Guest post: Don't take the girl by Jim Bessey

(Inspired by Tim McGraw's "Don't take the girl")

Dark room, flickering candles, hard floor under my knees. I'm shaking, sobbing. "God, take me instead. Rip the heart right out of my chest. Please, God." Darkness surrounds me, and I see every moment of these past fifteen years.

* * *
Gray dawn light, on green wet grass, and Daddy's smiling that goofy "we're goin' fishin' boy" smile, whistling something familiar from the radio. I've got my brand new pole and shiny tackle box, my very first one. I look way up at him, take his hand as we head for Daddy's rusty red truck. And then that little brat from next door comes strollin' through the gate, carrying her own pole like she's invited. I'm furious, don't want her to come with us, and Daddy knows it.

"Son, we can't just leave her standing here all ready to go, now, can we?"

I can think of fifteen kids I'd rather have come fishing with us, and not one of them is a girl.

"You just wait, Johnny, one day you'll see things different, you'll see." Daddy tells me, still smiling. He waves to the brat, and holds the door for her to climb up to the front seat.
* * *
My head is pounding, my vision blurry, still on my knees there in that awful dark room. I'm all alone, just me and God, and I'm ready. My voice is barely a whisper, my throat so tight I can barely breathe.

"God, I never asked you for any favors. I'm ready to go now. Take me instead, I'm begging you." Darkness fills my mind again, then a vivid memory of another day
* * *
Hot Friday night, Fourth of July weekend, the two of us lost in our own little world. We're in the shadows near the theater. Her body fits mine perfectly, and the taste of her breath in my mouth is sweeter than any dessert could be. We're eighteen years old and haven't a care in the world for anything but each other. We don't even care who sees us kissing right here on Main Street.

She whispers, "I love you, Johnny MacDemmick," and my heart soars higher than the top of that big old oak in the square across the street.

The next minutes are a blur of confusion. Her lips are gone in an instant, and she screams. I can't see his face, but I can see that ugly, black gun barrel pressed against her soft belly. His voice sounds like truck tires crunching through the underbrush.

"You do just what I tell ya to and she might not get hurt, Junior." I can't move or breath. She's crying now, and my heart breaks to hear her sobs.

I'm pulling money out my pockets, change and bills - anything I can find. Grampa's watch, my car keys. I'm crying too, but don't realize it til later.

He's laughing softly. I keep saying something like, "Take this, please, take this, you can have it, just don't hurt her, mister, please."

And then he's gone as fast and mysteriously as he appeared. I can't hold her tight enough to stop her tears. We're both shaking, but she's fine. She's just fine.
* * *
Spring sunlight streaming through our bay window, making me squint to see the ballgame on the living room television. From the bedroom, her voice is urgent and giddy at the same time.

"Time to go, Johnny." I look toward her and smile like an idiot. "Time to go, honey," she says again.

 

"It's time?" I ask her, still in moron land. And we race out the door, laughing and crying as she struggles to squeeze her big belly into the front seat of our Ford Fairlane. We beep and run through stop signs all the way to the hospital. She's holding my hand so hard I worry for a second about broken bones. I'm hyperventilating and still laughing, stealing glances at her there next to me. Her face is aglow, and she is even more beautiful than she was the first time I kissed her.

Bright lights, strangers racing in and out, distant words on the PA system echo outside our room. She's breathing fast; sweat streams into her hair. Her eyes seek mine, frantic. White-coated doctors and blue-smocked nurses rush about, murmuring things I don't understand. Strong hands clamp my arms and lift me from my space beside her bed.

"Give us some room, son," the doctor tells me. Now I can't see her. She's surrounded by white and blue figures and they're moving her onto a gurney. Their whispers are incomprehensible to me, but I know something terrible is happening.

One of the nurses holds me by the elbows and says, "Come with me. Let them do their jobs. She's in good hands."
* * *
A voice interrupts my solitude in the dark room. I can't hear the words at first, but the phrase "it's a girl" comes through loud and clear. Then: "There were some complications, sir."

Blackness surrounds me, pinpricks of light whirl just out of reach. I'm certain I'm dying, and my last thoughts are of her.
* * *
White light, almost unbearable in its intensity. A loathsome beeping pounds my eardrums.

"Mr. MacDemmick, can you hear me?" I try to move my head to find the source of the voice. I know him, but feel confused. He's smiling, holding a clipboard.

"John, you're in the hospital, remember? You've had a heart attack, but you're going to be fine." He sounds like someone you'd hear on the radio, soothing and unreal at the same time.

Then another voice more familiar than my own heartbeat, "Daddy, I'm right here." My daughter!

"I'm here, too, honey," from somewhere nearby - my wife!

There's a strong hand on my shoulder, too. Fingers gnarled from years of hard work and fishing, a grip I'd know anywhere without looking. "Daddy" is all I can manage.

My sweet wife, my lovely teenage daughter, and my dad all move together so I can see them. They look like angels to me, but they are most assuredly real. I've never seen anything more beautiful.

"Now we're even, Johnny," my sweetheart tells me, tears glistening in her eyes. "You scared me just as bad as I scared you when Vanessa was born. Doctor says you're going to be fine, just fine." My eyes are heavy, but my heart is full of life and love. I fall asleep, surrounded by the three people I love more than life itself.
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Jim Bessey, I am proud to say, is one of my very best friends. Jim's an amazingly talented guy. Needless to say he can tell a lovely tale with ease, but there's more to him than that. By profession he is The Tile Guy and can be seen on a daily basis, alternately destroying and remodeling kitchens and baths. His passions include his lovely wife, darling step-daughter, two wonderful sons, writing and JUST CAMPING OUT. If you're in need of remodeling advice or simply love camping, do visit his blogs and say hello from me!