Imagining Gifts
Illusion or imagination…?
“B-b-boy,” an infinitesimal voice whispered as if struggling to speak the simple word.
Eyelids, impossibly heavy, forced themselves to open to witness her petite face so close to mine.
Her skin was creamy marble and flawless.
The magical green eyes that resembled a firework show of white lights darted past me, then squinted as if very frustrated at something behind me.
But when they looked to me again, they softened, and the light show simmered to faraway stars in the night.
Then, her itty-bitty nose caressed mine before she let go of the seawall to drop back into the ocean.
I felt incredibly lethargic, yet my arm insisted on reaching out to her, my bleeding hand dripping crimson into the water.
Don’t go, I begged inside my mind, as she slipped into the water, out of sight.
Seconds that felt far too long stretched by.
And just when I thought she wouldn’t come back, that is when she reappeared with a rock in her hand.
“I’m with you.” So small… she was so small, yet pulled her arm back and threw the rock with incredible strength.
It soared up and over me to make a thud that was followed by an “Ouch!”
Of its own accord, my arm stretched harder to reach for my new friend. Her eyes stared at me as she sank below the waves, where from under the water, the green glow remained, watching. Her lips mouthing, I’m with—
Lying in the back seat of the car, my eyes opened to see that, once again, she was gone, and I was only touching the back of Noma’s driver’s seat, causing my bandaged injury to pulse. Knowing it was only a dream, my heart instantly ached, wondering if I would ever see the green-eyed girl again.
In the beginning of the road trip, whenever Noma and I stopped, she was always checking my vitals and bandage, tucking me in to ensure I stayed warm, making sure I stayed hydrated, and wanting me to eat something, for obvious reasons such as nutrition—protein heals, she’d remind me—and so the pills wouldn’t make me feel sick.
I hated the medication. Within a few days, I convinced Noma to replace the prescription painkillers with Advil.
I was tired of sleeping, if that makes any sense.
Dreaming of the girl was pure torture. It felt like being hungry for a substance I didn’t know how to find or buy.
Not sleeping in the back of the car and no longer being subjected to constant stops to check on my recovery gave me other things to focus on—the changing terrain.
I’d only lived on the East Coast. It was wild for huge mountains to start appearing the farther west we went.
Thick trees instead of palms. Mist-covered hills instead of endless beaches.
Mysterious shadows held darkness instead of the sun, exposing all its secrets.
I no longer saw the familiar bright blue sky or smelled the ocean spray hitching a ride on warm salt-laden breezes. The life I had always known was slowly being erased with every turn of the tires and the miles left behind us. Each new city we passed seemed to mock my departure from home.
Home.
I’d only lived in one place in my short ten years. It had been a dwelling of comfort, safety, and love. When I closed my eyes, I could smell the hints of tobacco and whiskey. The lemon cleaner that Noma used to wash the wooden floors. Even the leather from the uncles.
I’d never live with those scents again. Not in the same way.
My young mind raced to grasp all that was cruelly yanked from my fingers. A gasp left my lips, drawing Noma’s gaze through the rearview mirror.
Fingers. Finger.
The explosion took more than my father from me. I lost part of my finger on my right hand. Scars were already beginning to form from the deep cuts that left me bleeding into the ocean that day.
My uncles—gone. My father—gone. My home. My name. All of it had been ripped away.
My left hand clenched tight, and when my right tried to curl, impeded by the bandage, I let out a growl of frustration mixed with pain.
Then, anger rose from that pain. I felt my upper lip lift in a snarl.
I had to leave everything I had ever known, and now I had a new name.
Johnny Watts. I hated it. My Noma had become Erika Watts.
I was not okay.
I had asked Noma in the hospital. My injured mind and body had been so confused. When Noma answered, I believed her. She said I would be all right. But she was wrong.
Physically, I was beginning to heal. But my heart was broken and my life had been uprooted. The long hours fleeing in this car, fearing the sound of motorcycle engines, began to expose the truth. I didn’t know if I would ever be okay again.
Noma kept glancing at me, struggling to keep her focus on the road as she watched me unravel.
My lungs suddenly fought for air. I sucked in a breath, holding back a sob.
I was far too old to throw a tantrum or cry over things I couldn’t change.
