Her Eyes
Her eyes, that's where hope lies.
When Jordan Staal came traipsing through the doors almost twenty minutes later, there was a different air about him. The confidence that was emanating off of him was surprising to everyone. Everyone but one girl. Mason O’Rear knew that all the confidence was a façade to cover up the thrill they felt when they touched. He walked over to her and grabbed her hand before pulling her after him. She stumbled but quickly fell into step behind him. They walked in silence until she saw where he was pulling her: to his car. They made their way to the blue vehicle and soon they were on the road.
Mason stole many glances at Jordan during their time in that car, and all those glances led her to believe that this boy really was a good thing for her. He was a caring soul who felt a strange pull to take care of her. And he had a good heart that wouldn’t damage her.
Their conversations spanned many subjects and she found herself talking. Mason wasn’t the one who talked in a conversation. She was the one who listened. She was the one who analyzed the words being spoken. She was never the one who gave detailed accounts of her dreams. She was never the one who told jokes or who relished in the fact that she could make a boy smile. Yet here she was, doing all the things she didn’t normally do. And she loved it.
Exactly one hour and twelve minutes after leaving the stadium, Jordan pulled off the main highway and onto a dirt road. Mason shivered in the sudden shadow that enveloped the car. They came to a stop under a tree and they both opened the doors. Jordan stepped out first and turned around to look at Mason through the window. He saw her fingers tremble as they undid the seatbelt across her chest and as she stepped down from the car he swore he saw her grimace. He laid the blanked he brought on the ground and laid down on top of it. And Mason didn’t hesitate as she laid down next to him, so close their arms brushed.
The next few minutes passed in a comfortable silence. Neither one had to speak because it was almost as if an understood communication had been made. They were comfortable with each other. And this was something new for the both of them.
“Mason?” She closed her eyes and savored the way her name rolled off his tongue. It sounded almost like a prayer.
“Yes?”
“You’re sick.” It wasn’t a question. Mason sighed and rolled over to look at him.
“Yes.” There was a pause. A sudden silence, and this time, there was nothing comfortable about it. Mason wanted to explain, the only problem was she was losing the words to do it. She felt the inside of her hand tickle and she felt Jordan’s large hand engulf her small one. And it gave her comfort.
“At first, you can’t walk straight. Like you’re dizzy. Then you start twitching. It’s like what happens to your eyes when you’re tired. Then you lose all ability to control your movements. It’s called Huntington’s. It’s passed down through families. My mother had it. When you have Huntington’s the nerve cells in your brain waste away. They don’t just up and die. They degenerate. I’m not bad yet. I can still feed myself, and I can still hold a glass in my hand without spilling anything on myself. But in the end, I won’t be able to take care of myself. And there’s no cure.”
By the end of her tirade, Jordan had turned to look at her. He noticed the way her lip was quivering and wrapped his arms around her. She rested her head on his chest and noticed the way she felt, intertwined in his arms. She felt, at peace. Mason O’Rear closed her eyes and steadied her breathing. And just as she was falling into a peaceful unconsciousness, she heard Jordan whisper one thing.
“I’ll take care of you.”
Mason stole many glances at Jordan during their time in that car, and all those glances led her to believe that this boy really was a good thing for her. He was a caring soul who felt a strange pull to take care of her. And he had a good heart that wouldn’t damage her.
Their conversations spanned many subjects and she found herself talking. Mason wasn’t the one who talked in a conversation. She was the one who listened. She was the one who analyzed the words being spoken. She was never the one who gave detailed accounts of her dreams. She was never the one who told jokes or who relished in the fact that she could make a boy smile. Yet here she was, doing all the things she didn’t normally do. And she loved it.
Exactly one hour and twelve minutes after leaving the stadium, Jordan pulled off the main highway and onto a dirt road. Mason shivered in the sudden shadow that enveloped the car. They came to a stop under a tree and they both opened the doors. Jordan stepped out first and turned around to look at Mason through the window. He saw her fingers tremble as they undid the seatbelt across her chest and as she stepped down from the car he swore he saw her grimace. He laid the blanked he brought on the ground and laid down on top of it. And Mason didn’t hesitate as she laid down next to him, so close their arms brushed.
The next few minutes passed in a comfortable silence. Neither one had to speak because it was almost as if an understood communication had been made. They were comfortable with each other. And this was something new for the both of them.
“Mason?” She closed her eyes and savored the way her name rolled off his tongue. It sounded almost like a prayer.
“Yes?”
“You’re sick.” It wasn’t a question. Mason sighed and rolled over to look at him.
“Yes.” There was a pause. A sudden silence, and this time, there was nothing comfortable about it. Mason wanted to explain, the only problem was she was losing the words to do it. She felt the inside of her hand tickle and she felt Jordan’s large hand engulf her small one. And it gave her comfort.
“At first, you can’t walk straight. Like you’re dizzy. Then you start twitching. It’s like what happens to your eyes when you’re tired. Then you lose all ability to control your movements. It’s called Huntington’s. It’s passed down through families. My mother had it. When you have Huntington’s the nerve cells in your brain waste away. They don’t just up and die. They degenerate. I’m not bad yet. I can still feed myself, and I can still hold a glass in my hand without spilling anything on myself. But in the end, I won’t be able to take care of myself. And there’s no cure.”
By the end of her tirade, Jordan had turned to look at her. He noticed the way her lip was quivering and wrapped his arms around her. She rested her head on his chest and noticed the way she felt, intertwined in his arms. She felt, at peace. Mason O’Rear closed her eyes and steadied her breathing. And just as she was falling into a peaceful unconsciousness, she heard Jordan whisper one thing.
“I’ll take care of you.”
@Gigipens
now.
3/15/18