drive. The position allows me to observe my daughter. Such a beautiful woman. I love her for her patient grace while her pretty features frighten me.
A man could fall in love with her. She’ll leave me.
My quiet, shy girl sang in the choir when she was younger. Her beautiful melodic voice was heaven, and she’d behaved as she should’ve because she’s a good girl at heart. Then she became someone else, showing off her body, and it’s my fault. As Howard said, always my fault.
It’s your fault I seek pleasure with others, his voice whispers in my head.
“Has he seen you naked?” I blurt, more irritated than I should be. Lots of men have seen her practically naked. My daughter is a stripper, and I hate her job at the Pink Pony. Is it that she removes her clothes for desperate men? Not really. I’ll never admit I’m a little envious. Men want her. But the deep-seated issue is she removes her clothes because she thinks it’s the only means to provide for us and take care of me. Typically, I banish thoughts of my daughter’s chosen employment. Since my absentee husband met some floozy there and ran off with her, denial sleeps with acceptance. But I’m focused on Jedd. He’s probably seen handfuls of naked women, and my daughter being at the top of that list sets my blood boiling.
“I’d remember him if he came into the club.” She dismisses my jab as she often does. Her response drives the resentful knife deeper. My daughter isn’t blind. She recognizes a handsome man when she sees one, which he is.
“Are you attracted to him?” The question eats at my soul. My stomach churns with concern and a twinge of emotions I hate to admit I hold against my child. When her eyes close, I recognize the look. It’s her give-me-patience-Lord look.
“He’s nice looking for an older guy.”
“He wasn’t that old,” I defend, curious why I’m suddenly defending him.
“No, he wasn’t, Momma, but he isn’t my type.” She sighs, exasperated with me.
“What’s that supposed to mean? He is extremely good looking.” Now I’m really off my rocker, trying to argue my daughter into attraction with a man twice her age.
“Oh, so you noticed?” She lifts a perfectly arched eyebrow at me, and my face heats.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I snap, swiping at invisible lint on my pants. Pants which are old, outdated, and a color I hate, but Hannah got them for me, and she works hard for us, for me.
“It’s okay, you know.” Hannah’s voice softens. “You can look. You could even fall in love again.” Is her comment willful hope that she can stop taking care of me or wistful desperation for love to happen for her?
My head jolts up at my daughter’s words, and I wave a dismissive hand. We both know that’s a lie stronger than a double shot of espresso. “That will never happen.” In hindsight, I’m not certain I’ve ever been in first love for there to be a second chance. Oh, I’d believed all kinds of things about Howard. He’d love me forever. He’d make it good for me. He’d take care of us. An iron skillet of reality upside the head had finally made me see the light and realize Howard’s true nature.
He loved women—all kinds of women—just not the one labeled his wife.
Howard was critical of the female body. Had some quirks and tics about positions. He couldn’t possibly have been stepping out. Yet he had been, plain as the weeds in my garden. There’d been rumors about him for years, but I hadn’t wanted to believe them. Scotia had tried to warn me while Naomi had pitied me. Both my sisters’ attitudes had upset me terribly.