3. Man of the Woods
MAN OF THE WOODS
JUSTIN TIMBERLAKE
JORDAN
“And what do we have here?” Mom saunters into the sterile room, using the voice she reserves exclusively for patients. A young vet tech skips in at her heels with obvious excitement, reading from the clipboard in her hands.
“Existing patient. Twenty-year-old male. Diabetes mellitus, inflammatory bowel disease and chronic malabsorption. Here today for excessive vocalization.”
The obese, ginger-colored cat in my arms yowls demandingly as the doc and her assistant approach. Mom smiles wide—at me or the cat? I’m not sure—then, tucking a short, silver strand of hair behind her ear, says, “I’m sorry about your IBD, son, but really there’s no need to lie about your age.”
Rolling my eyes, I stand to wrap her up in a one-sided hug, mindful of the forty-pound cat currently digging his claws into my T-shirt. “Hey, Mama. Missed you.”
“Hey, baby.” She takes the cat from my arms in a practiced, one-handed grip that’s honestly impressive considering the size of the beast. I wonder if she’s been working out recently. “And hello, Mr. Gus Gus. Do you have some excessive gas we need to take care of today?”
Mr. Gus yowls again in the affirmative, then begins ministrations against my mother’s neck as she coos and coerces him to the examination table, her voice going up an octave and quickly transitioning into baby talk territory.
“You’re such a handsome boy, aren’t you?” She rubs her face against his, speaking Gus’ love language with what is, in my professional opinion, excessive allorubbing, and some good old-fashioned praise. “I wasn’t expecting to see you today.”
She pauses, turning her head only slightly so that she’s still skin-to-fur with the old man on the table, whose head also tilts in my direction but looks only more irritated at the interruption to his attention.
Pointing a finger at my chest, I say, “Who? Me?”
The tech giggles behind her clipboard, hiding the slight blush filling her cheeks.
“Of course, baby. I thought you were getting in tomorrow.”
“I hopped an earlier flight.” I shrug, leaning against a free wall to watch her work. Observing Mom in her element is a core memory of mine. The pet dander on her scrubs and scent of animals on her coat are as formidable to my upbringing as books at bedtime and prayers said round the dinner table.
Her hands begin to roam over Gus’ belly, soft and unassuming at first, but then quickly evolving into an examination.
Unwrapping the stethoscope from around her neck, she listens to various places along his abdomen then flips between addressing the cat, her tech, and me, intermittently.
“Is someone constipated? Possible bowel obstruction. Will need a quick ultrasound to confirm. Grace, this is my son, Jordan. He’s been practicing all over the Southeast for years, but he’s home now. ”
Mom smiles down at the cat’s round belly, but I know it’s reserved for me. This move, returning to Honey Hill, has been a long time coming and something my parents have prayed for since I left.
Grace, the vet tech, smiles and stretches out her hand for mine. “It’s so nice to meet you. We’ve been looking forward to having you join the practice, Dr. Rafferty.”
“It’s Dr. Love,” Mom corrects. “Jordan’s daddy was my late husband, Paul. Perfect last name though, huh? Drives the girls crazy.” She winks at me, then continues, “And we’ll need a temp on him.”
Grace raises a curious eyebrow.
Mom smiles, rubbing her fingers along each of Gus’ claws as she inspects him further. “For Gus… not Jordan.”
Glad she made that clarification.
“We’re gonna stick a thermometer up your butt, Gus Gus.
” She smushes her nose against the cat’s, and her voice takes on a new, implausible level of cartoon character.
The poor guy meows affectionately, clearly unaware of what’s in store for him.
“I’m so sorry, my gorgeous, ginger king.
Grace is gonna do the honors, though, so you and I can still be friends, okay? Be nice to her. She’s new.”
Grace smiles, apparently already used to Mom’s brand of medicine, and stretches her hand across Gus’ back to steady him as my mother removes her face from his.
“We don’t need to be here for this,” she says, washing her hands.
“You sure?” I make my way towards the swinging door leading to the waiting area. “Seems like you two have quite the connection.”
