My hands are shaking as I drive the old Suburban up the windy mountain roads. Lake Coffey moves in harmony with each turn; the brown paper Meline used as wrapping crinkles in the air. The skies are dark, and the leaves are falling briskly from the trees. Soon they will mix with rain, a fusion of color and cold.
I can’t get Ryan’s daughter out of my head.
I can’t get Ryan out of my head.
“My mama’s not well.”
The young girl’s words are whipping around in my head.
Abby had had an episode one afternoon when we were driving this same route. I had to pull into Fred’s parking lot and get in the backseat with her to cradle her in my arms. She was hyperventilating and crying. Abby never sat in the front seat. She didn’t say why, and we accepted it as one of her quirks. I learned rather quickly that what threatened Abby was in her head, much worse than any logical, external dangers. It came on without warning and immobilized her. I could usually talk her through her bouts of hysteria, though this one was worse than the others.
She had clutched my shoulders. You would think she was possessed, as though someone were coming after her and she was racing away. I told her to breathe, and I rubbed her back and assured her she would be fine. I had no clue what I was up against. I was a baby myself at the time.
When she calmed down, she said to me, “Lauren, I don’t know what I’d do without you. You’re the only one who understands.”
Clearly she had no idea that I didn’t understand at all, that I was doing what any friend would do. Then I pried: “What’s going on with you?”
Abby’s disoriented eyes pooled with water. Behind the brown, I saw a melancholy gloom. She shook her head and cleared the tears that painted her cheeks. “It’s okay. I’m okay. These moods . . . they come and go. It’s passed,” she said, pulling herself together, tucking away the angst, back inside her secret places. I knew it would only be a matter of time before Abby cracked and crumbled.
I just never thought she would take Ryan and me down with her.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
RYAN
We are quiet at dinner. Me, E.J., and Juliana. I’m worried about her mama and her boyfriend, and I expect her to show some concern too, but she plays with her food instead, shuffling it around the plate with a fork, as if I won’t notice.
The one good thing about having E.J. living in the house is that he is a necessary buffer between me and Juliana. Though her mother has been absent for a long time in ways that made Juliana independent, her complete withdrawal from our lives has proved more difficult than either of us had expected. Like waves, we crash into each other. Right now Juliana needs someone to blame, and that someone is me. I can live with that.
“How was Woolly Worm?” I ask.
She doesn’t look up.
E.J. interjects. “Jules, your daddy’s talking to you.”
She rolls her eyes and says it was fine. Then she tells me how she ran into a friend of mine from Davidson. “Lauren . . .” she mumbles.
The name crashes in to me, and not even E.J. can cushion the shock.
“Do they really race worms?” he asks, oblivious to the fact that I have put down my fork and reached for a beer to help digest the words my daughter just threw at me. “That’s one of the dumbest things I’ve ever heard.”
Juliana rolls her eyes again. She’s in a mood. So am I, but I can’t show it. “Don’t get me started on dumb things,” she says. When she sees how she has slapped him with her sauciness, she shifts in her seat. Strands of her hair fall against her porcelain skin, and I watch as their eyes meet. “It’s not all about the worms. There’s people watching and awesome food and some cool stuff to buy. The weather’s almost always perfect this time of year.” I see how this boy softens my daughter.
“That woman bought a painting of Lake Coffey. I tried calling you. I wanted to send you a picture of it to see if you might want it, but she bought it first. She said she knew you and Mama.”
“She was Mama’s roommate.” I use short, hollow words to describe someone who once breathed life into me.
“I’ve never heard her name before.”
I start to say something, pausing because I know I will have to say her name. I begin again, but I can’t get the word out. Two sets of eyes are asking me for answers. My unbreakable dam may fail to keep my feelings inside.
“Daddy?” she asks.
“She left the country after college. She followed waterfalls around the world for some elite photography program. No one ever heard from her again.”
