Game Changers

by Jane Cuthbertson

  What ensues is an unqualified disaster. I manage to get Jaye to shower and dress in clean clothes, and I tidy up the apartment so at least we are presentable. But as soon as the doorbell rings, Jaye, brain still fully functional when she chooses to use it, knows what’s up.

  “You called Nickory, didn’t you?”

  For the first time in weeks I don’t kowtow to the ice in her voice. “No. I called Bree.” I get up to open the door.

  The two Musketeers walk in to see their former third standing on her good leg, reaching for the crutches at her side.

  “Jaye,” Bree begins, but gets no further before she’s cut off.

  “Have a nice visit,” Jaye says and clomps off to the bedroom, making sure to slam the door.

  Nickory takes action and stalks after her friend. She opens the bedroom door and goes inside, slamming it shut behind her.

  Bree stares at me, wide-eyed. “Jesus, she looks terrible!”

  “And this is a good day.”

  She gestures toward the hallway. “Shall we put our ears on the door and listen in?”

  I’m half-tempted, but I’m also overloaded with Jaye’s bullshit. “No. I’m tired of dealing with this.” And since I’m sure Jaye won’t jump out a window with Nickory here, I add “Take a walk with me?”

  We exit through the front door, close it quietly, head down the stairs and out of the parking lot. There’s no park nearby, but the sidewalk on the street is nice and wide, and the traffic is light. It’ll do.

  Bree is naturally full of questions. “Is she eating?”

  “Not enough. I try.”

  “You’re not eating either. And you’re not sleeping, are you?”

  “Jaye sleeps, if she’s taken a painkiller. I get a few hours here and there.”

  “What pain killer?”

  “Percocet. And yes, I’m being careful she doesn’t take too many.”

  “She should be cutting down by now.”

  “I’m hiding the pills, so she doesn’t have access. I started giving her half doses a couple of days ago. Next week I’ll cut it back a little more.”

  “She’s not complaining about pain?”

  “No.”

  “Are you guys talking at all?”

  “If you count one-word sentences, maybe.”

  Bree puffs out a breath. “How long has she been like this?”

  “Since the surgery.”

  “You look pretty ragged yourself,” she says, with sympathy.

  “I’m at the end of my tether, Bree.” I choke up a little, hope I can keep a meltdown at bay. “I thought love could conquer all. I thought we could handle bad times, thought we’d be able to talk things through. But my love’s not enough. Jaye doesn’t give a shit about anything now, and I don’t know how to change it.”

  “Have you suggested a therapist?”

  “Once. She completely ignored me.”

  “You’re hiding her pills. Are you afraid she’s suicidal?”

  I debate how much to reveal and settle on a simple but certain, “Yes.”

  Bree stops walking. I stop one step beyond her, turn to face her with bleak eyes, and say it again. “Yes.”

  Bree measures her next words carefully. “There’s something called a seventy-two-hour hold.”

  “I know what that is.”

  Because my therapist threatened me with it once. A seventy-two-hour hold is when a potential suicide victim is deemed to be so close to attempting death she’s essentially arrested and placed in hospital care—mental hospital care—monitored and locked up for three days. The tactic is intended as a life-saving action, but I considered it a threat because I didn’t want people to know how bad off I was. In my case, the threat was enough.

  “As a nurse I can authorize it, Rachel. If you think I should.”

  Wow—a truly drastic step. And if it became public? Jaye’s celebrity in soccer circles would make her troubles news in the gossip world. News enough to ruin her? Gossip aside, it would almost certainly ruin our own relationship. Is Jaye far enough gone?

  “God, I don’t know what to do anymore.” We reach an intersection, and I turn around and head back toward the apartments.

  “Tell her you’re thinking about it,” Bree says. “It might get her to talk.”

  Before I can reply, a Jeep Wrangler pulls up alongside us.

  Nickory barks out the window, “Get in!” Wordy as ever. Bree climbs in the back, and I take the passenger seat.

