Total pages in book: 150
Estimated words: 147136 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 736(@200wpm)___ 589(@250wpm)___ 490(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 147136 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 736(@200wpm)___ 589(@250wpm)___ 490(@300wpm)
He secured the chair while Mrs. Burns held her son’s hand, grinning big as he was lowered to the ground, tapping the top of his hand with excitement.
She looked happy. They all did.
This place was going to work.
Fucking miracles every day.
It would work.
Owen maneuvered the chair himself. It was one of those powered ones, and I knew he still had some use of his hands, which enabled him to move the joystick around for direction, easing himself off the lift and onto the dirt, where he waited by the back tire.
Some use of his hands. He didn’t have full use anymore, and from the watching I sometimes did, I knew he’d grow tired on occasion and his parents would take over.
He didn’t seem tired right now. He was grinning and moving with ease.
I wanted to like seeing that. Smile at it, but I couldn’t.
I didn’t deserve to feel good about any of this.
I watched them cross the lot and move into the barn, disappearing into the shadows.
They never saw me.
It was time for his lesson to begin.
And it was time for me to get the fuck out of there.
* * *
I parked at the curb and grabbed a pen out of my glove box, doing what I did every time I came by here and scrawling the name on the envelope containing the remainder of what I’d earned over the past week.
It was close to a grand. I knew that would cover a handful of bills, but it wasn’t enough.
It was never enough.
In-home therapy, medications, repeated doctor’s visits and specialists, hospital bills, and the monthly van payments, everything added up and hardly any of it was covered by insurance.
I knew this because one of the girls I shot with on occasion had a sister working for the insurance carrier. She got me the answers I needed.
It was appreciated and she knew it. Didn’t even want anything in return.
More pity.
I hated that.
I gave what I needed to give to the riding center and the rest came here, direct payment for anything outstanding, and there was a lot outstanding.
I knew this because of the bills in the mailbox stamped in red.
The bills I’d opened and resealed.
Overdue.
Bastards at the HMO covered jack shit, wouldn’t even help with the cost of a ramp so the kid could get inside his own fucking house, and still wouldn’t eat a few thousand to help a family out.
It was fucked up.
I spent an entire Sunday morning when I knew the Burnses were at church building the one they have now. It wasn’t much, but it was better than watching someone struggle to enter their own home.
Pride went a long way. Taking someone’s independence from them chipped away at that pride, and it was a hard fucking thing to build back up.
Owen didn’t need to be carried anymore getting in and out of his own house.
That was huge, and I knew it when I saw the look on his face when they got home that afternoon.
Shock, followed by tears and embraces among the three of them.
I knew that should feel good, giving him that, giving them that, but I couldn’t smile.
He never would’ve needed that ramp if it wasn’t for me, so why should I feel good about any of it?
Guilt—it’s the best thing to have. It never lets you forget when you don’t deserve to.
I left my Jeep running after stowing the pen away, stepped out, and placed the envelope in the mailbox with the name side up.
Owen
Then I got back into my Jeep and took off, wondering how almost a thousand dollars in my hand could feel like nothing when placed in that mailbox, how it was never enough no matter how thick that envelope was.
No matter how much extra I gave Mona, or how many fucking ramps I built.
Almost a thousand dollars and it felt like absolutely nothing.
* * *
“Jesus Christ. I feel like I’m watching minor ball. This is ridiculous.”
Jamie dropped the remote onto the couch and stood up, tossing the rest of his beer back and grabbing his empty plate.
After I got back from doing the drop, we threw some steaks on the grill and ate dinner watching the Yankees slaughter the Angels 14–1.
He was right; it was ridiculous. I’m not even sure the Angels showed up tonight.
Jamie cut his eyes to me, holding up his bottle.
“Want another?”
I shook my head, picked up the remote and cut the TV off, then grabbed my plate and followed him into the kitchen, which was right off the main living room and bigger than necessary for two men who threw everything on the grill to cook.
Everything. Even when it was raining, we rolled the grill under the deck and cooked shit out there.
I couldn’t remember the last time either one of us turned the oven on. And we had two of them.