Rafe

by Sawyer Bennett

  As I locate the correct baggage carousel, I realize I’m not in a good mood. I’m absolutely furious at this change in life circumstances. Not angry at what I’m leaving behind, but what I’m walking toward. A life where I get to watch my father die, something I’m woefully unprepared for.

  I don’t even really know how to feel about it. My father, Jim, and I haven’t always had a good relationship. Growing up, I found him to be cold and distant, a hard man to know. He’s an electrician and, in my childhood, worked long, hard hours to provide for his family. He would come home at night and expect my stay-at-home mom to have dinner on the table.

  After dinner, he’d retire to his recliner and watch TV for the rest of the night, and I had to be quiet and not disturb him. It was my mom who helped me with homework, made sure I was appropriately bathed and put to bed at night. She’s the one who woke me up in the morning, fed me, and waited with me at the bus stop.

  Only after I showed some natural talent for hockey did my dad’s interest in me perk a bit. I mean...he came to some of my games when his work schedule allowed, and while he was never one to boisterously cheer me on, I could tell he was proud. It was the look on his face.

  Still, it was Mom who dutifully brought me to every game and nursed my sprains and injuries. When I doubted myself, she always bolstered me back up. She’s the one who encouraged me to keep pushing day in and day out to develop my talent.

  And she’s the one who held back her tears so I wouldn’t feel guilty when I left to live with my billet family in Green Bay to play Junior A hockey at the age of sixteen. She knew it was my best chance to move forward in my path to play professional hockey, even if it meant giving up the last two years of my childhood and being with her full-time.

  It’s true... I grew a little closer to my dad after I entered the professional hockey league, but that had more to do with the fact that I was an adult, and thus we had more things in common. While the bond with my mother has always been exceptionally tight and emotional, my relationship with Dad has been more like that of the proud uncle who lives down the street. We’ve never had the in-depth discussions one might imagine occur between father and son, and he’s never been the one I turned to for guidance and support.

  And yet, when he called me to tell me he was diagnosed with cancer, it stunned me that it was actually him delivering the news. Based on our history, I would have considered it normal for him to have my mom pass on the bad news, but I heard something in his voice then that I’d never heard before.

  Thinking about it now, it’s hard to describe, but if I have to boil it down to one word, it might be something close to regret.

  Not that he’s dying, but perhaps that we missed out on far too many things together.

  Whatever it was I heard in that conversation, it was enough for me to ask for a trade to the Cold Fury. Although I don’t have a deep relationship with my father, it was enough for me to walk away from an assured championship, and possibly set my entire career back.

  The baggage carousel alarm starts to blare, and then the gears kick in, starting the platform in its three-hundred-and-sixty-degree journey to deliver luggage. It jolts me out of my thoughts, and my gaze moves to the little ramp that leads up from the bowels of the airport, where some worker will be carelessly chucking our bags.

  The various pieces start their climb upward and dump unceremoniously out onto the metal platform that will eventually deliver the items.

  I move closer to the carousel, finding an open spot between passengers. Flying first class has its perks, one of which is that my bag has a priority tag. It comes out third in line, and I nab it easily.

  My mom is supposed to pick me up and is probably waiting out by the curb. I set the heavy suitcase on its wheels, pull the telescoping handle up, and turn toward the door, immediately knocking into someone because I’m not watching where I’m going.

  “Shit,” I mutter, my hand automatically extending to steady the person. “I’m so sorry.”

  My gaze travels up past jeans-clad legs, a pretty spring sweater in butter yellow, gorgeous breasts, and a slender neck.

  Then my eyes lock on the most beautiful face I’ve ever seen.

  One I’ve looked at least a million times throughout my life and in my dreams. I still have found none to rival it. My entire body jolts with an electric shock as I stare into the eyes of my ex-girlfriend, Calliope Ramirez.

