Post by ghost6871 on Jul 24, 2009 19:04:39 GMT -5
~PROLUGUE~
Jerry Carter remembered how alone and cold he felt on October 15, 1995 when he had laid his mother to her final resting place, here in Calgary Cemetery. He pulled up onto the shoulder of the grass across from her headstone. The lowered floor of the converted mini van scraped the gravel as the car came to a stop. “Piece of shit”, He mumbled. He never understood why these handicapped vans had to be so close to the frigging ground. He had often thought of jacking it up like some of the Puerto Rican kids did with their hot rods a few towns over. He didn’t think it would go over well though, in a Caravan.
Jerry took his hand out of the gas and brake control which glided on a track by the steering wheel. He pressed the indwelling button on the control board which sat in front of the dashboard which automatically slid the door open and lowered the ramp. He pressed the button that released the wheelchair from the floor lock, backed up, spun around, and drove down the ramp into the cold March weather. It was almost dark, but Jerry liked it that way. He could sit and chat with his mother with no one around to look at him and think he was nuts. This was a weekly ritual. He was getting used to spending a lot of time alone now. He didn’t have many friends in the area except his personal care assistants, but they had their own lives.
The summer after Jerry graduated high school, they had moved from New Jersey up to an affluent little town in Massachusetts where Diane Carter’s job had relocated her with more money and a company car. Jerry’s skiing accident was that first winter in their new community. Friends from Jersey came up to visit and spend time with him, but as his time in the hospital and then rehab slowly moved on, he saw less and less of his old friends. Jerry didn’t blame them. Who would want to sit around with a cripple in a depressing fucking hospital and talk about the “old” days. He was sort of relieved when they stopped coming by. They started treating him differently, like he was a piece of fucking glass waiting to be shattered and Jerry hated it; and them because of it.
His mom was always right there for him though. When he was depressed and crying; she held him and consoled him. When he pissed himself, she would clean him up without even flinching, always saying something along the lines of, “this shit happens; we’ll get you changed and then move on from there”. She was also there to laugh with, and they did quite often. Whether it was their Friday night movie date, or the card games they had at the dining room table with a couple of glasses of wine, they would howl at the stupidest things.
That was all before she had found the lump in her breast. She was given six to ten months and was gone in four. How quickly, Jerry had thought, their roles were reversed. She had taken care of him for so long and then suddenly, he had become the caretaker and nurturer, doing what his disability allowed and directing the hospice workers on what he was incapable of doing. He had to be strong for her so she new he’d be ok.
The service was beautiful, one his mother would have definitely approved of, if it hadn’t been hers. Martha Louis from down the street sang all of the hymns just perfectly, especially “Ave Marie”, Mrs. Carter’s all time favorite.
Mrs. Louis had come to the front of the church where Jerry was waiting for the van and driver he had rented for himself to pull up to the curb.
“Honey, if there’s anything you need, anything at all, I left my number for you where you could reach it on the end of the counter. It’s a damn shame, your mother was a wonderful person, do anything for anybody.”
“Thanks, Mrs. Louis. I appreciate all your help and I know my mother appreciates it too”.
“You keep a stiff upper lip”. And with that Mrs. Louis Patted Jerry on the head and russed his hair.
Jerry had to hold his breath to keep from screaming at her not to fucking touch him. People seemed to think it was endearing to pat a person in a wheelchair on the head. It made him feel like he was six. He felt shitty enough already and didn’t feel like dealing with the normal, day to day, handicap issues on top of everything, so he just nodded his approval of her inspirational cliché’ and fixed his hair as she walked away.
There weren’t as many flowers as Jerry would have liked, but mom insisted that people donate to Jerry’s Trust fund in lieu of flowers. Diane Carter had left Jerry everything she had. The house in Winchester, her savings account that she hadn’t touched in six years, and a small piece of real estate in West Yarmouth, Cape Cod.
It all seemed so long ago.
A large white van with no windows slowly drove passed as Jerry had his usual discussion of the week’s events with his mother. It was the first time in months he had seen another car at the cemetery at such a late hour. In fact the last car was a police cruiser thinking there were some kids drinking where no one would see them. When they saw it was Jerry they had yelled really loud, like he was deaf on top of paralyzed, and asked if he needed any help. He told them he was fine and they were on their way.
He watched now as the van slowly turned the corner and was lost behind the trees. Jerry’s heart rate kicked up a beat or two. This was not the first time he’d seen the van around. Three weeks ago in the grocery store’s parking lot, he noticed the van as the bag boy loaded Jerry’s groceries into the back seat. He noticed a man about fifty feet away staring at him standing at the driver’s door of the ominous looking vehicle. Normally Jerry didn’t even notice when people stared at him. It was common for people to stare. Most people weren’t used to seeing a young guy in a wheelchair. What caught his eye and made him whip his attention back in that direction was that this young man was masturbating furiously, staring right at him. As soon as he saw that Jerry had caught him, he jumped in the van and tore out of the parking lot. Then, last Thursday he saw a white van slowly drive by the house, but thought nothing of it, until yesterday.