  “You left Jaye alone?” I ask with more than a hint of alarm.

  Nickory pops the clutch and starts back toward the Gates of Hell. “She threw me out.”

  “Was she angry?”

  Nickory’s lips are a tight thin line. “Furious.”

  I take this in, decide it might actually be a good thing. We get back to the complex about a minute later, and I climb out of the Jeep.

  “Remember what I said, Rachel,” Bree says. Nickory nods at me with actual sympathy, and I close the Jeep door, waving a half-hearted goodbye.

  

  When I get back up to the apartment, the door is locked. And my key is inside. I put my fingers to the doorbell, then screw that wimpy move, form a fist instead and pound on the wood. I pause, listen for movement, hear none, and pound some more.

  “Jaye!” I shout, not caring who else might hear. “Jaye!”

  I pause, listen again. Nothing. I raise my arm and start round three.

  “I’ll break the door down, Jaye!” The door is solid, but I’m solidly angry, and its destruction is well within my capabilities.

  At the next pause, I finally hear the lock snick. The love of my life opens the door and yes, Jaye is furious. Anger blazes through her eyes and right into my psyche. I still think it’s a good sign.

  “Let me in,” I say, in my best I’m-the-boss-don’t-mess-with-me ATC voice. Jaye, on one crutch, backs aside awkwardly, enough for me to slip through. Keeping with the tone of her day, she slams the door. I walk into the living area and hear the crutch clunk behind me.

  “Why did you do that?” Jaye shouts.

  “I didn’t have my keys.”

  An incendiary glare. “Why did you let Nickory come over?”

  “Because I thought it would help.”

  “Help what?”

  “Help you come back to life.”

  Jaye falters in her stance and I move toward her. “Don’t touch me,” she says.

  Three little needles. I opt for a sledge hammer. “Then sit down before you collapse and wreck your knee all over again.”

  Jaye flinches, but I have swallowed harsh words for almost a month now. I won’t swallow them anymore. She moves toward the couch, flops onto the cushions, and throws the crutch to the floor. She looks up at me like a petulant child. “Are you happy?”

  There’s enough room to sit next to her, so I do. “No, I’m not happy. I’m worried sick. It’s like you’re dead inside and it scares me. I don’t know what to do to make it better.”

  “Calling Nickory wasn’t the answer.”

  “Okay. What is?”

  I get what I expect. Silence. But I think the anger has receded some, so I chance taking her hand. She lets me do it. My own anger dies in the wake of this small victory.

  “Jaye, my love,” I say tenderly, “I can’t bring soccer back.” Her eyes close in pain, but I keep going. “You told me part of you died here, and you may be right But you’re not dead, not by a long shot. You’re at the bottom of the well. It’s dark, and it’s fucking awful. But you’re not dead.”

  “Might be easier if I was.”

  The words run down my spine like nails on a chalkboard. Finally it’s out in the open. Does she mean it? So many times people don’t. So many times people throw those words around in jest, in frustration, in whining. “I wish I was dead,” they say. “This is killing me.” Or “I can’t go on like this.”

  “I don’t know if I can do this,” she sa
ys then, echoing my last thought. “I can’t get away from the pain.”

  I take Jaye’s chin in my hand, make her meet my eyes. She’s not talking about the pain in her knee. “You can. You absolutely can.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because you’re stronger than me, and I did it.”

  She takes this in. “But you said you never tried to kill yourself.”

  Jaye has spoken the words. I swallow, hard. “I didn’t. But I came really fucking close. I felt pain and despair so bad that ending it all seemed like a good idea. I stood at the edge of oblivion for a whole fucking afternoon and thought about jumping in.”

  “You’re not making this up, are you?”

  “No, I’m not making it up.” I sit up straight, gather my courage. “It was seven years ago, the first time I went to Provincetown.”

  Where, as it happened, I was far enough away from my therapist to avoid a seventy-two-hour hold.

  Skepticism plays all over Jaye’s face. “But you love Provincetown.”

