Close Match

by Jerald, Tracey

  Leaning my head against the cold glass overlooking Central Park, I watch as people mill about on the street below. It’s so easy to forget when you’re surrounded by all the luxuries money buy can that you’re just as susceptible to the powerlessness any person can feel. How many people wandering below are feeling this way but don’t have the means to get help for those they love? Or themselves? One second, one minute at a time, I’ve been trying to heal, and the tendrils of strength are starting to reappear. But I’ve had one hell of a support system. How many people wander alone questioning if they’ll have the courage to love again because they don’t. I let out a tired sigh.

  The question nags at me until the phone rings, distracting me from my introspection. Crossing over to the couch, I pick it up. A smile tightens the still-healing skin on my cheek. “Hey, Dad.”

  “Hello, beautiful. How are you doing today?”

  “Shouldn’t I be asking you that?” Due to his age, and the problems he had initially accepting my bone marrow, my father’s still enjoying his hospital stay longer than anticipated.

  “Damn hospital food. I told Char I want Coastal Flats the minute we set foot out of this place,” he grumbles.

  This surprises me not in the least. “You must be feeling better if you’re thinking of your stomach,” I tease gently.

  “I’d feel better if you were here when I got out,” he retorts.

  “Dad…” His sigh of pleasure eases something deep inside of me, soothing a hurt that’s been there longer than the night Monty slipped into alcoholic oblivion.

  “That one word coming from your lips, Linnie. It makes me fight harder. I know intellectually it’s impossible for me to will my cells to get better but…”

  “Can I say something?”

  “Anything,” he affirms.

  “You just explained why I haven’t let him go,” I tell my father quietly. “Why none of us should.”

  There’s stillness on the other end of the line.

  “It’s impossible for me to will him to get better, but I have to believe that the strength of our combined faith in him might give him incentive.” When he doesn’t say anything, I keep going.

  “Did I fail, did we fail, because we didn’t notice his illness before it was too late? I knew about him having bad dreams, about the nighttime drinking. Should I have said something? Pushed harder? Demanded he talk about something he wasn’t ready to?”

  Heavy breathing is followed by a growled “No.”

  “Mom earned her second chance. Despite everyone she hurt, she earned it,” I tell him firmly. “She was an amazing mother. She raised a beautiful family after she gave up the bottle. She lived a glorious life.”

  “She never hurt my girl,” he counters.

  “She did. It’s arguable about the ways, but she did.” Silence greets my declaration. “And long ago, Patrick gave her a small measure of hope by not walking away. He knew how addicted she was, and he gave her a second, third, fourth, chance. He may not have been the best man to me at the end, but he taught us not to give up on people. I’m giving Monty one chance—one—to make the right choice. To choose love, to choose me. If he makes the wrong one, I will walk away with a clear conscience.”

  “It’s easy to forget love can ruin lives.”

  “Just as it has the ability to change them,” I concur sadly. “Which path we follow isn’t always up to us. What is up to us is how we move forward on it.”

  “Where do you see your path leading you, my darling?” The rustle of the sheets tells me he’s getting comfortable.

  Blindly, I stare out at the skyline. “For now, to the stage. I need to lose myself for a while by becoming someone else. Sepi contacted me about a small role Off Broadway that’s the most interesting thing I’ve read in ages.”

  His chuckle in my ear makes my eyebrows wing up. “Why are you laughing?”

  “Because, the minute someone realizes that play is as amazing as you will make sure it is, I’m betting it will be moved to Broadway within six months. Tops.”

  “It’d be good if it did,” I muse. “There’s a lot of unknown talent in it.”

  “They won’t be for long.”

  No, I guess not. “So, tell me about what they’re saying about when you can go home? How are your favorite nurses? What does Dr. Spellman say?”

  My father launches into a monologue about how things are in the hospital, grumbling about the tasteless food for at least ten minutes. I ask innocently, “So, you’re not hoping to extend your stay?”

