It’s been one week since that fateful day I walked in on my wife in bed with another man. I look out the window as my mind goes back.
I drove around for fifty-five minutes. In that time, I called my coach, and he was shocked, to say the very least. He asked that I not make any rash decisions, and I had to say I hadn’t felt this good in a long time.
When I pulled up to my house with a minute to spare, I parked my car and walked in the front door. Her bag waited beside the door while she walked down the stairs. This time in jeans and a t-shirt. I watched her, looking at how different she was now from when we met in high school. The shy girl who used to blush when I spoke to her, who would hold my hand in secret, and then who slowly started coming to my games.
We fell in love with each other in high school, but she was so different back then. Simple, so fucking simple. She would love bowling on Friday nights or drinking beer under the stars. But now, now it’s like an alien has taken over her body, and I don’t even recognize the person she’s become.
Her hair now so bleached you can’t even see the brown she started with. Gone is the girl who would just be happy with pizza, and in its place is one who needs bigger and better.
If someone else has it, she wants it. She has had her whole body redone, and she almost looks like a Barbie doll now. I think the only things that are actually still hers are her eyes.
“I was just kissing him goodbye,” she says softly when she stops in front of me. “I didn’t want you to find out this way.”
I look at her as I take off my jacket. “Didn’t want me to find out what way exactly?”
“Don’t make this harder than it has to be,” she says, and it almost looks like she is about to cry, but I guess she just had her Botox redone.
“Harder than what? Me walking in and seeing you in bed with one of my best friends?”
“We …” she says, “we didn’t mean to hurt you.”
I shake my head. “How long?” I ask her, and she just looks down at her hands. “You owe me at least the fucking truth after everything we’ve been through.”
“A year,” she whispers, “give or take.”
“So a couple of months after the doctors diagnosed our son with cancer, you left me and went to him.” I laugh at the irony—my life almost stopped that day when hers just started.
“It wasn’t like that.” She tries to say something else, and I just shake my head.
“I’m leaving,” I tell her. “I’ll be gone in a week. You can have the house, but I want Jack.” I don’t know why I thought she would try to fight me about Jack. I don’t know why I was hoping that maybe the old Chantal would be there, but she wasn’t.
“We should sell the house,” she says, and I just walk away. Climbing the stairs, I turn to go to my son’s room.
“Sir,” the flight attendant says to me, “we will be landing in five minutes.”
I nod at her and look around the private jet that the Stingers sent for me.
Doug, the owner of the Stingers, took only five minutes to accept my deal. It included a huge chunk of downgrading, but they are going back up next year after they lower their salary cap. I didn’t give a shit because New York was where I needed to be. I was also lucky when Doug offered me a brownstone that apparently was his daughter’s, for however long I needed it. She is married to the captain of the team, Matthew Grant.
When the wheels touch down, the plane bobs a bit, waking Jack. “Are we here?” he asks, trying to blink the sleep out of his eyes.
“Yeah, buddy, we are.” I smile at him as the plane comes to a stop. I get up, grabbing Jack in my arms, and then bend to grab his bags of meds. I walk off the plane and climb in the waiting car, securing Jack in the seat. “Are you ready for our grand adventure?” I ask him, leaning over and kissing his cheek.
We finally make it to the front of the brownstone. All the houses lined up on the street are attached. All literally brown. Big bay windows on each side of the door. The only thing telling them apart is the different cast iron railings up to the front doors. And no two front doors are alike. I unbuckle Jack and walk up the steps as the driver follows with our bags. I take the key out of my pocket and unlock the door. “We’re home,” I tell him, and he smiles up at me. Both doors have windows on them, so you can see inside, but you don’t see much because of the white rounded door on the inside with stained windows.
I put Jack down, and we walk in together. I throw my keys on a mirrored table with fresh white roses in the middle. I step in, turning the brass rounded knobs, and we come face-to-face with a white staircase. The railing is a dark chestnut brown. The flooring is a dark glossy green almost black marble flooring. “What do you say, Jack? Want to walk around and see everything?” I ask, turning left and entering the living room.