“How cool is that?” they say, impressed by her willingness to leave us, to leave me.
“I wonder why Mama never mentioned her,” Juliana asks, while I quietly pretend that I’m not dying inside.
“E.J.,” I say, clearing my throat for words that won’t come out. I am bristling with forbidden thoughts. I need to change the subject and move away from Lauren and all the pain associated with her. I need to fix something I before wasn’t able to fix. “E.J., are you sure there’s nothing more you want to tell me about the jewelry?”
They exchange guilt-ridden expressions, and I wonder how long I’m expected to support this boy without full disclosure. Only there is a part of me that admires his willingness to protect his family. There are no limits to how far any of us will go to safeguard those we love.
E.J. met with the court-appointed attorney and was going to plead guilty. In one swift poof of air, his dreams of college seemed to evaporate. The story spread like wildfire around town. E.J. was lumped together with his criminal brothers, and a dreadful picture emerged of a boy raised in a cradle of crime. The court of public opinion tested his character, his football ability, and his love for Juliana. Girls came out of the woodwork, claiming they had had sex with E.J. in the locker room and on the field. Coaches criticized past transgressions, a single missed catch, the few yards he came up short at the goal line. These were indicative of greater infractions that would soon be exposed for all the world to see.
Yesterday’s football star is fodder, overnight, and I am furious.
I cannot let E.J. spend another day caught in this disaster. I can’t let him throw his young life away. Not when there is so much potential at stake.
“E.J., let me make this easy for you. I know you didn’t take the jewelry.”
He drops his fork and stares hard at my daughter.
“Don’t go looking at her. She’s not the problem here. You are. When you love someone, you protect them. Even from themselves. You can’t expect her to let this go on. Not when it’ll destroy you. And her.”
E.J. doesn’t agree or disagree. He simply nods his head and looks down at his plate. “Yes, Coach.”
Juliana squirms in her seat, and I do her a favor by asking her to go to her room and to give E.J. and me a moment alone.
E.J. is playing with his string beans. He’s mixing them with mashed potatoes, and I know he doesn’t see the mess he’s making on the plate and in his life.
“You want to tell me what happened or should I tell you what I know?”
“No, sir.”
“No to which part?”
He repeats the story I heard from Juliana, only this one is laced in regret.
“Did you think you were going to knock on the front door of the house your brother burglarized and hand back the stolen property without consequences? C’mon, E.J., you know the system doesn’t work like that.”
“I thought I was helping out my brother. I thought I could make it go away.”
“E.J., Devon is up to his neck in trouble. Why would you sacrifice so much for him?”
“He’s my brother.”
I push my chair away from the table and stand up, raising a finger in E.J.’s face. “He’s your brother in blood. The boys on the field, they’re your brothers. They’d take a hit for you. They protect you. Devon and Ellis, they’ve only hurt you. They’ve put you in harm’s way. That’s not what brothers do.”
E.J. listens t
o me spout. He winces when the tone of my voice scratches at his face. “Do you know how blessed you are? Do you know the God-given talent you’ve been born with? You have a ticket out of here. An honest, righteous way to make a name for yourself in the world. You continue protecting you brother, and the authorities are going to make an example outta you. You’ll never play ball again. Are you ready to lose something you love, because,” and then I feel it all at once, that sick, sad feeling I spent years pushing away, “I’ll tell you, you’re never down until you lose something you love. You never recover from it.” My eyes are holding his and I pause to let the feeling pass. “No pads. No offensive line can protect you. I can’t protect you.”
Emotion racks E.J.’s face. His fork is splayed across the plate, and he looks pensive and scared, unlike the E.J. I have seen flash across a field with dynamite in his legs. “Devon didn’t want to take the jewelry. Daddy gave him no choice. When someone points a gun to your head, you do stupid things.”
“A gun?” I am shaking my head in disbelief. “Why would he do that to his own son?” The idea sickens me, though it sheds light on the kind of life these boys have been exposed to.
