10. Stand By Me
STAND BY ME
STEPHEN WILSON JR.
EMORY
“Are they gone?” I say quietly so as not to disturb Pam, resting fitfully at my side.
Jordan leans against the guest bedroom door, looking exhausted and a little shell-shocked after the almost two-hour tour of the grounds he just gave.
He all but insisted he show the group around, giving me not only a much needed break from my PTA pack but also the ability to be with Pamela without distraction.
Though, I’d be lying if I didn’t say, I enjoyed getting occasional glimpses of Jordan’s tour and his gaggle of admirers from the window as Pammy rested nearby.
From what I could see, Jordan showcased the beauty of the farm as if it were his own, pointing out the rows and rows of carefully planted lavender that—though they’ve been neglected and are in serious need of some TLC—will begin to bloom by midsummer.
All the while, being completely unaware I won’t own the land when it does.
I almost forgot how well Jordan knows these acres, having explored the farm long before I ever stepped foot on it after college.
Growing up in Honey Hill, our property was once owned by a farmer Jordan worked for as a teen.
When the farmer and his wife both passed away, their children were comforted in knowing the land would continue on as a family owned and operated farm after James and I jumped on the opportunity—and what would be a life-long debt—giving us the barebones of a house, pasture, and barn foundations.
What we needed to build quickly and efficiently to make our vision for Purple Pastures and Alpaca come to fruition.
Back then, Jordan loved this property as much as we did, always insisting he’d be back one day, permanently, to practice medicine and settle down nearby. If the length of his tour is any indication, I’d say, if nothing else is true, his appreciation for the land remains.
“They never stopped talking,” Jordan says, letting himself slowly slump to the floor. “So. Much. Chit-chat. I hate chit-chat. I’m not good at it, ya know? Like… who has time to just dribble on about nothing…”
He isn’t curled up, rocking in a corner somewhere, nursing a migraine and licking a brownie-batter bowl clean. Overall, I’d say he’s handling his first PTA interaction like a champion. Not that I have any personal experience with post-PTA-parent-exposure trauma baking.
However, he is muttering to himself extensively, so his mental state is questionable at this point. His voice switches from bewilderment to a shrill impersonation of what I can only imagine is a colorful combination of all the Honey Hill PTA moms.
“My Greg has all A’s… Well, my son is the captain of good grades, and he never pees the bed… And your daughter only wants to date my son for his Pokémon collection… Everyone knows Pokémon is evil, so it’s no wonder your boy doesn’t have better manners…”
He’s been so battered. Bless his heart.
“At first I thought they were your friends, but there’s no way.” Jordan runs both hands through his windswept, blonde hair then lets them fall to the floor, bracing himself as he rests his head against the doorframe. “I don’t know how you do it, Red. PTA? Those women… They’re…”
“Animals.” I can’t help but smile, thinking of the way the whole pack of them surrounded him at the first chance they were given, barking out various talking points, flipping their hair for optimal pheromone triggering, and cackling at Jordan’s bare-minimum efforts of charm.
All before he even left for the foot tour.
Intrasexual selection at its finest. I can’t imagine what variety of methods were used for attention and am grateful I didn’t have to witness them all.
“That, honestly, may be giving them too much credit. They’re vicious… and Asscroft…”
I snort. “You’ve Got Trey.”
“I don’t know how it happened, but I’m playing golf with him next week. Golf… I hate golf.” He sighs, turning his head to where I sit back against the wall, knees raised, waiting as Pam’s breaths grow fainter. “Can I…” He gestures to Pam. “Could I check her, please?”
Nodding, I scootch over, giving him room to check her vitals, and watch as he grows solemn yet more in control and relaxed as he runs his hands along her ears, snout, neck, and down her belly, like I’ve seen him do each time he’s given the chance.
“She seems uncomfortable, but she isn’t waking up,” I say just loud enough for him to hear over the stethoscope hanging from his ears.
He nods, acknowledging me, but keeps his eyes closed, listening to her heart and lungs.
When he’s satisfied with what he hears, Jordan dangles the tool from his neck then checks the IV he must have set up while in here earlier.
It’s such a strange sensation to observe him in his natural habitat, seeing the switch between the man I’m not sure I recognize anymore to the version of him I remember.
Calculated and controlled. Reserved but intentional.