  That sends him off on another diatribe about how he needs “a damn good night’s sleep” and “some damn privacy.”

  About thirty minutes later, I hang up with some ease in my heart, knowing that no matter what cross I’ve had to bear, I gained something astounding out of this entire experience.

  A man who gave me life whose life I helped save in return.

  Maybe, just maybe, it will work out like that for Monty. And like my father, I won’t give up at the first hurdle.

  * * *

  Later that night, I’m smoothing cream gently over my face. Critically, I examine the remnants of the physical damage. After four weeks, and a lot of TLC, my bruises from the wreck have faded to a pale yellow; they’re barely noticeable. Fortunately, there were no broken bones in my face from where the car crashed, just a lot of discoloration. The ER doctor recommended ice, sleeping with my head raised, plenty of rest, and using arnica cream three times a day, all of which I have done religiously.

  But just because the bruises aren’t visible doesn’t mean my heart doesn’t still ache as badly as when they were.

  I have no idea if Monty is grateful for or resentful of the fact I concurred with his family that he goes to rehabilitation. By the time we were found, he technically would have escaped a jail sentence, but my father was willing to press charges if I was. I couldn’t—no, wouldn’t—stand by while the rest of his life was spent replaying his nightmares over and over when there was something I could do about it.

  I had to get him help before the darkness that fell that night never lifted and it was too late.

  For all of us.

  Crawling into bed, I fluff the pillows as much as I can tolerate. I pick up one of my mother’s journals, this one from long before she met Bristol’s father, before she met mine. Flipping to where I left the bookmark, I continue reading. Her deepest fears are laid bare on these pages. The words are so dark, I’m sad but not surprised she often sought a bottle to take away the pain.

  Much like Monty did when he felt he needed to carry the burdens of the Parrish family.

  I read my mother’s words aloud. “In the darkest moments, I wonder if it’s easier to give up. It’d be so easy. The promises the stage offered are a damn lie. The glow of the lights are only bright from one side—if you’re on it. Otherwise, it’s so lonely. There’s no such thing as friends because we’re all enemies fighting to get on the boards.”

  Until that moment, I don’t think I ever gave deeper thought to what Mom truly meant when she used to tell me to look beyond the stage lights. I always thought she was trying to tell me to be considerate of the patrons we performed for, but was she reminding me to consider the people less fortunate than we were who were still trying to break into the business? The actors, the technicians, the musicians? How many of them feel what she did at this very moment in time?

  How many of them turn to the bottle or worse to get through the despair?

  Placing the silk marker to hold my place, I put the journal back on the stand and turn out the lights. My dreams that night are a twisted mess. I’m standing in the middle of a performance of Monty, Mom, and me. There’s no light. I spin around as hands grab me as I try to dance and sing, their voices discordant with the melody.

  I wake up breathing hard, my hand pressed against my chest.

  I’m scared, and I’m heartbroken. Nothing about what I’m feeling is right, but I know for sure I’m not alone.

  Sixty-Seven
<
br />   Montague

  Thirty days. I run my fingers over the smooth beard fully covering my face. I feel like a stranger’s living in my body. A body that’s been through worse hell in detox than when I was in training during the bitch of the summer heat of San Antonio. That long-ago agony seems like a cakewalk in comparison to nausea, anxiety, complete irrationality, and broken sleep I’ve endured. All I want to do is collapse against the nearest wall in fatigue and shame.

  But it’s nothing in comparison to what I imagine Linnie’s feeling.

  Dr. Riley—Victor—finally showed me the police report. That sent me careening into the hall to heave up the lunch I had eaten not an hour before. I have absolutely no recollection of even seeing Linnie after I went to the hospital that night. I read her statement she gave to the doctors, the words I’d hurled at her, the unusual way I was driving. The only thing that prevented me from being charged was that by the time we were found, my blood alcohol level was significantly under the legal limit and they couldn’t pinpoint my exact blood alcohol level at the time of the crash. As the owner of the property, Ev could have pressed charges, but Linnie wouldn’t let him.