My new jersey is hanging on the wall of the living room, and there is a basket of t-shirts and mini sticks. A big stuffed Stingers mascot holds the basket under his arm with a foam number one in the other hand. Inside the basket are Stingers blankets, sweaters, hoodies, hats, caps, key rings, cups, and a plastic goalie helmet. It looks like the store puked in the living room. “I think they left you presents,” I tell Jack, who runs to the basket and takes the sticks out while I grab the card. “Welcome to the Stingers. Jack!”
“I can play mini sticks?” he asks, and I look around the living room and take in all the valuables.
“Maybe when we move things around,” I tell him. “We need to move a lot of shit around,” I say under my breath. It looks like a magazine ad in here. I walk into the room, taking in the bay windows and all the white walls. One of the only pieces of color in the room is the huge deep brown U-shaped couch. There are a million throw pillows placed all over, but what gets me is the fireplace right in front of the couch. It’s old school, hand-carved in white marble, the old details from the past all engraved. A huge flat-screen television hangs above the fireplace. The table in the middle is black with nothing on it but the different remotes.
“We can totally do movie night in here,” Jack says, smiling at me as he goes to the couch and bounces on it. He leans over and grabs one of the five remotes on the table, pressing a button, and the shades for the bay window come down. He giggles, pressing the button up and down, and then his stomach growls.
“You hungry?” I ask him, walking back out, turning left, and heading down a narrow hallway. Different frames line the wall from top to bottom. Nothing personal—just landmarks from the Eiffel Tower to the Venice Canal to the Statue of Liberty. I try to stop and take it in, but Jack’s already at the end of the hallway in the huge kitchen.
The middle counter is all white and gray marble. Skylights let in more natural light. The range against the wall is black. White cabinets line two walls while a huge ass fridge is against the wall on the other side. One door is see-through, and you can see that it’s fully stocked. “What do you want to eat?” I ask him, opening the fridge and taking in the meals that have been prepared and brought in. “Oh, looks like spaghetti.”
The doorbell rings, and I look over at Jack. “That must be your new sitter.” I smile at him; the medical team in Arizona made some calls and got me the best live-in nurse in the city. We Skyped a couple of times, and Jack seemed to like her.
Walking to the door, I open it and see her. “Hey there.” I smile, moving back a bit so she can come in.
“Sorry, I’m a little early,” she says as she walks in. “I couldn’t wait to meet him.” She smiles at me; she is in her late twenties, comes highly recommended, and her references were amazing. I need someone here when I’m on the road or at the rink.
“The early bird gets the worm.” I try to joke with her when Jack comes in.
“Hi,” Sarah says, squatting down in front of him. “I was so excited to meet you. I couldn’t wait.” She smiles at me as Jack hides half his face behind my leg.
She comes in, and we sit in the living room to go over things. She involves Jack in the discussion, which brings him ou
t of his shell, and by the time I leave to go to the rink, he’s already discussing with her how to build a tower with his Legos.
I take an Uber to the rink, thinking about how I need to get a car soon. I walk in the side entrance as per the email, then scan my assigned key and the door clicks as I walk in. A couple of people nod at me as I make my way to the end of the hall and into the locker room.
“Holy shit,” Mark, the goalie says, “I can’t fucking believe it.” He gets up from his seat and comes over to me. Putting his hand out, he says, “Good to have you on the team.” I nod at him; even though we’ve never played with each other, once you’re in the NHL, everyone pretty much knows everyone.
“Look at this.” I turn my head and see Matthew Grant come in. Captain of the team, this guy was drafted first overall when he was seventeen and then fell on his face only to come back two years later better and stronger. It does help that his stepfather is Cooper Stone, the man every hockey player wants to be. He slaps my shoulder with one hand and smiles at me. “Did you just get here?” he asks, and I nod while everyone else just goes about their day.