It didn’t matter. My anger and pain needed an outlet, and as we drove toward a new destination, danger lurking somewhere behind us, it chose now to unleash.
With a vengeance.
A cry of anguish finally burst free from my chest as Noma clenched the steering wheel, her tortured gaze locked on mine.
The tires beneath us swerved before they straightened, leading us to the next exit.
As luck would have it, or maybe some divine intervention, we found a park only a block from the ramp.
While she pressed on the brakes and lurched the car into an empty space, I said words I didn’t intend to let escape. “I don’t have a home anymore.”
She exhaled with an audible oof and lowered her head for a heartbeat.
As quickly as it happened, she lifted her chin and unclicked her seat belt before she reached for the handle on her door.
Before I knew it, she was yanking open my door and sliding in beside me.
Her arms wrapped around me as I stiffened, still far too angry to cry the tears clogging my throat.
“They stole everything from us,” I said with venom, hating my tone, but hating what strangers had done to our family even more.
I thought she’d admonish me for my attitude, but she leaned back, tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear, and nodded. “We’re having a picnic.”
A picnic? Now?
I frowned as my Noma slid out of the car and opened the trunk, pulling out the familiar picnic basket we used in the past. I felt a twinge of panic as she walked past me, striding toward an empty picnic table and the nearly abandoned park.
For midday, it was startlingly quiet. No kids.
Just an older couple feeding ducks across the parking lot by the pond and a woman jogging on a path, too focused to pay attention to us.
I barely noticed the trees except for the shade they offered the spot where my Noma currently sat, arranging food on the surface of the table.
It wasn’t the items she placed down that caused me to gasp, or the brownies with candy-coated chocolates buried in their gooey centers.
When my gaze spotted the checkered tablecloth that my Noma lovingly packed away in the basket after every use, it sent a fresh wave of agony through my chest.
Noma smiled. “Sit. You need lunch.”
Until that moment, I didn’t realize I was hungry. My stomach viciously reminded me, rumbling loud enough to confirm Noma’s suspicion. I sat opposite her, noticing she faced the parking lot and her eyes bounced from one end to the other, staying vigilant as she quietly fixed me a sandwich.
Now, at ten, I was admittedly far too old to have my Noma cut the crusts off my peanut butter and grape jelly sandwich, but I said nothing as I watched her, my shoulders releasing a twinge of tension as she added grapes, chips, and a brownie.
I accepted my plate and waited for her to make her own, surprised when she reached for her brownie first. Noma shrugged. “It’s okay to eat desserts first sometimes, especially when it’s not just our stomachs that are hungry.”
With a heavy heart, I lifted my sandwich, taking a bite. But my gaze shifted to that tablecloth and its worn but clean pattern, remembering all the moments we shared meals with and without my father, of the love infused into every picnic adventure. And the home we left behind.
“Noma,” I managed to squeak when I swallowed the bite.
I didn’t know what I wanted or needed, but my throat felt raw and tight like it had lumps I couldn’t swallow past. And my chest couldn’t seem to open enough to fill my lungs completely with air. Anger still stiffened my back, and I was too young to understand this was part of the grieving process.
Noma placed her brownie on her plate and I watched her fingers lovingly glide over the top.
“You know, baby boy, home is where we make it. It’s you and me and the moments we share together.
Right now? It’s this picnic table and this meal.
Tomorrow? It’ll be someplace new, and that’s okay. Wanna know why?”
I nodded, trying to avoid the sting of tears in my eyes.
“Because home is where we’re together.” She reached for my left hand and held it. “Home is us, baby boy. It’s you and me. Always.”
I released a long breath, feeling the weight and warmth of her words blanketing my mind and heart with their truth.
“You haven’t lost your home,” she assured me. “It’s not possible because you have me and I have you.”
“We have each other,” I repeated, letting some of the anger fade.
“That’s right.” She squeezed my fingers and released my hand. Noma smiled as she took a big bite of her brownie.
Not to be outdone, I picked up my brownie and sank my teeth into the fudgy goodness.
And it was sooooooo delicious.
We finished lunch, packed up the picnic basket, and continued our journey. The rest of the afternoon, I thought over her words, letting them sink roots into my chest and heart.