  Instead, she insisted I be given this chance, for myself. Only for myself.

  After being discharged from the hospital, it was my mother who drove me to where I am now, a rehabilitation facility just outside Spotsylvania County. We didn’t say a word between us on the two-hour drive. It wasn’t until I signed the papers with a hand that shook so hard due to the lack of alcohol in my system after only three days that I opened my mouth to speak, and she laid her fingers across my lips. “I will always love you. No matter what happens. Please, please, use this time to get well.” Standing on tiptoe, Mom cupped my cheek on one side, before kissing the other.

  It was the last time someone I loved touched me.

  Being in rehab isn’t easy. I was stripped down physically, emotionally, and mentally. It wasn’t for the therapists to break me, but a way for them to ensure me not self-sabotaging myself. They took my clothes off, had an onsite physician check all of the cavities of my body like I was a prisoner, while an orderly looked in all of my clothes—hems and all—for contraband. I wince remembering the cavalier way they tossed everything aside, letting me know they’d all be sent through scanners and laundry before they’d be returned to me. My harsh breathing reminds me of the invasion of privacy I invited by getting myself in that condition.

  The humility of my situation didn’t penetrate then. It hit when I was sobbing in the corner of my room, when alcohol began to leech out. I could smell the foulness of my own stench but was too afraid of moving to crawl to the shower. I was dependent on those same orderlies for wellness and care as they held my shaking body while I vomited out bile and pain. And they stayed close by while I showered off the first layer of my indignity.

  Four weeks in, I still don’t understand why charges weren’t pressed but she’d instead insisted I come here. I’m not entirely certain if I would have been able to resist. But she was adamant. If I agreed to stay and get help, she wouldn’t.

  The images of her face so bruised from where the airbag deployed haunt me. Her face was so swollen on one side, it was distorted. Her chiseled cheekbone was missing as puffiness helped redefine it. The blood from where her head smashed against the window sent me searching for the nearest trash can. But it was her eyes that haunt me. Hours before I had kissed them delicately as I pushed into her body, assuring her of my love. Now my last image of them had one swollen shut, but the other? The other was filled with such pain.

  Linnie didn’t have to worry about my wanting to be here. I’m doing everything I have to do to make sure I’d never be capable of being that man ever again.

  I haven’t been able to speak with any of my family, though I do know Ev is back at home with Mom. I don’t remember a damn thing that night other than walking up to Ev’s door. The rest of the night is a complete blank. I hurt so many people, but for what reason?

  Then again, would I ever have admitted I had a problem if it wasn’t for what happened?

  Victor’s had me writing letters to my family, a therapy of sorts. Even though I’m positive there’s no way they could still love me the way I love them, it’s another weight off my chest to know Ev’s survived.

  I pull on a pair of jeans and grab the first sweater I find. Slipping on socks and driving shoes, I grab my jacket and messenger bag, quickly checking to make sure my notebook and most recent letters are tucked inside.

  As I walk from dormitory-style housing encased in an antebellum-style outbuilding to the main mansion that holds the offices and common areas, I spy a dark Suburban with tinted windows pull in. Good luck, I wish to whoever is about to enter the facility. You’re going to need it.

  Opening the back entrance, the enticing smell of bacon takes me back momentarily to the farm when Mom would cook up packages of it for us. A bittersweet nostalgia shifts through me as I head toward the dining room. Even though I haven’t been super hungry since I got here, I might be able to eat a piece or two of that.

  Because I know my Mom would want me to.

  * * *

  An hour later, I knock on Victor’s door. I’m about to push it open when I hear the distinct click of cups being set down. Shit, I’m interrupting. Frowning, I glance down at my watch. I’m on time, so he must be running over. I wonder why his assistant told me to go right in. Victor’s door opens, and I start to apologize. “Hey, if you’re in the middle of finishing something, I can wait. Carla just told me to come in.”