Gus screeches as the door closes behind us.
She swats at me but follows me out, pulling me into her arms again just outside the waiting room. “You are a sight for sore eyes, love. Why didn’t you tell me you’d be here early?”
Hugging Mom is a full-body affair. She’s significantly shorter than me, and half the general population, but she hugs with all her strength.
It’s probably one of the things I’ve missed most about being away over the years.
Call me a mama’s boy, but there have been too many hard days, missed holidays, and day-to-day comings and goings where I wished I were closer. Wished I could pop in for exactly this.
A good bear hug from my mama always felt like it could heal a world of hurts. And now, after going so long without, I feel like I’ll need more of these to help knit all the pieces of me that have stayed torn for longer than I care to admit.
“I let Bill know. He said I should surprise you.”
With perfect timing, my stepfather enters the waiting room carrying a Chihuahua in his arms. He delivers the dog to his owner, passes off some information to the receptionist, then turns his attention to me. “Son,” he says softly, eyes immediately glistening with tears.
“Hey, Bill.”
Though only an inch or two taller than Mom, the aura around Bill is massive. He’s a strong, but soft teddy bear. Firmly in touch with his emotions and, more impressively, my mom’s, and he’s always looked at me exactly the way he is right now. Like I belong to him.
Bill’s hug is long lasting and filled with his sniffling against my shoulder until Mom gives him her signature pat on the back, indicating his allocated affection time is up.
Save it for the obese cats, Bill.
“You’re too thin. I’m going to cook for you.” He grasps my shoulders in his hands, holding me in place. “We are so glad to have you home, buddy.”
“Yes we are. And we also have a full house,” Mom announces, looking at the waiting room filled with patients of every breed and their pet parents, as she refers to them.
She turns to a woman that looks to be about her same age and puts on her Dr. Rafferty voice—a much less nonsensical version of the one who, only moments before, was kissing Gus fully on the mouth in a private examination room.
“Mrs. Remillard, I have a few concerns about Gus’ bowel movements. ”
The woman’s tight lipped smile quivers. “He’s been stopped up for days.”
A man beside her, presumably her husband, takes her hand in his as if preparing for the worst.
Resting a hand on her shoulder, Mom nods empathetically.
“Well, we know Gus Gus is a complex case, but that elderly gentleman back there has a few of his lives left yet, so I won’t have you worrying.
I’m going to run some tests this afternoon and a quick ultrasound before you can take him home and spoil him some more.
But… I need him to be on a strict diet.”
Mrs. Remillard’s fingers clutch imaginary pearls. “But…”
“No buts.” Mom puts her pointer finger in the air. What I know to mean, she must not be interrupted. “Healthy fats, whole foods, and only two small meals a day.”
Mr. Remillard chuckles and stretches out his hand to shake my mother’s. “Will do, Doc. Thanks for taking care of her—” His wife elbows him. “I mean our boy.”
Mom simply nods before turning her attention back to me. “Now, are you jet-lagged? Do you need to settle in? Get some food?” She narrows her dark brown eyes on the ink peeking out from the neckline of my T-shirt. “Or maybe a new tattoo? I think I see some empty skin under that scruff of yours.”
She’s all bark and no bite, though, reaching up and cupping her hand around my jaw, giving me a proper inspection. “You’re too thin, sweetheart. Bill will feed you tonight.”
“I’m fine.” I settle my hand against hers. “And my next tattoo appointment isn’t until after working hours, so I’ve got time to kill. Plenty, in fact. Put me to work.”
“Great.” She pats my cheeks harder than necessary and links our arms as she drags me to the door. “I’ve got a house call for you over at Purple Pastures.”
Purple Pastures. The announcement has me digging my heels into the linoleum. “No. Mama, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Oh?” She raises her eyebrows and places a hand on her jutted-out hip. “That’s funny. Because I thought you said you didn’t have jet lag. That you were ready to go. No impediments pending.”
“I did, but—”
“And,” Mom continues, placing her finger in the air exactly like she did with Mrs. Remillard, “it’s your name we’re putting on the building outside, right? You came all this way to practice medicine? To partner with Bill and me and eventually take over the practice?”
