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LUKE SAT FUMING ON the side of the bed. Two broken legs, a broken foot, plus a swollen coccyx was more than he could handle. The physical therapist was a bully pushing him beyond his bodily abilities. At this point in his life, he hated everything and everyone. Especially his brother Paul, who evidently was becoming the toast of Oregon with his weekend shoe box rentals from people who enjoyed washing their butts in a river.
“Luke, can you try to find some joy in being alive?” Beverly asked her son.
“I will find some joy when your face can emote some,” he replied snidely.
“Don’t get pissy with me. You made your own choices. No matter what we did or tried to do, the darkness in you sat up like some malevolent spirit hell bent on destroying everything you touched. I did not give birth to a demon!” she yelled. Her hand reached out, smacking Luke flat handed on the forehead. “I rebuke you, Satan!”
A red spot began to form on his forehead from the blow of her hand. He rubbed at the skin, trying to wipe away her touch. He scowled in contempt at her labeling him as a demonic entity.
“Don’t look at me cockeyed,” Beverly told Luke. “All of this aggression and hatred towards women says that you have unresolved issues with me. If you for even one moment tried to convince yourself that you are this way because you didn’t suckle at my breast long enough, I will reach over there and twist off your berries!” she said through gritted teeth.
“Careful Mother, you are almost having a facial expression,” Luke said sardonically.
“I am going to give you more than a facial expression you evil little...,” she was cut off by Jeremiah entering the room.
“Beverly, please stop it,” he told her. Worry covered his face as he moved closer to Luke’s bed. “I have chartered a plane to take Luke to Switzerland until he heals. He will undergo extensive therapy, both physical and mental, and only come back when he is well.”
Luke swung his cast-covered legs off the side of the bed. Red-faced, he stared at his parents in disgust. His words came out slow, filled with anger, when he addressed them both. “You are shipping me off like some unwanted problem that the board doesn’t approve of. How dare you!”
Jeremiah moved quickly, standing face to face with his son, his words equally as angry. "How dare me? How dare you? Defiling women, forcing yourself upon them, drugging them, and God knows what else. You are lucky I don’t put a bullet in that sick head of yours as a mercy killing,” Jeremiah said to him.
Two large men in white pants and button down shirts walked into the room. Tears rolled down Beverly’s cheeks as she watched her son struggle against the men who handled him as if he were a small child. Jeremiah’s arm went around Beverly’s shoulders to comfort his wife.
“Maybe if I had been a better father or been more involved in their lives,” he said to her.
“It’s too late to wish we had been better,” Beverly said. “The only thing we can do now is be better with our sons,” she told him.
“You are right. I will make the calls in the morning,” he told her.
“Thank you,” she said softly, wiping away the tears.
“No, thank you for staying with me all these years,” Jeremiah said to her.
“Regardless of it all, Jeremiah, we have always been in this together. For better or worse,” she said with an attempted smile.
He faced her, feet firmly planted, staring into the eyes that had given him comfort when fear wouldn’t allow him out of bed. He held the hands that rubbed his aching muscles when he no longer could wield the axe when chopping wood to prove his worth to his father. He touched the tummy that had swollen twice as she carried his sons and brought them into the world. Jeremiah Darton dropped to his knees, pressing his face into her belly.
“I am so sorry I failed you and my sons,” he said as tears he’d held for too long burned his eyes.
“We have not failed them. We did the best we knew how with what we were given. If you give them too much, you spoil them. If you don’t give them enough, you regret it. Jeremiah, there is no tried and true formula for parenting. We hope we make them strong and good people. That is the best we can do,” she told him.
“No, we are going to be better because I want to have a chance with our grandchildren,” he told her.
“Well, we can start with the one we currently have as well as our granddaughter,” Beverly said as her hand caressed his soft hair.
Jeremiah shuddered. His niece was his granddaughter. More tears ran down his face. As a father, he’d fallen short. No words of comfort were ever going to change that. One son turned out okay because he went against everything Jeremiah wanted to teach him. The other son turned into a monster based on the principals and philosophies he’d been taught.
He could make it right.
I will make it right.