Vanya Erickson - Boot Language

BOOT
LANGUAGE

Copyright 2018 by Vanya Erickson

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, digital scanning, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, please address She Writes Press.

Published August 21, 2018

Printed in the United States of America

Print ISBN: 978-1-63152-465-3

E-ISBN: 978-1-63152-466-0

Library of Congress Control Number: 2018931069

For information, address:

She Writes Press

1563 Solano Ave #546

Berkeley, CA 94707

Interior design by Tabitha Lahr

She Writes Press is a division of SparkPoint Studio, LLC.

Names and identifying characteristics have been changed to protect the privacy of certain individuals.

For my sisters and daughters.

The wound is the place where light enters you.
Rumi

Spring, 1972

I ditched my math class, heading straight for the high school parking lot through the tall dry grass in back of the science wing. Funny how our community cared so much about the manicured lawn and flowerbeds and left the hidden stuff uncared for.

I slumped over onto the front seat of my ugly little car and waited to see if anybody had seen me. There were no footsteps or shouts telling me to get back to class. I slipped onto the road, unnoticed. I had to see Dad.

Glancing out the window as I drove along the old country road, I felt the land quiet my fears. The rolling hills were a green backdrop for acre upon acre of apricot blossoms lifting in the breeze, like party dresses. I wanted to be out there, to walk in the miracle of the land. But I had a job to do.

I accelerated through the beauty and connected with the freeway that took me into San Jose, speeding the last ten miles to the hospital, trying to keep pace with my careening thoughts. I hadnt seen Dad in months. Would he even want to see me? This thought was the rotting morsel I had chewed on all morning, ever since I had decided I needed to visit him in the detox unit at Valley Med. I finally brought my car to rest in the hospitals pockmarked parking lot.

I tried to imagine what lay inside the forbidding building that slumped in front of me like an aging beast. What did they do in all those rooms? Having been raised a Christian Scientist, I had never been to a doctor, let alone a hospital, except one time when I almost bled to death in my mothers lap when I was three days old. Mom betrayed her religious beliefs to bring me to the emergency room, her prayers floating above me like a halo. Though I no longer accompanied Mom to church, the teachings remained in my head like a dark stain. There was nothing I could do to remove it. Seeking medical help was an act of treason.

My older sister Margery had called in a panic the day before, urging me to go see Dad after he had been rushed to the hospital. She sounded breathless. You really have to gothis may be it. I exhaled with the impact of her words.

I hated it when she prodded me to do things, but realizing this might be the last time Id ever see him, I called the hospital, and a nurse informed me of his status. Hes pretty incoherent, dear. I knew there was more she wasnt saying. It was the way she paused before she said, Im afraid he cant come to the phone. I wanted to slap myself for being happy, but I was. I couldnt imagine having to speak to Dad. Not after all that had happened.

Now I was here. I sucked in my breath and pulled the keys from the ignition, looking down at what I was wearing. Was there a dress code for visiting your dad in detox? Oh, hell. My anti-war T-shirt and frayed bell-bottoms would have to do. I grabbed my macram bag and got out. I threaded my way between the cars, the pitted asphalt heating up my sandals. I searched for the hospital entrance, my hair flowing out behind me like a wave from the force of my gait.

I was lying in a pool of my own blood. Thats what they told me.

Throughout my childhood, the retelling of this story happened so often it became my bedtime story. There were three narrators: my mother, my grandfather, and the young woman who changed everything. I was too young to remember it, but this is what I imagine happened that day.

I was three days old, on the couch in my mothers lap, and she was trying to heal me. The storm outside howled as she squinted and leaned toward the lamp, the glow of the light softening her concentration. Divine Love has always met and always will meet every human need. She was reading from her Christian Science manual, Science and Health, with Key to the Scriptures. Her head bobbed at important words. The slam of the door interrupted her words.

Buon giorno! It was the signature singsong greeting from our mothers helper Eugenia, a young woman from Italy my parents sponsored in 1953. She brushed the raindrops from her hair and entered the room, stopping midstride as she took us in: the tiny blue veins decorating my eyelids, my limp arms, the bloody diaper.

Signora! Perche sta sanguinando? She moved to pick me up.

My mother didnt answer. She just placed her left hand over the front of my diaper, as if to hold me in place. I can imagine her elegant fingers fanning out, covering my chest like a shield. Years later Eugenia told me that something in my mothers eyes reminded Eugenia of an old beggar woman back home in Monteleone, Italy, wandering through the rubble during the war, quietly lost to her own demons. Eugenia wanted to grab me into her arms and run into the street.

Guarda, la bambina! Eugenia pointed at me then clasped her hands at her chest.

My mother looked up at these words, her eyebrows one dark line. She had no time to explain what she was doing. How could she make Eugenia understand? Besides, she had a healing to do. She returned to her prayers.

The teenagers arms spoke in outraged jabs, pointing to the street. Prendi in ospedale immediatamente!

My mother lifted her hand off of my body at this outburst, and heard the teenagers sharp intake of breath as it mirrored her own and immediately placed her hand back onto my belly, camouflaging the blood with religious conviction. Her voice was louder now. God is the light and the truth. Let neither fear or doubt overshadow your clear sense of calm trust...

Eugenia ran to the phone, her index finger clawing the faded list of names and numbers on the wall. She knew my father was unreachable, so she dialed his father, my Grandpa Louie, who lived down the street.

She cried into the phone, La bambina e molto malata!

Although Grandpa Louie adored Italian opera, he did not understand her words, but they felt like a shattering of all that was good. He chased each syllable that leapt from her lips, comprehending the tone, understanding the terror.

Eugenia stood holding the door open as my grandfather peeled into the driveway minutes later. His long khaki legs rushed past her as he crossed the foyer onto the living room. Margot! Whats happened?

My mother pursed her lips and lifted me to her shoulder. Oh, I was just doing some thinking about... the bleeding. Her face tightened for having mentioned it. She shouldnt have said it aloud.

My grandfather saw the red smear on my blanket. Jesus, Margot! Get in the car.

I like to imagine that Mom was relieved to follow orders, to allow my Grandpa Louie, whom she adored, to come to her rescue, for she said nothing and put up no fight. Grabbing her big black pocket book, she rushed to the car as if it had been her idea, but she didnt stop praying. She knew it didnt matter where she prayed. Healing could happen on the couch, in the front seat of the Pontiac, or at the hospital. God was everywhere.