Four Letter Word

She stared at me. Her hands moved in front of her to clasp together.

“No sorry necessary,” she replied, tipping her chin to the door, a light smile playing on her lips. “You better get going if you don’t want to be seen.”

“Right.” I nodded once. “I’ll see ya in a few weeks.”

“Okay, Brian. Take care.”

I stepped outside, jerked the door shut behind me, then moved swiftly down the ramp, stalking across the dirt parking lot until I reached my Jeep, pulled the door open, and climbed in, starting it up.

I would’ve taken off right then if it wasn’t for the handicapped van pulling off the road and turning into the lot, moving slowly down the small decline and parking in the space directly across from me.

Shit.

Fucking shit.

I recognized that van. I had seen it in the driveway of the house I paid a visit to once a week, but this was the first time I was seeing it here.

My hands curled around the wheel. That weight I’d been feeling for the past three months pressed its full capacity against my sternum and pinned me to the seat.

I stared. I couldn’t move.

I prayed to God, if he was up there, that I wouldn’t be seen.

The driver’s side door opened, followed by the passenger door. Mr. and Mrs. Burns stepped out, both of them congregating over on one side of the van, smiling at each other and looking eager while sliding the back door open, Mr. Burns leaning in and pressing some mechanism on the inside to activate the lift for the wheelchair.

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.