“Just walked in,” I tell him. “Landed about two hours ago. Had to get Jack settled.”
He nods his head at me and then jerks his head to the side, gesturing for me to follow as he turns and walks outside. He leads us to a small room with a desk and a couple of chairs. He sits in one, and I sit in the other. “Is this the welcome to the team or if you fuck up you’re gone talk?”
He throws his head back and laughs. “No. This is a man to man, how are you feeling talk,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest. “We heard rumors, and no one is going to come right out and ask you. I wanted to give you a heads-up.”
My thumb beats on my leg, and I’m about to answer him when I see Max Horton walk down the hallway and peek inside. He walks past the door and then comes back. “If it isn’t the best defenseman in the NHL,” he says, laughing as he approaches and shakes my hand. “Good to see you.”
Max Horton is what defensemen like me groan about. He is just that good, getting in under our skin, out dekeing the shit out of us and making us look bad. “Sorry, did I interrupt?” he asks, looking at Matthew.
I look at them, thinking about how far they made it. Max didn’t take Matthew coming onto his team lightly, and it was known around the league that they hated each other. It was also a shock that Max married his sister—eloped actually. Word through the grapevine is they buried the hatchet, which makes their hockey playing that much more lethal. “No.” Matthew shakes his head. “I was just touching base with him.”
Max nods his head. “Is it true?” he asks me, not beating around the bush.
“Is what true? That my captain and best friend is fucking my wife?” I laugh, thinking of the irony of it all. “Yup, that much is true.”
“I’m sorry, man,” Max says. “I can’t even imagine.”
“That’s gross,” Matthew says. “She’s my sister.”
Max rolls his eyes. “I mean, finding Allison with anyone else.” He shakes his head. “I think I’d kill him.”
“Yeah,” Matthew agrees. “It’s safe to say I’d be behind bars.”
“Well, the only thing I care about is my kid,” I tell them both. “In the end, he’s my number one priority.”
Matthew and Max both look at me. “We’ve kept it very hush-hush, but you should know. My son was diagnosed with acute lymphoblastic leukemia”—the gasps fill the room, but I continue—“last year. We just finished his third round of chemo, and nothing is working.” I look down and then back up. “That is why I chose New York.”
I don’t have to say it because Max sees it right away. “Denise.”
I nod my head. “Even the medical team in Arizona said she is the one for the job. Her hospital is certified to participate in some new treatments, and I need to get in to see her.” It comes out more like a plea than a statement.
“I’ll make the call,” Max says, no questions asked. “I can’t guarantee you anything since it’s up to her in the end, but ...” He is just about to continue when his phone rings, and he answers.
“Angel, can I call you back?” he says, and I hear Matthew groan, and then talk low.
“Angel, my ass.” He looks at me while Max talks. “She kicked me in the balls just last week.”
I try to hide my smile when I look back at Max as he hangs up. “She kicked you in your balls last week ’cause you tried to throw her over your shoulder to toss her into the pool.” He points at him, then looks back at me. “You have dinner plans?”
“I’m not sure,” I answer honestly.
“Well, change them because Denise is coming for dinner. No time like the present,” he says, and I just nod at him. For the first time since my life fell to shit a year ago, I finally see hope.
Chapter Three
Denise
“How about we go play with the cars in the playroom?” Allison says while she tries to pry Alex out of Max’s arm, but she leans away from her mother while shouting, “Dada.”
“I’ll come with you,” Max says and looks at me, giving me an I’m sorry to ambush you here look. “Jack, would you like to come and see Michael’s car collection?”
“I have Hot Wheels,” Michael looks at him and tells him, “with remotes.” He turns and runs into his playroom, and Jack follows him.
“I’m sorry to ambush you here,” Zack says out loud, and I just look at him. He has the look that all the parents have when they are faced with the rude reality that they could be burying their child. “I had no choice.”
