Boot(s)

13-Boot

Sergeant Jackson

I don't remember ever being so afraid in my entire life. Not when I first hit basic training, not when I deployed to the Middle East, and not even when I stepped on the explosive that changed my life forever.

But here I was. At a middle school in the gorgeous Atlanta fall, the sound of children laughing the only thing I could hear. But here I was: absolutely terrified.

"Sergeant? Sergeant, Nancy's here."

"Yes, yes, I know."

I was cowering—hell I was full-blown hiding—behind the brick wall that jutted out a little further than the school's back entrance. I peered around the brick, into the playground. The same scene as yesterday: monkey bars occupied, Yu-Gi-Oh dealt on picnic tables, woodchips stuck to the backs of little kids' pants. But this time, no tall, lanky brunette was taking up three-quarters of my vision. I stepped—pardon me, crutched—out a few paces. Still, I didn't see him. I let out the exhaustive breath I had been holding in.

Nancy had been waving at me from just outside the van since I stepped into the sunshine from that godforsaken auditorium (Yes the van. It was a handicap, and I hated every god damned inch of it.) I didn't dare move a muscle before I deemed the coast clear as day, so Nance took my lack of general movement as an indication that she should start shouting my name and walking towards me like I was one of the third graders and she was the mom I wasn't listening to.

"God damn it all," it was a mutter, barely above my own breath, but the principal clearly heard me. She thanked me again, bid me a strange quasi-goodbye, then turned and headed back inside. Nancy was smiling, waving to a few of the moms, still making a beeline toward me. The navy cardigan over her blouse—buttoned only at the top few buttons—waved out behind her as she squeaked over towards me in her mom clogs, still relentlessly calling my name. With one more quick glance towards the pick-up line, I crutched towards her at the speed of light. She stopped her pursuit and waited for me, smiling her Oprah Winfrey-Esque smile: big, bright, and bold.

"Jesus, woman, I heard you the first fifteen times." When we met, she began to step in time with my crutching without missing a beat. My eyes bore holes into the car waiting for me.

"And how was that today, Peter?"

By now, Nancy was unfazed by my horribly moody and downright bitchy mentality about life, existing, and being back in this god-forsaken town. She had been assigned to me at the VA hospital in Atlanta when I first got in from abroad. She had been with me for the three months since. She was, quite truly, my guardian angel.

"Fine, fine, just get me in that stupid van and out of this goddamn suburb." I crutched faster. I was really getting good at this. Nancy and I once raced in the halls of the hospital. I won. Granted, I was more experienced. But Nancy had two legs.

"Oh my. Oh boy." I slowed down, almost to a stop. She never reacted to my attitude, snide comments, grumpy groans, or incessant curses. Ever. So she wasn't reacting to me.

I swallowed hard. The home-safe breath I let out earlier was clearly a fluke. I gathered all the air back in my chest.

I peered a glance over at Nancy. She wasn't looking at me, she was looking past me: the middle school pick-up line.

"Oh boy what?" She had stopped walking, unable to peel her eyes off something behind me. I took my hand off my crutch and nudged her arm, getting her attention. Her eyes, when they focused back on me, were her usual deep-sea-fishing blue, but they were shining like she was meeting Angel Gabriel. (Nancy loved the Lord.)