  “I do, I did, then, too. The first time there, I walked the streets, checked out the beaches, met some lesbian couples who were totally cool and totally in love. I felt the energy of Provincetown calling to me, but I also felt my own loneliness, heard my own darkness telling me all this positive could never be mine. I didn’t believe I could ever be happy.”

  I drop my gaze toward the floor. I can’t tell this story otherwise. “The irony would have been funny if it hadn't hurt so much. I finally found a place that welcomed me for who I was, yet I never felt more alone, or isolated. With each day I got more depressed, more hopeless, and the emotional pain got worse and worse until one day I thought if I couldn’t find a home, I could at least find death.”

  Jaye’s breath catches slightly after I say ‘death.’ Okay. She’s listening.

  “It was November, way past tourist season. I went down to the breakwater at the edge of town and walked across it, out to Long Point.”

  We hadn’t taken that walk, Jaye and I, but I’d pointed it out to her while we were there, and I thought she’d remember.

  “It’s about a mile across those rocks, and another five minutes or so over the dunes to get to the beach facing the bay. I went right down to the water, maybe four feet from the waves, and sat down on the sand. I had it all to myself, like I thought I would, and I knew if I went into the water, swam out far enough, the cold would get me. Nobody would see me, no one could rescue me. I’d be gone, and all the misery and darkness and pain would be gone, too.” I pause. “God, it was awful. The idea of suicide felt so wrong but at the same time the idea of living with all the pain I was carrying felt just as bad.”

  I lift my eyes. “You know how it feels, don’t you?”

  Her eyes meet mine, raw with despair, and for the first time since the injury I feel true connection with the woman I love. Jaye bursts into tears, collapses against my shoulder. I put my arms around her, hold her close.

  We lose time, minutes and minutes of it, buried in misery both current and remembered. Eventually Jaye’s crying subsides, and I worry she’ll pull away, but she doesn’t. Not right then.

  “Why didn’t you do it?” She asks me, face still buried against my neck. “What stopped you?”

  I bite my lip and wish I had a better answer. “I don't know. To this day I don’t know. Except . . . there were these two seagulls, one on either side of me, standing there like sentinels. I watched them looking at me, and suddenly I thought, ‘They’re sentinels to the making of a decision.’ And the decision was mine. Live, or die.”

  And because I’m honest, I opt for full disclosure. “Live? Die? Neither felt good. There was no right thing to do that day. There was only choice. Eventually I chose to get up and walk back into town.”

  Now the memories and the strain of dealing with Jaye all come together and crash down on me. My tears flow uncontrollably, and the more I try to rein them in the more they rush out. Jaye pulls my head onto her shoulder, and her arms encircle me while I cry. Finally, the comfort I’d longed for over so many empty years. If anything, the comfort makes me cry harder.

  At some point the dam reseals itself, and the jag subsides from sobs to snuffles.

  Jaye says, softly, “I wish I had been there for you.”

  I pick my head up. The Jaye I love peeks out from the shadows. I put my hands on her cheeks. “All I’ve wanted since you got hurt was to be there for you. I love you so much, Jaye.”

  “I know you’re trying.”

  Here come the tears again. “I may not know much, but I know this: Every good thing that’s ever happened to me happened after I chose to walk back into Provincetown. Writing the books, meeting you, everything. I don’t want a world without you in it. I promise you it gets better. Please promise me you’ll stay.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Fyrequeene’s Blog: September 29

  “When you’re going through Hell, keep going.”

  ~Winston Churchill

  

  Jaye makes the promise, and slowly, very slowly in days to come, the pressure eases. I stop worrying about her overdosing on Percocet or trying hari-kari with a kitchen knife. She addresses me in complete sentences, with nouns and verbs and adjectives. She begins to eat again, almost to the level of an active athlete, and she reacquaints herself with the shower and clean clothes.

  Jaye stops short of allowing any discussion of the injury or her emotional state. If I touch on those subjects she shuts down. I venture some words about how therapy helped me overcome my depression and get nothing. I ask if she’s going to try to play for the Blues when she’s healed, and she leaves the room.