“Daddy has rules. Devon has to earn his keep.”
“Your father has no right to treat you kids like this.” The idea of doing that to one of my boys makes me physically sick, but I need to focus on taking care of E.J. right now. “Son, you’re going to come clean, and we’re going to deal with this mess straight on. I’ll be there every step of the way, just like on the field. I’ll do whatever I can to keep you safe and protect you from the opponent. Anyone who messes with my boys messes with me.”
“I’m sorry I let you down, Coach.”
“That’s just it, son, you’ve let yourself down. There’s nothing anyone can do to you that hurts you more than what you do to yourself.”
“It won’t happen again.”
“I know. Now clear that plate, and my lazy daughter’s, too. Both of you in your own rooms by ten.”
E.J. doesn’t say much else except, “Yes, sir.” He doesn’t need to. I can tell in his eyes that he is thankful for my loyalty.
It is not until later that night when I am tucked in bed, the one I share with my wife, that I allow myself to think of Lauren. I am adrift under the covers and don’t dare to venture on to Abby’s side. Her pillows remain fluffed, the sheets pulled and flat.
I always thought I would know when Lauren returned, that I would feel her presence. Seeing the picture of us by Abby’s hospital bed brought her back, but it was different from the intrinsic signal I thought would tell me she was close. We were lovers so long ago. Had time managed to break the last threads that tied us together? I had loved few women in my life. A young football star can easily collect a bevy of beauties, but losing your mama so young teaches you to protect yourself. Lauren stormed in like thunder, and my heart didn’t stand a chance. From the day I met her, I knew she was different. Her blistery disposition and relentless need to be right had me tongue tied and wanting to be wrong just to watch her gloat in victory. We fell in love quickly and without pretense.
Lauren was laughter and light. She was kindness and friendship, the one you’d always want on your side. I loved the way she defended Abby, even though it took up a lot of our time. I admired the way she didn’t give up on her when so many others had run. She was her best friend first before she became mine. And she was the love of my life. The one that got away.
I feel tricked. I was supposed to know when she was near.
When my boys get sloppy on the field, I remind them to stay centered. Staring up at the ceiling of our bedroom that evening, I push the thought of Lauren away. Thinking about her cannot do me any good.
Immersing myself in busyness is what I do best. Confidential meetings with attorneys who have read E.J.’s recent statement leave little time for unnecessary reasoning. I juggle the potential fallout and manage Juliana, all while supervising practices. My little pep talk has steered E.J. in the right direction, and he changes his plea from guilty to innocent, something not done very often in criminal court. The state doesn’t buy E.J.’s turnaround and needs proof that he wasn’t the one who stole the jewelry. Having the property in his possession is enough to find him guilty. We are treading lightly, trying not to point fingers, since the only way E.J. agreed to move forward with the plan was if Devon wasn’t implicated.
We had a tough game on Friday against a formidable team, the Patriots, and my players were uncharacteristically preoccupied. Dropped passes, missed blocks, and miscommunication on the field had me concerned that the boys were being as careless as E.J. was off the field. That one of their own was facing the possibility of jail time stifled their instincts. Instead of sobering them, the entire team was asleep.
We were down three touchdowns at the half. The Patriots’ defense was crawling all over our offense, and the boys were panting, their heads held down in premature defeat. We sat in the locker room, and I did what I do best. I reminded them that they had faced far worse challenges: “We are not giving up. We don’t ever give up. This fight is not about skill or talent. You’ve got all that. This is about which team wants it more. When you want something bad enough, you go after it. You don’t let anything get in the way. Now go out there and win me some football.”
As we stepped back on the field, the energy had shifted. My motivational speech revived them, and my words were a boost. Immediately I was reminded of how football is not only physical. Our boys had the talent. Like any of us, they needed a mental adjustment to steer them on course.