“Yes, but—”
“There’s a patient in need, and you can help her, Jordan.
” She kisses my cheek and shoves me towards the door.
“It’s a Band-Aid, Son. The sooner you rip it off, the better.
Emory is expectin’ ya in an hour. She’s got a med kit in the barn office, but you should probably shower first. You smell like the airplane. ”
“And maybe a shave, too. To make a good first impression,” Mrs. Remillard adds with a smile so charming, I can’t bring myself to tell her making a good first impression is the furthest thing from my mind.
“You’ve got this, kid,” Bill cheers me on from the front desk, always the optimist. “We’ll see ya later.
I’m making tofu fried chicken and waffles.
” He waves as Mom retreats, settling comfortably into the crook of his arm.
They look like a Norman Rockwell painting called Small-Town Doctors Send Their Son Off to War.
Only, my parents shove me out the door with a, “Say hey to the girls for us,” as the door closes behind me.
“I am not showering,” I say under my breath, like I’m not a grown man with a healthy fear of his mama hearing him backtalk.
Grabbing my helmet, throwing it on, and straddling my motorcycle in one fell swoop, I kick the engine on and take a deep breath. The sound of the bike coming to life does little to settle me. In fact, what’s usually a source of comfort is suddenly producing a current of memories I’d like to forget.
Though I passed the farm earlier, now on this mission, my body thrums with old anxieties twisting my insides as the path turns.
Because every inch of the road that brings me closer to Purple Pastures—a piece of land I know like the back of my hand—is an inch closer to my regret.
To life-changing mistakes and grief I’ve managed to avoid for almost ten years.
Ten years too long.
The raccoon at the final turn is exactly where it was earlier, though his balloon and his body seem a bit more deflated.
Me too, buddy.
I make a mental note to swing by on my way out and give him a proper burial. That is, if I make it through this house call in one piece.
In many ways, the farm looks exactly like it’s portrayed online.
Much like the photos I’ve studied in my deepest moments of homesickness, the property is all rolling hills covered in fields of grass and lavender and a winding, well-worn dirt road that I know will lead me to the main house.
But there are signs of the passage of time as well.
Things that haven’t been updated on Purple Pasture’s website or on the old land listing that I may—or may not—have bookmarked on my laptop.
The lavender is overgrown in many of the fields farther out from the house, not in the clean rows you’d expect of a farm this size.
Even at a cursory glance, it’s evident the fences haven’t been tended to in a while, and the barn I helped raise over ten years ago has certainly seen better days.
And the ridiculous, purple-painted silo, though fading, still stands out like a sore thumb against the clear blue sky.
I didn’t expect to drive here, or along a dirt path on my bike, for that matter, so I’m covered in a fine layer of dust and grime by the time I park beside an SUV that waits just outside the main house.
The large rancher overlooks the primary pasture, something I remember being a sticking point in the building plans, but I have to say, I can see the appeal now.
A herd of alpacas roam freely together, just under an overhanging window off the front of the home.
When I let my gaze travel from the pasture to the front porch, I find her waiting on the top step. Arms crossed. Lips pinched. Hair just as fiery red as it always was, perfectly matching the spirit of the girl I’ve never forgotten.
“Hey, Red.”
For a minute I think she might not recognize me. Years have passed, and though she looks just as beautiful as ever, I know I’ve changed. But Emory wordlessly stomps down the full length of the grand, wooden staircase, never once taking her eyes off me or releasing the grip of her arms.
“It’s been a while,” I mutter like an absolute buffoon, shoving my hands into my pockets.
Understatement of the century, Jordan.
I think I might be in for the scolding of my life—long overdue—until Emory’s perfectly clean tennis shoes land nearly toe to toe with my black riding boots, she stands a little taller as if bracing herself, and then slaps the cheek I did not shave before arriving.
“Don’t you ever call me Red again,” she growls before turning on her heel and stomping back towards the house, leaving the screen door shaking in her wake when she slams it shut behind her.