I shake my head. “Have you tried to contact me and I haven’t gotten back to you?” I ask him, and he just nods.
“I’ve been calling you nonstop for a month now,” he tells me. “Your voicemail is full.”
“Fuck,” I say out loud. “Let’s go in the other room and talk,” I tell him, and he follows me into the formal living room. I sit down, and he sits next to me on the same couch. Turning to face him, I fold one leg under me. “Tell me what happened.”
He looks down at his big hands. I watch him fidget with his thumbs before he looks up at me, and his crystal blue eyes are clouded over. Tears pool in them, and I reach out, putting my hand on his hands, and squeeze. “Breathe.”
I lean back and wait for him to talk. “About a year ago, we noticed that he would get bruises easy. So easy.” He shakes his head. “He would bump into things, and it’s normal, he’s a kid, but the bruising was nonstop, so I forced my wife to take him in.” I want to ask questions, but I’ll wait for him to finish. “It took them a month to diagnose him. He has ALL.” His voice cracks when he tells me his diagnosis.
It’s worse than I thought. I close my eyes to stop the tears. “What did they say?”
“At first, they said he was in the standard risk,” he says, and I nod my head. That’s what they usually say. “But then we started chemo, and his white blood cell count went past 50,000, which meant it was refractory, so we tried a stronger dose, and it seemed to be working, but then it just stopped.”
“Two rounds, that’s it?” I ask him.
“Nothing was working, so they basically just gave up. But then one of the nurses mentioned you,” he says, looking me dead in my eyes, and the pull is stronger than I thought it would be. “She said if anyone can give him a fighting chance, you can.”
“Where does Mommy stand in all this?” I ask him. It’s better to get both parents on the same page than ones who fight with each other.
“She isn’t involved,” he tells me and then inhales. “She basically checked out when they gave him the diagnosis.”
“I’m sorry. That can be harder on the patient than you know,” I tell him. “So what do you want to hear?”
“I want to hear that you’ll help save my son. I want to hear that I didn’t come all this way for nothing. And most of all”—a tear escapes his eye—“I want to hear that I won’t have to bury my son.”
“I can’t promi
se a specific treatment or outcome until I read his file, but I will take his case,” I answer honestly. “I need to know exactly what I’m dealing with.”
“But you’ll help?” he asks.
I smile at him, this time not a doctor smile but a smile from one person to another. “The good news is survival for children has increased from under 10% in the 1960s to 90% in 2015.”
“Another thing,” he says, and I look at him; this man looks like he is carrying the weight of everyone on his shoulders. “I don’t want you to sugarcoat anything. I want honesty. I can’t deal with the bullshit.”
“Deal,” I tell him. “It’s the only way I can be a good doctor,” I say. “It’s not going to be easy, and we may lose him.” The thought makes my heart hurt. The hardest part of my job is losing a patient. “But that’s the rude reality to all this. Cancer is its own boss.”
He nods his head. “Thank you,” he says, leaning back a bit on the couch, “for listening to me and not telling me to fuck off.”
We both laugh now. “Let’s go and meet my new patient.” I get up, and he follows me, placing his hand on my lower back as we walk into the playroom. Jack and Michael are both giggling, and he now has his hat off.
“Hey there, buddy,” Zack says, going to him. “You took off your hat?”
“Yeah,” he says, not even paying attention to him. His eyes focus on the cars going around and around. “It was itchy.”
“This is the first time he’s taken the hat off when he wasn’t at home,” he tells me in a quiet whisper. “He hates to take it off.”
“Well”—I lean in to him, and the smell of his woodsy aftershave hits me—“maybe he feels like he’s at home.”
Zack puts his hands in his back pockets. “I really hope so.” I watch him watch his son, and he smiles when he sees Jack laughing.
“I’m going to go and help Aly,” I tell them and walk into the kitchen where my sister-in-law is taking a tray out of the oven. “Smells good in here.”
Something So Unscripted Page 2