Instantly, our boys scored on an interception of the Patriots’ seasoned quarterback. Braylon Jones ran thirty-two yards down the field, and the momentum changed, like it often does in competitive games. The shift’s nothing tangible—though suddenly the fans are on their feet and energized, feeding off the players on the field. One touchdown is a confidence boost, two is a shot of steroids to the system. At once, the boys were united, confident, and charging the field. The clock read five minutes left in the third quarter, and we were back in the game. Whatever misalignment we saw earlier fueled the boys forward.
On most nights, I hear the crowd without seeing them. I feel the energy ebb and flow in tune with the mishaps or triumphs on the field. Tonight is a packed house. The air is alive, and even the band sounds more cohesive than usual. The clock winds down on the third quarter, and soon we are deep in the fourth. Our team is closing the gap. We are down one touchdown with minutes left in the game, and I have my eyes on a win. Edging closer to the end zone, we are poised for an eleventh-hour victory. With three seconds left on the board, our quarterback throws a bullet to Jerry Goihman in the end zone for six. We have a tough decision: whether to go for two. A kick will tie the game; a run or pass will give us the W.
“Go for it,” I tell my team, barking out the play that concludes in our extra points.
And before my players can rejoice in their effort, officials blow their whistles and huddle up. Our two-point win is suddenly under review. In question is whether our running back broke the plane.
In decisive moments such as this one, there’s nothing a coach or a player can do but wait. I cross my arms and search the sky. My gaze passes over Abby’s empty seat in the stands. It’s a fleeting glance, something I don’t even know that I’m doing until I feel the pull of something else. The force is guiding me in a direction my body could never fight.
I see her sitting at the top of the bleachers. Far right, resting her shoulders against the fence that borders the field. She is wearing green, and the color pops from beneath her flaming hair. Unlike hers, my vision is perfect. She is as clear to me as the stars.
The ref signals for the coaches to meet them in the center of the field, and I steal my eyes from her, try to wade through my emotions before approaching the other men. Her presence makes me stumble. I have waited years to feel her again.
After hearing arguments from both sides, the refs decide that my running ba
ck, Tre Foster, did indeed break the plane to win the game. My boys surround me and hoist me onto their shoulders. We are in the playoffs. We are one step closer to state. The victory is hard earned, and I am proud of them. I tip my hat to the screaming crowd and watch as the kids charge the field in ribbons of red and blue.
Before I can look up in her direction, I know that she is gone, her absence as heavy as the first time she left.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
LAUREN
Ryan and I always had an awareness of each other’s physical presence. I hoped that by showing up at his game that he would feel me there, even if he didn’t see me. I also knew by watching the blurred bodies on the field that I was due for another eye exam. The faces and features faded into one another, though I could make out the shape of Ryan’s shoulders and the tumult that had become his thick, wavy hair.
The game was a good one, and I was impressed at how he coached his team out of a deep tunnel and into a fourth-quarter victory. Football had been good to him.
When I decided to attend the game, I was only a spectator with unanswered questions. The stands, packed with attendees, were the safest place to study him from without risk of getting caught. And though I didn’t know what I would do if we found ourselves face-to-face, I knew what I would do if I saw Abby.
“How could you?” I would ask her.
She would turn it around and blame me: “You’re the one who left. You destroyed him. I was the one who had to pick up the pieces.”
Then I might laugh because she and I both know exactly what she did. And the nervous squeal would sneak out of me, embarrassed for her, embarrassed for me.
The blaming game would stop right there and nothing would change. I would back away, holding everything inside.
I made off as the boys hoisted Ryan onto their shoulders. I felt the energy between us, and it circled around me in the form of a soft breeze. The leaves from the nearby trees scattered on the ground. I had planned to make the two-hour drive back to Beech that evening, but it was too late and too dark. I wanted to pull away. From him. From that life. And all the reasons I came. Instead, I spent the night in Charlotte in a restless sleep before waking at dawn to head home.
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