Page 16 of Colt
To be honest, I think Gentry has more sense than the rodeo cowboys. At least we need firefighters. Literally no one needs you to risk your life riding a bull.
“Of course I’ll help,” I say.
Because I love Cindy with my whole heart. Because she’s the mother figure that I would never have had. It’s always been so complicated. Her marrying my dad was such a wonderful thing. I was an adolescent, and I needed a woman in my life so badly. But she also brought Colt with her, and that was a real hallmark of difficulty for me.
I made a conscious effort to separate her being my stepmom from having to have the object of my teenage affection living down the hall from me.
But Cindy made my dad smile again. She left space for my mom while being there for me. She never tried to erase the love I had before; she only added to it.
This has been so hard on her. And I need to pull myself out of it. That’s the problem. I’ve been a little bit too self-obsessed with all this because of how complex my own feelings for Colt are.
They don’t need to be complicated. Weird… Family. I guess.
Even if that has always felt like such an uncomfortable label for the two of us.
But I can be family right now. I need to be.
I can’t worry about how annoyed he’s going to be with me, or how difficult it’s going to be for us to have that kind of proximity. It’s not like we haven’t had it before. And anyway, we won’t be living together, so there’s that.
“Of course, if he gives you any trouble, let me know. And I’ll scold him.”
I laugh. “I’m sure he won’t.”
I drove his truck here to the hospital when he was moved from Medford, and it’s been sitting here the whole time, which is how I end up being tasked with driving him back home that day.
I came with Cindy, and he and I live right next to each other, so it makes sense. I can tell that he’s irritated when discharge includes a wheelchair, even though that’s standard procedure. Ican also tell that it’s a window into exactly what I’m going to be dealing with when I’m doing the caregiving.
I go and get the car from the far reaches of the parking lot, and drive it up to the front doors, where I wait for the hospital staff to help him out of the chair and into the car. I can see beads of sweat on his forehead, his teeth gritted against the pain.
I can tell that the pain makes him angry.
He gets into the passenger seat and slams the door shut.
“Do you need to take a pain pill?”
“Advil. Maybe. I’m not taking anything else.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t like being out of control. And I know that I need to limit the amount of time that I’m on opiates.”
“Sure,” I say. “That’s a real concern, and I get it. But you also have very real pain that you need to deal with.”
“I don’t have anything else to do but deal with the pain, Allison, so I might as well give it a nice warm hug and tell it to make itself comfortable.”
I don’t roll my eyes visibly, and I consider that to be a real triumph.
“You don’t need to martyr yourself on top of everything else,” I say, waving at Cindy as we pull away from the curb.
“I’m not,” he says.
He’s smiling, but I can hear the anger in his voice.
“I would’ve thought you’d be happy that you’re headed home.”
“Different view, same prison. These injuries. I just want to get back out on the circuit.”
“But you know that’s not happening,” I say softly as we pull out of the hospital parking lot and onto the road. It’s about a forty-minute drive back to Gold Valley, and I’m going to be stuck with this surliest of passengers.