It’s a peculiar kind of comfort to have Jordan be the one to care for Pamela. To disagree with how I do things—where I choose to keep her or feed her—but to support me all the same.
It feels a lot like friendship. Shaky and uncertain, yes, but friendship all the same.
“It’s probably best if you call Mom or Bill,” he says apologetically. “I got approval to start her on a sedative earlier and will push a bit more, if you’ll allow me to, until one of them can get here, but I don’t think it will be long, Emory.”
“Will you…” I clear my throat, surprised at the sudden clarity I have about what will make the impossible night ahead of me, maybe, more bearable and, even more so, that I feel compelled to ask, “Will you stay, Jordan? I mean… since you’re here anyway, and I know Drs.
Rafferty and Rafferty are busy and… you know me… kind of… or you used to and…”
“I’m Molly’s friend,” he interjects, saving me from further babbling.
I nod. “Right. Molly’s friend.”
“And, I’d really like to be here for her.”
“I think she’d really appreciate that.”
When Jordan’s hazel eyes find mine, he adds, “I want to be here for you both.”
In some ways, as he holds his breath waiting for a response, it feels like I’m seeing Jordan—my friend—for the first time since he left.
He looks like the man I remember. The man who planted a tree in memory of my parents on the first anniversary of their death, though he’d never met them.
Who, during our friendship, never missed a birthday or the opportunity to make small moments big.
A ribbon cutting for our house closing. A public roast with our mutual friends for James’ twenty-second birthday.
A pink party when we found out we were having a baby girl.
Jordan waits with an unwavering patience, as kind and as earnest as he’s ever been, reminding me of the friend who, despite his own pain, held me on my worst day.
And I feel that brittle piece of my heart that wants to stay hurt and angry with him begin to soften.
“Okay,” I agree, as if he were the one asking, and I think maybe he is. “And, as Pam’s vet, she’ll need you here… until the end.”
It’s a peace offering. Holding my palms open wide with nothing more than the chance to be here on another bad day.
He swallows and nods, accepting the unspoken terms. The opportunity to show up, and to stay. “Okay, Red.”
I don’t even argue about the nickname as our eyes stay locked in quiet agreement. An acknowledgement of our delicate truce.
Jordan can call me Red, and I get to decide which pieces of this farm he can be a part of. He’ll stay. I’ll try to trust him, and for a little while, maybe I won’t feel so alone. The air in the room is tense for an unknown measure of seconds before my alarm blares with the Jackson Five’s, “ABC.”
“Oh shoot! Molly!” I jump up, ready to race to the school where I should already be waiting on that cursed, concrete lawn for pickup. I’m stopped abruptly in my tracks, though, when Jordan’s hand wraps around my wrist, pulling me back.
“Why don’t you let me go and get her?” His fingers stay locked around my wrist, holding me in place. “You should stay here with Pam.”
“Actually,” I say, preemptive sadness washing over me. “Dinah and Jack agreed to take Molly when it was time. I’ll just call her now and she should be able to pick Molly up.”
“You aren’t going to let her say goodbye?”
“She doesn’t need to be here for this, Jordan,” I say, freeing my wrist from his grip as my defenses rise.
“Molly loves Pam, though. She talks about her all the time. She wants to be a vet one day. She should have the chance to—”
“She’s lost enough.” I cut him off and take a step back, pulling my phone out to text Dinah with an update and my request then retreating to the kitchen.
“I’m sorry,” Jordan says, and his footsteps soon follow. “I don’t want to overstep, Emory. I just think—”
“I’m Molly’s mom, Jordan. Me. Just me. I get to make the decision, and I say she shouldn’t be here to watch something she loves so much slip away. My daughter is not going to carry that loss around with her when I have the chance to protect her from it.”
“Emory,” he says with more conviction than I care to hear.
“Molly will feel the weight of that loss, whether she’s here or not.
But if she doesn’t get to say goodbye… Well…
” He pauses, running his fingertips back and forth over his bottom lip.
“I think… I know,” he amends, “she will always wish she had.”
Rather than answer him, I wrench open the refrigerator doors, feigning a search for something to scrounge together for dinner.
I’m not sure if Jordan remembers my cooking skills are limited to mac and cheese and fancy cereal night, so nothing in this fridge will help me.
Really, I just need a minute. To process.
To not feel entirely enraged at his intrusion, despite the truth that, I’m acutely aware, he understands more than most.