Boots

Nelson Shake

I saved them against Angie’s wishes and, at first, without her knowledge. She wanted to purge. Erase physical reminders, create a new start. She threw out Josie’s little rain slicker, its gummy yellow fabric spotted with patches of mud that had long since dried. Their dusty surface was cracked like peanut brittle by the time it was given back to us. She threw out the tube socks that still had a faint smell of mildew. Her woven bracelet, also stiff with dried mud. The corduroys, rigid and grimy. The pink scalloped tee she had been wearing that day, surprisingly spotless. Her little underwear.

But I kept the rain boots. I had to.

We both felt strongly about our positions. Angie believed in doing everything to give Josie a normal life afterwards. She thought giving Josie a familiar landing pad when she came home from the hospital would be just the thing she needed. How else, she would always ask me, are we supposed to help her imagine it gets better, that it can get better? I thought—and still do—covering up something that happened won’t work. Really, I thought it was insulting, but I didn’t say that part. We were still careful with our words then.

I kept the boots because they made me proud. They gave me something to hold onto.

The counselor was no help, either. Said that both our perspectives had their merits. Close friends weren’t much better. To a person, they would side with the one of us they had known the longest, not wanting to rock a boat that had already capsized the night Josie didn’t come home.

The boots were a lifeline. They were real. And I could point to them and say, She fought back, she ran as hard as she could.

Of course Josie wasn’t okay when she came home, wasn’t the same. And there was Angie trying to rewind it all with the show she put on each day. It was infuriating to watch Josie play along, to know she felt like she had to take care of her mother by entertaining her.

My plan never was to show anyone the boots. They were for me. I know that sounds selfish, and maybe it is, but it’s a hell of a lot better than forcing your agenda on a kid.

Sometimes I think Angie makes things about herself that have very little to do with her. I told her that. She blew up and asked what has more to do with her than her own child? Not ours. Hers. Her own. I think we were already past saving at that point, but that was when we began to realize it.

I did keep them just in case Josie ever wanted to see something from that night. I know I would, one day, if that ever happened to me.

I don’t believe we blamed each other for what happened. I’m sure Angie tested out such ideas in her head. I know I did with her. But they never stuck. And that was what was hardest. No matter how you turned it around, it made no sense. It could have happened to any kid at Josie’s school that day walking home. But it was her. Perhaps to bring some kind of order or clarity back to our lives, we looked for the nearest person to take shots at. Which of course meant we picked each other. It was convenient.

Josie only saw them because Angie found them first. By accident. And she yelled so much at me there was no way we couldn’t tell Josie what this was all about.

If I’m honest, I think I’ve let down Angie more than I have Josie. I know perfectly well what Angie wants, and I hate her for it. I don’t know what Josie wants, though. That’s always been the mystery ever since. Space? Comfort? A chance to grieve? To shut everything out? And because I don’t know what she wants, I give her lots of territory. But not Angie. And I don’t know why that is.

Josie just stood there and looked at them for a while. I tried to explain why I had kept them but realized I couldn’t say anything. Angie was nearby, silently building up more pressure, waiting I guess for Josie to say the word and she’d start right back at it. But after a moment, Josie turned and walked away. Never did say anything.

She went back to her room and quietly closed her door, resuming her summer reading because a new school year was starting soon.