  Even a semi-innocent subject goes only so far. “Do Bree and Nickory always go to Chicago in the off-season?” I ask one evening.

  “Yep. They like it there. Bree works here and in Chicago, splitting time between two hospitals in the same network. Nickory does soccer camps and National Team events, and with the big airport, Chicago’s a good base.”

  “They don’t mind harsh winters?”

  Jaye actually brings out a genuine smile. “A Chicago girl and a New Hampshire girl? Winters are nothing to them.”

  “Did you usually stay with them?”

  “Yes,” Jaye says. “I do—did—the grunt work for the soccer camps. You know, all the off-field coordinating and organizing.”

  “You’ll keep doing the soccer camps, right?”

  Wrong words. Jaye stands up. “I need to get ready for bed,” she announces, then clunks off, an expert now with one crutch.

  Crap.

  After that I avoid the subject of soccer completely, mentally tabling it for later. After all, there’s still the subject of the move to Denver. We agree to extend the apartment lease for one month, leaving us the choice of going to Colorado as soon as Jaye feels her knee is ready, with no pressure to do so too soon.

  One day I’m out in parking lot, standing like a statue before our two cars. Jaye has a nice Subaru Outback, and I have my Toyota Solara with a generous trunk and back seat. I’m mentally calculating the space available between the two, what we can pack in each for the trip west.

  “Rachel!” Jaye calls at me from the third-floor landing. “What are you doing?”

  I wave, then come up the stairs to talk without shouting. “I think we can get all our stuff into the cars,” I say when we’re back in the flat.

  Jaye ponders this. “Everything except the bed.”

  “Yes. Everything except the bed.” There’s an edge to my tone, but apparently Jaye doesn’t hear.

  “Will I need the bed in Denver?”

  Jaye has yet to allow me to sleep with her again, let alone be intimate, and it’s become, like the soccer, a subject best avoided.

  But I don’t avoid it all the time. “I don’t know,” I say, making the edge obvious. “Will you?”

  Her eyes harden. “I don’t want to risk hurting my knee.”

&
nbsp; Whatever. “Okay. Unless it’s a family heirloom or something, maybe you can sell it before we leave. If you’re still not ready to sleep with me in Denver, my house has plenty of room for a bed we can buy there.”

  Wrong words, but I know this. The hardness in Jaye’s eyes spreads to all of her. She stalks off into the bedroom—step clunk, step clunk—and slams the door. I, in turn, go into the office, close its door gently, and sit. There has been an undercurrent of anger in many of Jaye’s actions these past few days, but this is the first time I deliberately provoked it.

  Why? I’m not angry at Jaye, and I know she has a lot of healing to do still. Perhaps I simply wish I’d see some evidence of progress. Sure, she’s moved on from suicide, but how about moving on from the injury? Or how about some sign she still wants me around? Because I still want her around. Don’t I?

  A pang of guilt shoots through me. Of course I want her around. I know I’m not dealing with the real Jaye Stokes here. I’m dealing with a traumatized woman, someone whose whole way of life may be changing—and changing in a way she did not choose or want.

  “When life throws you lemons, make lemonade.” I hate that platitude and can understand Jaye would probably prefer to make lemon bombs at this point. Frankly, I wish she would, metaphorically at least, because it might help her express and dissipate the anger which, I abruptly realize, has replaced the depression.

  Or, more accurately, has joined the depression. The two often go together, and they don’t need lemons in the mix. They can be perfectly explosive on their own.

  “Why, Jaye?” I say out loud, to the air, to the universe. “Why won’t you let me in?”

  I open my Mac to write, but can't think of anything but an old quote from Winston Churchill, one sentence running through my head over and over. Frustrated, I type it out, with proper attribution, and upload it as my blog for the week.

  Five minutes later my phone rings.

  “Rachel.”

  “Toni.”

  “I read your blog. All one sentence of it. Do I have to come out there?”