Page 23 of To Save Him

 

 

 

Chapter Eight

 

PART OF THE reason why I’d created my list was to stop myself from wasting time.  Before that, I’d been wallowing in worthless activities designed to do nothing.  Of course, depression has a way of making a person want to do nothing.  For a period of about a year, I’d get up, get the kids off to school, and then crawl back into bed.  If I awoke without an alarm before the kids got home, I’d sit on the couch and binge watch different television series (some I watched more than once).  Otherwise, my alarm sounded to go off about twenty minutes before my kids arrived home on the bus (that was before Annabel started driving), long enough for me to crawl out of bed and smooth out my sweatpants and t-shirt and run a brush through my hair.  I’d chat with them about their days while they sat at the kitchen table and did homework.  That was when I’d make dinner (often uninspired—when you feel like sleeping twenty-four hours a day, even Hamburger Helper can feel like a chore).  They’d help me clean up the kitchen and afterwards was when I’d make myself do laundry and then write—sometimes till after the kids went to bed—but writing, once just an avocation and a way to earn money—also became my salvation.  I just hadn’t realized it at the time.

Yes, the list saved me—it saved me from becoming completely dead inside.  It saved me from being as shitty a mother as I could have become.  So I guess it also saved my kids.

Over the years of following that damned list like a slave, though, I realized that it really did save time.  At first, it saved me from wasting time doing stupid things, like sleeping for eighteen hours a day or watching five hours of television in one sitting, but when you truly get your priorities straight, it’s easier to say no to things that don’t matter.

What was on the list mattered.

One of the things I’d done before Annabel started driving was I’d take my kids the few miles into town to school.  It wasn’t a huge deal, but it was twenty minutes to half an hour one way, followed by another twenty minutes to half an hour (an hour total each day) coming home that I could have spent doing other activities.  I wasn’t complaining, because they were my children, and I wanted to do it.  I could have had them ride the bus in the morning, too, but it seemed cruel to ask my kids to walk a quarter of a mile to arrive there no later than six forty-five, especially when it was cold out.  And, when itwascold or snowing, I’d drive to the bus stop and wait.  When Annabel started driving, I felt a huge taste of freedom.  For instance, if I was in the middle of writing a scene, one that I was really connected to, I didn’t have to stop so I wouldn’t be late to pick them up if it was cold out, but once Annabel started bringing them home, I could keep writing—even for a few minutes after they arrived—until I was satisfied with my progress.

The thought of driving Brandon around until he could afford his own vehicle reminded me of how much I cherished my freedom.  I wanted to help and Iwould…but I had another idea.  I knew now that he had a driver’s license.  He’d need to get a new one issued in Colorado, of course, but until then…

We were walking toward the car, having left a tip on the table.  I was surprised the waitress hadn’t scrawled her number on Brandon’s palm with her pen, but I wanted to avoid it from happening if we lingered.  I said to him, “When’s the last time you drove?”

“I’m not sure.  Since before the hospital.”

“But your license hasn’t expired, has it?”

“No.”

“Would you want to drive home?”

I paused outside the car, waiting for his answer.  No sense easing into the driver’s seat if I was going to let him take over.  “You’d trust me to do that?”

“How else will you get back and forth to work if you get the job?”

He flashed his pearly whites at me.  “I could jog there in an hour or less.”  I had no doubt—but who’d want to get to work hot and sweaty and feeling tired?  I’d never been into running, so I only imagined he’d be tired after.

“You really want to do that?”

“I didn’t say Iwantedto.”

On impulse—something I’d done a lot since Brandon had arrived at my house—I grabbed his hand and placed the key ring in the palm.  “I want to do this for you.”

“You’ve already done enough for me, Kimberly.”

No.  No, I hadn’t.  Aside from the burning lust crumbling away my core creating an unrealistic need for this young man, I was beginning to feel responsible for him.  Already, he had become one of my family members, and I looked out for my family.

I protected them.

Like a mama grizzly, I guarded them with my life.

And I sacrificed.  “It might look like that to you, but I’m not going to only help you halfway.  Helping you get a job and then telling yougood luck getting thereisn’t what I do.”

He squeezed my hand then and the look on his face was pained—pained but also hopeful.  “You’re a good woman, Kimberly.  I…”  He let the air out of his lungs.  “I don’t know what to say.”

His hand caused a vibration to rattle through my body.  I’d been feeling maternal for a few moments, but that was once more replaced by the burn.  It took everything I had to not shove Brandon against the side of my car and lay one on him.  If I really was a good woman like he’d said, I needed to find it inside myself to act like it.  Instead, all I could do was utter a few words.  “Just drive.”

 

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