Jerry Carter remembered how alone and cold he felt on October 15, 1995 when he had laid his mother to her final resting place, here in Calgary Cemetery. He pulled up onto the shoulder of the grass across from her headstone. The lowered floor of the converted mini van scraped the gravel as the car came to a stop. “Piece of shit”, He mumbled. He never understood why these handicapped vans had to be so close to the frigging ground. He had often thought of jacking it up like some of the Puerto Rican kids did with their hot rods a few towns over. He didn’t think it would go over well though, in a Caravan.
Jerry took his hand out of the gas and brake control which glided on a track by the steering wheel. He pressed the indwelling button on the control board which sat in front of the dashboard which automatically slid the door open and lowered the ramp. He pressed the button that released the wheelchair from the floor lock, backed up, spun around, and drove down the ramp into the cold March weather. It was almost dark, but Jerry liked it that way. He could sit and chat with his mother with no one around to look at him and think he was nuts. This was a weekly ritual. He was getting used to spending a lot of time alone now. He didn’t have many friends in the area except his personal care assistants, but they had their own lives.
The summer after Jerry graduated high school, they had moved from New Jersey up to an affluent little town in Massachusetts where Diane Carter’s job had relocated her with more money and a company car. Jerry’s skiing accident was that first winter in their new community. Friends from Jersey came up to visit and spend time with him, but as his time in the hospital and then rehab slowly moved on, he saw less and less of his old friends. Jerry didn’t blame them. Who would want to sit around with a cripple in a depressing fucking hospital and talk about the “old” days. He was sort of relieved when they stopped coming by. They started treating him differently, like he was a piece of fucking glass waiting to be shattered and Jerry hated it; and them because of it.
His mom was always right there for him though. When he was depressed and crying; she held him and consoled him. When he pissed himself, she would clean him up without even flinching, always saying something along the lines of, “this shit happens; we’ll get you changed and then move on from there”. She was also there to laugh with, and they did quite often. Whether it was their Friday night movie date, or the card games they had at the dining room table with a couple of glasses of wine, they would howl at the stupidest things.
That was all before she had found the lump in her breast. She was given six to ten months and was gone in four. How quickly, Jerry had thought, their roles were reversed. She had taken care of him for so long and then suddenly, he had become the caretaker and nurturer, doing what his disability allowed and directing the hospice workers on what he was incapable of doing. He had to be strong for her so she new he’d be ok.
The service was beautiful, one his mother would have definitely approved of, if it hadn’t been hers. Martha Louis from down the street sang all of the hymns just perfectly, especially “Ave Marie”, Mrs. Carter’s all time favorite.
Mrs. Louis had come to the front of the church where Jerry was waiting for the van and driver he had rented for himself to pull up to the curb.
“Honey, if there’s anything you need, anything at all, I left my number for you where you could reach it on the end of the counter. It’s a damn shame, your mother was a wonderful person, do anything for anybody.”
“Thanks, Mrs. Louis. I appreciate all your help and I know my mother appreciates it too”.
“You keep a stiff upper lip”. And with that Mrs. Louis Patted Jerry on the head and russed his hair.
Jerry had to hold his breath to keep from screaming at her not to fucking touch him. People seemed to think it was endearing to pat a person in a wheelchair on the head. It made him feel like he was six. He felt shitty enough already and didn’t feel like dealing with the normal, day to day, handicap issues on top of everything, so he just nodded his approval of her inspirational cliché’ and fixed his hair as she walked away.
There weren’t as many flowers as Jerry would have liked, but mom insisted that people donate to Jerry’s Trust fund in lieu of flowers. Diane Carter had left Jerry everything she had. The house in Winchester, her savings account that she hadn’t touched in six years, and a small piece of real estate in West Yarmouth, Cape Cod.
It all seemed so long ago.
A large white van with no windows slowly drove passed as Jerry had his usual discussion of the week’s events with his mother. It was the first time in months he had seen another car at the cemetery at such a late hour. In fact the last car was a police cruiser thinking there were some kids drinking where no one would see them. When they saw it was Jerry they had yelled really loud, like he was deaf on top of paralyzed, and asked if he needed any help. He told them he was fine and they were on their way.
He watched now as the van slowly turned the corner and was lost behind the trees. Jerry’s heart rate kicked up a beat or two. This was not the first time he’d seen the van around. Three weeks ago in the grocery store’s parking lot, he noticed the van as the bag boy loaded Jerry’s groceries into the back seat. He noticed a man about fifty feet away staring at him standing at the driver’s door of the ominous looking vehicle. Normally Jerry didn’t even notice when people stared at him. It was common for people to stare. Most people weren’t used to seeing a young guy in a wheelchair. What caught his eye and made him whip his attention back in that direction was that this young man was masturbating furiously, staring right at him. As soon as he saw that Jerry had caught him, he jumped in the van and tore out of the parking lot. Then, last Thursday he saw a white van slowly drive by the house, but thought nothing of it, until yesterday.
.