  “Hey,” I say in mild surprise, both pleased and feeling terribly awkward at seeing her here. I look around for her family or even some friends she might be on a trip with. When my gaze comes back to her, I ask, “Small world, running into you at the airport.”

  Could that be any lamer?

  I mean...we grew up together. Our houses still sit side by side. I’ve known her for as long as I can remember, and it’s a pure miracle that she and I haven’t run into each other since we broke up eight years ago.

  But no...this is the first time I’ve laid eyes on her in a very, very long time, and damn if she hasn’t gotten even more beautiful over the years.

  Calliope is my age...twenty-six. Our birthdays are only ten days apart. We celebrated all of them together, seeing as how we were the best of friends growing up and then way more later.

  I take every bit of her in. Her long, dark hair parted in the middle and cascading in loose waves over her shoulders. Her skin a light mocha, compliments of her Puerto Rican dad, but the rest of her face is classic Irish from her redheaded mom. Her eyes are hazel-green, more on the green side when she’s feeling intense emotions, and she has a smattering of freckles all over her nose and cheeks. She’s got the Irish temper to boot.

  “Your mom sent me to pick you up,” she replies flatly, her eyes conveying that she’s not overjoyed to see me. “Your dad’s having a bad day, and she didn’t want to leave him.”

  In that moment, I forget all about my sad history with Calliope. The way I broke her heart and left her behind for fame and fortune. At least, I’m sure that would be her story if you asked her to tell it.

  “What do you mean by bad day?” I ask her, my heart thudding in my chest.

  For just a moment, her expression softens in empathy, and she gives a small shake of her head. “I only meant that he’s really tired, and your mom doesn’t like leaving his side hardly at all. I’ve been pitching in when I can to help out. She asked me to come, so I came.”

  “Okay,” I reply, gusting out a relieved exhale of air. I attempt a smile. “Thank you for doing that.”

  “Sure,” she replies with a shrug and turns on her heel toward the exit doors. I scramble to catch up with her, pulling my suitcase along.

  Wordlessly, we head out of the airport into the parking garage and take an elevator up to the fourth floor. I follow Calliope to a later-model Nissan Pathfinder that, although clean, bears a few rust spots near the fender. I notice a parking decal for Raleigh Community Hospital and of course, I know that Calliope is a nurse.

  I actually know quite a bit about her because, over the years, I’ve never been hesitant to ask my mom how she’s doing. I do it because I’m riddled with so much guilt and regret over what I did to her all those years ago that I have to torture myself with all the details of her life that don’t include me.

  So, yeah... I know she’s a labor and delivery nurse at the local hospital, and while she doesn’t live with her parents anymore, she still lives close by and visits them frequently, so she still sees my mom quite a bit.

  Because Mom still thinks I’m the world’s biggest idiot for leaving Calliope behind, she tends to overshare details about her.

  Including information I’d rather not know, like the men she’s dated over the years.

  Bitterness fills the back of my throat because leaving Calliope behind was truly the biggest mistake I’ve ever made. At the time, I thought it was best for her, and I sacrificed my own happiness to give her the best shot at life I could.

  It’s painful to see her now, just like it’s going to be painful t
o see my dad before too long.

  Yeah...this homecoming sucks.

  I’m silent for several minutes as Calliope navigates her way out of the airport terminal and heads onto the beltline that circles Raleigh. We grew up on the southeast side of the city, not in the best area, but not in the worst either. Definitely blue-collar and lower middle class. Calliope’s dad is a mechanic, and her mom is a music teacher. It’s funny but I remember being slightly jealous of Calliope growing up. Her dad had a trade profession, the same as mine. Owned his own business, same as mine. Yet her father always seemed to be more involved in her life than my dad was in mine. I knew that while my mom always made excuses for my dad’s physical and emotional absence, blaming it on the stress of his job and owning a business, it really couldn’t be all that true since Calliope’s dad was very present in her life.

