Page 3 of Bound By Water
He chuckles and hangs up.
Lionel Vickers owns the apartment I live in, but he’s more than just my landlord. He’s also my surrogate father. A member of my dad’s Army unit and one of his closest friends, he often came to our house for dinner. After the accident that killed my parents, I had nowhere to go and no other family. An underage orphan, the state wanted to put me in foster care, but Lionel stepped in and petitioned the court. As a colonel in the Army and long-time family friend, he presented a strong, stable environment, so they granted him guardianship.
We became closer the two years we lived together, and it didn’t end when I went away to university for my bachelor’s degree. He knew I needed to escape the memories but called and visited often.
When I returned home to complete my graduate program, he surprised me with this apartment. Detached from the house, it affords me privacy while giving me the perfect excuse to stay close to him. Plus, he doesn’t charge me rent. Having a free place to stay means I only have to worry about making enough to cover my books and other daily expenses. I get to practice being an adult without all the responsibility.
He gets peace of mind knowing I’m safe.
Muscles locked with stiffness, it takes me a second to stand and get my body moving. Lionel and I have dinner together on Mondays and Thursdays to catch up with each other. Although it’s mainly for him to keep tabs on me, since his days consist of either working or golfing with his Army buddies. I smile at the thought and hurry to get changed and over to his house.
Salad in hand, I knock on the back door. When he hollers for me to enter, I step inside, and the aroma of fresh garlic and rich tomato sauce surrounds me, making me inhale in appreciation. Savoring the scent, I set my bowl down on the small breakfast table and turn to find him stirring a big pot at the stove.
Lionel Vickers is a big, barrel-chested man with a booming voice and hearty laugh. He’s handsome and charismatic. As a kid, all the ladies at our family barbeques used to flirt with him, but he never even looked in their direction. And not once while I lived with him did he ever go out.
In his fifties now with a head full of grey hair, he’s still fit and trim, but he never dates. I asked him why once, and he told me that his wife was the love of his life, and when she passed, she took his heart, and their son, with her. He would wait and meet them on the other side. It was the most romantic thing I’d ever heard.
He never talks about them. They died in a devastating house fire when I was around five, I think. I vaguely remember them visiting our house a few times. His wife was blond with a broad, easygoing smile. Their dark-haired little boy had been a couple of years older than me and bursting with energy. My mom used to tell me I followed him around like a puppy.
Now it’s just Lionel and me, from six down to two. A sad pair, but we’re all that’s left between his family and mine, and we’re thankful we have each other.
“Hmm. Smells good. You pulled out the big guns. Homemade sauce. I guess you didn’t play golf today?” I ask, walking over to the fridge to get the pitcher of tea. I pour us two glasses and set them on the table.
Lionel loves to cook, but he insists on making everything from scratch. He pauses mid-stir to answer. “Nope. Brad’s back gave out, so he had to cancel. How was your day?”
I frown. “His back goes out a lot. I thought I gave you some rehab exercises to give to him?” The exercises should have strengthened his back and stopped this constant relapse cycle.
Lionel slides a glance at me and rolls his dark green eyes, which oddly enough are similar to my dad’s and mine. “I think he does them for a while, then stops when he feels better.” He shrugs and takes one last taste of the sauce. “It’s done. Grab a plate.”
I pick up a plate and fill it with noodles, sauce, and bread, then take a seat at the table. He follows behind me, and for the first few minutes, we’re both busy digging into the delicious meal.
“I swear, your sauce gets better and better. What did you do different this time?”
He chuckles. “I added a little bit of brown sugar.” He eyes me closely. “You sounded like you were sleeping earlier. Any time you don’t feel like coming over, just let me know. Dinner will be in the fridge when you’re ready.”
I smile at him. “Thank you, but I’m good. Once this semester is over, things will get easier.” I’ve said the same thing a million times this year.
“If you’d let me give you money, you wouldn’t need to work at all,” he grumbles, a hint of irritation in his voice.
An old argument and not one worth pursuing. Pausing for a second, I wait until he’s looking at me. “I got my final assignment for clinicals today… pediatric neurological rehabilitation!”
His frown turns into a huge grin, and he picks up his glass. “Congratulations. You’ve been looking forward to working with children for so long, and I know you’ll be good at it. After all, you’ve been in their shoes and understand their frustration and pain.” With a flick of his wrist, he clinks his glass against mine, then takes a sip.
I take my own drink, then set my glass down. “And since it’s my last rotation, maybe they’ll hire me after I’m done.” I chew my bottom lip as I think about the possibility of staying here.
Lionel studies me closely for a second. “I know this is home, but I don’t think you should limit yourself. With your grades, you can go anywhere. Why not apply to the best facilities and see what happens?”
I never told him how miserable I was when I went away to college. Parents, gone. My only lifeline, hundreds of miles away. It was hard to function, much less have a social life. Unlike the other kids my age, I couldn’t pretend to be carefree and interested in the same frivolous things. That part of me died with my parents. For four years, all I did was study and work to save for graduate school.
After next semester, I’ll face the same decision again. Stay or go. Every time I think about leaving, my stomach clenches in knots. I know I’m supposed to go and make a bigger mark on the world, but why? I can be content here.
“Maybe.”
He presses his lips together but says nothing. It’s not the first time we’ve had this conversation, and I’m sure it won’t be the last. He knows I’m scared. I know he only wants the best for me. Right now, we’re at a stalemate.
Desperate to change the subject, I tell him about getting hit by the football player. “After all that, I ended up being five minutes late for work. Ten, if you count the additional minutes I used to clean and bandage my hand.” I hold up my palm for him to see the Band-Aids covering the scrapes.
Aware of my boss’s strict policies, he winces. “I’m sure Mrs. Pembrooke was thrilled.” His eyes scan the rest of me. “Any other injuries? What about your head?”