  Victor reassures me, “It’s no problem at all. Come in and join us.” Stepping back, he pulls the door open. And there they are: Mom and Ev.

  “Hey, son,” Ev calls out as he stands from the wingback chair he was sitting in. There’s a face mask on the table in front of him.

  My lips are trembling so hard. My eyes can’t hold the tears back.

  “Honey, it’s okay,” Mom soothes me. “Ev’s fine to be here as long as he wears the mask in and out of the building.”

  I face her because it’s easier. She gave birth to me. “But why? I don’t understand why you’re both here after what I did? He just called me ‘son,’” I scrape out.

  “Because that’s what you are, damnit.” Ev comes striding forward. His hands clasp my triceps, and he gives me a gentle shake. “Nothing changes that, Montague. You. Are. Loved.”

  The shaking of my head sends the tears flying to the left and right. I’m sure I should be worried that some of them land on Ev, but I’m in denial. “How could you? I saw what I did. I saw! I should be jailed for what I did, not…”

  “Forgiven?” Ev accurately guesses.

  I nod.

  “Son, even if I didn’t have all of your letters where you accepted every ounce of blame and never once asked for it, I would have forgiven you. Do you know why?” My letters? My head turns toward Victor, who shrugs. Ev continues. “Because you’re not the only person who’s made mistakes. You’re not the only person who’s broken under pressure.”

  “I’m the only one who’s hurt your daughter,” I remind him, bracing myself for the rejection. But other than a flash of pain in his eyes—Linnie’s eyes—there’s nothing.

  “No, you don’t even have that distinction. Her mother did, as well. It took her pointing that out for me to understand.”

  I shove the sleeve of my sweater under my nose as I sniffle, not caring that there are likely tissues a few feet away. “Understand what?”

  “That being broken doesn’t mean you can’t be fixed.” And with that, Ev grabs me into his once again strong arms while I sob. Soon, my mother is wrapping her arms around both of us and holding on fiercely.

  “We love you, Monty,” the man who raised me whispers in my ear.

  And finally, at almost thirty-nine years old, I call Ev the one thing I never had the courage to in the most important sentence I can utter.

  “I love you too, Dad. I always will.”

  And Mom is now t
he one crying the hardest out of all of us.

  * * *

  “You haven’t asked,” Ev—no, my dad—says mildly a few hours later. We’ve finished with our official session with Victor. Usually, after a family reunion, my parents would be permitted to eat with me in the dining room before they have to leave, but due to the medical complications because of my father’s recent transplant, Victor arranged for a private meal for us in his office.

  I was beginning to like Victor before. Now, I’m sure I do. Another mental wall is down as I know I can trust this person with my burdens.

  I don’t pretend to misunderstand him alluding to Linnie. “I don’t have the right,” I say, my appetite disappearing. Pushing the plate of pasta away, I lean my elbows on the table and press my forehead against my clasped hands. “What am I supposed to ask? Is she healing? I sure as hell hope so because if not, I want you to sell everything in my name to make sure she’s getting the best medical care she can. Is she back in New York? Does she hate me? I bet I can answer that one already.”

  Dad wipes his lip with his napkin before saying, “Yes, yes, and no.”

  My brow lowers. “Huh?”

  “Yes, she’s healing quite well. If you had managed to come into contact with the stone wall instead of the split rail, I suspect you’d have had more damage. Once I was released, I went out to the accident site. It really could have been a lot worse.”

  “I should have been hit with a few boulders myself,” I mutter. I feel a light slap on the back of my shoulder. My mother’s narrow-eyed stare still makes me shake a little inside.

  “Listen to your father,” she demands. Then a beautiful smile crosses her face. “Do you know how many years I’ve wanted to say just that?”

  He takes her hand and lifts it to his lips, just like I used to do with Linnie. The shaft of pain that shoots through me is worse than detox was. Focusing on me again, he says, “Yes, she’s back in New York. She’s working on an interesting play Off Broadway.”