  “So, how are things going with you, Poppy?” I ask her, hating the silent void that actually hurts my ears, particularly since her radio is off. I’m a bit shocked how easily I slipped into calling her by her nickname that I’d given her when we were younger, but I press forward. “I understand you work as a labor and delivery nurse?”

  Calliope’s neck twists as she briefly takes her eyes off the road to give me a sour look. “Look, Rafe... I’m sorry about your dad and what you’re going through right now. I’m sorry you had to come home to this, and I’m actually really committed to helping your parents get through it because I care for them deeply. So you might see me around from time to time. But that doesn’t mean you get to know anything about my life or how I’m doing. It’s off-limits to you, okay?”

  I grimace and turn my gaze out the passenger window. “Yeah...got it.”

  “Good,” she snaps, and I sneak a glance back her way. She’s gripping the wheel so tightly her knuckles are turning white. I knew she’d probably have hard feelings, but I guess I didn’t think she’d still be this bitter after all these years.

  I should leave well enough alone, but I have other things driving me than merely wanting to reconnect in some way to this beautiful creature I left years ago. “Do you mind talking to me about my dad?” I ask her quietly.

  Calliope jerks, her head snapping my way, eyes round with surprise. “Excuse me?”

  “My dad,” I prompt. “It would help to have maybe a bit more perspective as to what I’m walking into.”

  “What do you want to know?” she asks cautiously.

  I take a deep breath, the bazillion questions, fears, and insecurities I have about my father’s cancer overwhelming me. I try to focus. “He told me on the phone he doesn’t have long...maybe just weeks, but he didn’t give me details. And I tried to talk to Mom about it, but she just cries when I ask, so I left it alone. I don’t want her more upset than she already is. I need information because I’m feeling a little lost and out of control right now.”

  I watch Calliope carefully, and while she doesn’t look my away again, her expression is soft with sympathy as she gives it to me straight. “It was just too advanced by the time he went to the doctor. He’s been sick for a long time but kept putting it off, always needing to work. You know how your dad is.”

  I nod because if there’s one thing I know, it’s where I got my intense work ethic from. He worked all the time, long hours, and we rarely took vacations. I can even remember him working on major holidays like Christmas and Easter. He certainly missed a good chunk of my games growing up because of work.

  “He’s going to decline pretty rapidly,” she says, and the tone of her voice is different. This isn’t pretty, sweet Calliope Ramirez talking, but a seasoned and educated nurse who may not deal with cancer in her line of work, but clearly knows something of which she speaks. “Your parents have already decided to use hospice to come in once he needs more skilled care, but for now, he’s still able to ambulate, eat, and take care of basic life-care skills like dressing himself. He’s just really tired a lot now. That will be the biggest thing you’ll notice.”

  A lump settles in the base of my throat, and I can’t even speak past it. She must sense it’s not enough information for me to truly understand what I’m facing, so she continues.

  “As his body fights the cancer, his organs will start to shut down. He won’t be hungry, so he won’t want to take in nutrition, and that will further weaken him. He’ll eventually become bedridden. At some point, he’ll go in and out of consciousness.”

  My biggest fear—the thing I’ve been obsessing about—pushes forth, past the constriction in my throat. “Will he be in pain?”

  “No,” she replies quickly and with such assurance, I believe her. “The great thing about hospice is that they will prescribe medications to make him incredibly comfortable. He won’t feel pain at all.”

  The rush of breath that escapes me is guttural, but it leaves a hollow pit in my stomach. He won’t feel pain, but he’ll be unconscious and heavily sedated when he dies. That should make me feel better, except for the fact that he’s going to die, and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it.

  I feel the absurd need to cry, which I refuse to do. It’s not something I can afford to give in to, and I think I’d rather die myself than let Calliope see me at my lowest.

  “Thanks,” I manage to say, completely grateful for the information she’s provided and yet, a small part of me hating I had to rely on her for it.

  She doesn’t respond, but the silence doesn’t feel so heavy anymore. My worst fear—my father dying in pain—has been alleviated. Now I can start to process the rest of it.

  Of course, I’ll have to fit that in among other things like finding a place to live—eventually—and joining my new hockey team. Lots to do, and little time to do it in.

  I already feel so very tired, and it’s only just begun.

  “Hey,” Calliope says, her voice a mere whisper, but it shocks me to my core that she’s initiating communication.

  My neck twists, and I give her my regard, my expression unassuming.

  “I’m glad to help you navigate through the medical part of it,” she tells me, sparing a glance my way so our eyes lock. “I promised your mom I would help out when I can...as things progress. If you can’t talk about stuff with them, you can ask me, okay?”

  The gesture is appreciated, especially since I know she doesn’t want anything to do with me. It’s really not surprising, though. Even though Calliope must hate me for dumping her, she’s still the kindest person I know. It’s why she’s a nurse. She loves helping people and easing their pain, whether it be physical or the type that’s lodged deep in the soul.

  I merely nod my gratitude at her and turn my attention back to the window, starting to mentally prepare myself for my reunion with my dying father.

  Chapter 2

  Calliope

  Gritting my teeth, I stew over the unfairness of everything. Jim is dying from pancreatic cancer, his wife Brenda is falling apart, and now Rafe has returned home to witness it all.

  Damn it all to hell, that man.

  What I can’t figure out is why I feel so freaking angry. It’s not like I obsess about Rafe and what he did to me all those years ago. In fact, I manage to go days—sometimes an entire week—without thinking about him at all.

  But it’s hard not to think about him some, despite how much I would love to just blot him out entirely. My family still lives beside his parents, and seeing as how I live only three miles away, I visit quite often.

  Thus, I see his mom and dad...a lot.

  Which means I’m reminded of Rafe and everything we had and everything he destroyed on a whim.

  Sure, the rage has subsided over the years. I’ve gotten control of that. So when I do happen to think of him, it’s often in passing. I might be over at his parents’ house to say hello, and see his graduation photo on their mantel, thinking to myself: I wonder what Rafe’s up to. And then I put him out of my mind. Sometimes, I might think: I wonder if he’s caught a raging case of syphilis—which he’d deserve, and then I’ll hope that it’
s super annoying and itchy.

  Okay, that’s not entirely true. I’ve never been a vindictive person, and I don’t wish him ill at all. But, damn...I’m just so angry at him right this moment, and sitting next to him in my car isn’t helping matters at all. All of the ugly feelings are welling up inside of me and I’ll be glad when I can get away from him.

  To say that Rafe broke my heart would be the understatement of all time. He didn’t just hurt me...he destroyed me. Crushed me so badly, he didn’t even leave fragmented pieces of betrayal behind. No...he ground me to dust and then just walked away.

  It took me a long time to get over him, to acknowledge that he didn’t want me. Took me years to accept he didn’t think I was good enough to join him on his journey through the professional hockey league. And it took some major soul-searching to find a measure of peace within the world around me, validation that I was a worthy woman.

  The way we ended things was so contrary to everything we’d planned for our future. Those plans had unfurled over the years as we grew up together—first pledging to always be best friends, all the way through the blossom of glorious love where we promised to be there for each other until our dying days.

  So many memories for me to recall any time I want to take a journey through my past with Rafe. Us playing in the woods, picking mushrooms, and poking bugs with sticks. Me forcing Rafe to play Barbies with me, only to agree to play GI Joe with him as a compromise. Summers were spent swimming at the YMCA and going to movies. In school, from as far back as I can remember, he was always my protector because, for some reason, I was an easy target for bullies. Then, in fifth grade, the inevitable first and experimental kiss. We both thought it was horribly gross.

  We tried it again in seventh grade, and it wasn’t so gross. By ninth grade, we were going steady and where one was, so was the other. Fingers laced, we’d strut the halls of our high school, and the message was clear to anyone that paid attention.