First Position

by Prescott Lane

  * * *

  After mass, there still remained an uneasiness, a tension, between them. It was going to take more than an inspiring homily and a few tears to fix what was broken. Emory started her car, and hoping to drown out the silence, turned on the radio. “Summer of ’69” came blaring through the speakers. And now the times are changin', look at everything that's come and gone. Emory’s hand gripped her belly, having lost so much, worrying she may lose even more. Sometimes when I play that old six-string, I think about you, wonder what went wrong. Mason glanced at her engagement ring, finding a different meaning in the lyrics now. He knew very well what went wrong and shut off the radio.

  Emory drove to Freedom Park, their first date in Charlotte, a source of good memories and new beginnings, with everything now, and their future together, so uncertain.I gave him a second chance. Will he give me one? She didn’t think she deserved one. She pulled into the park, and they started to walk towards a picnic table, Emory instinctively reaching for his hand, but seeing Mason had them in his pockets. They took a seat across from each other. “I figured this would be a better place to talk than your condo,” she said, trying to lighten the mood. “I was afraid I might cut myself on the glass. I couldn’t watch TV, either.”

  Mason offered a slight smile on his drawn face. “Probably a good idea. I’m going to hire someone to clean it up.”

  “Make sure it’s somebody you trust, so they don’t call the police,” Emory teased, a hint of truth in her words.

  Mason nodded, embarrassed, figuring the way he’d destroyed his condo and screamed at her days earlier, she probably was scared of him, recalling her curling up in a tight ball. She deserves better. He’d spent the past three days replaying his mistakes in his mind, and not just over those days, but over many years, an endless reel of regrets. They had consumed his mind and heart, leaving him in no mood for small talk. He had questions and wanted answers. “Boy or girl?”

  His quick question stunned her, Emory drawing a sharp breath. She hadn’t expected him to be so direct, since he’d spent the past months avoiding serious subjects, only wanting to bask in the surreal glow of their relationship. “Girl.”

  Mason didn’t offer any visible reaction. I bet she would’ve looked just like Em. “Was there a funeral?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “When you miscarry, there’s nothing to bury.” Emory wrapped her arms around herself, trying to protect what was no longer there. “Just tissue.”

  “Can you still have babies?”

  Emory felt like she was in front of a firing squad the way Mason was shooting questions at her. She believed death was near -- the moment he lashed out and delivered the blame she so richly deserved. “The doctor said there’s no reason why not,” she said. “Apparently miscarriages are pretty common.”

  “Did you consider abortion?”

  “Never.”

  “Adoption?”

  “No, I told you I gave up my dance career for her.” Emory wiped her nose and patted her wet eyes. “I wanted her.” Death is closing in.

  I would’ve wanted her, too. Mason looked away, unable to watch her cry. “What reason did the doctor give?”

  Now the guns were raised. “Inconclusive. They send the tissue off to a lab to try to give you a reason, but no reason.”

  “Not the fall?”

  Emory shrugged, feeling her stomach knotting. “The doctor said he couldn’t be sure what caused it.”

  “So, it might not have been the fall?” Mason responded quickly.

  Emory shook her head, unsure, but she’d found her own certainty years ago. “Either way, it was my fault. Either I fell and killed our baby, or I took such bad care of myself that I killed her,” she said, pausing to sniffle. “So if you’re looking for a reason, for someone to blame, it’s me.”

  She pulled at her clothes, waiting for Mason to accept her offer, but instead, he reached across the table, grazing his fingers over the contour of her hand, stroking her gently. “It’s not your fault, Em,” he said tenderly.

  “It is,” she replied, sobbing. “I danced too much, too hard. I didn’t gain any weight like I was supposed to.”

  “Em. . . .”

  “No!” she cut him off. “I was so stupid.”

  “You’re not stupid. . . .”

  “I was just so focused on having to raise a baby alone that I, uh, I. . . .” She broke down, unable to finish the thought.

  Mason lowered his head in shame. Did she really think I wouldn’t be around to help? I guess she did because I was already with Alexis. “It’s not your fault.” Mason paused, then looked up into her eyes. “It’s mine.”

  Emory knew Mason was prone to say outrageous things, but this was beyond absurd. He’s supposed to be yelling at me. “You weren’t even there?” she cried.

  “Exactly.”

  “But you didn’t even know! That was my fault, too!”

  “If I had just listened that day in the weight room. . . .” Mason started, then stopped, searching for the right words in his despair. “If I hadn’t been so selfish. . . .”

  “That just sounds crazy.”

  “I don’t think so. I should have been there taking care of you.”

  “But I was her mother. . . .”

  Mason looked directly into her eyes. “And I was her father.” Emory’s breath caught, his words making it all the more real. “When I think of what I was doing, while you were carrying our child alone,” he said, shaking his head, “it makes me sick.”

  Emory had never blamed Mason and wasn’t about to let him continue to blame himself. She walked around the table, taking a seat beside him, and put her arm around him. “You are not the one responsible. . . .”

  “No, this is on me. I started it when I left you,” he insisted, “and our baby girl paid with her life.”

  Emory lowered her head on his shoulder, her heart breaking for him. She knew exactly how he felt. Does he really think our baby would be alive if he hadn’t left me? As he blamed himself, she could see how unreasonable and senseless the guilt was. She’d never seen it in herself before, but now she could -- as clearly as Wesley could. “I can blame myself and you can blame yourself, but perhaps there is simply no one to blame. We both made mistakes, and for mine, I can’t say I’m sorry enough.”

  “Me too,” he said, crying. “I’m sorry I left you that day. I’m sorry you were alone. I’m sorry for everything.”

  Seeing his pain and regret as he poured out his heart, was hard for her to hear. “I doubt our baby would want us to keep hurting ourselves -- or each other.” She felt they’d both suffered enough, but she needed to hear something else, something she’d waited six years to hear. “But can you ever forgive me?” she asked, nervously twirling her hair. “For not protecting our baby?”

  Mason draped his arms around her, running his hands through her hair, holding her close. “There’s nothing to forgive.” She refused to believe that, asking him the same question again, more fervently this time. But his response was the same. “There’s nothing to forgive.”

  “And for not telling you?”

  “Oh, that.” She’s given me so many chances. I won’t allow this to come between us. He held her head in his hands, stroking her cheeks. “I already have.”

  Emory felt a weight lift inside her, six years of heaviness sitting on her heart, now gone, releasing the pain as Wesley had encouraged her to do. It was now time for something else, for joy -- there had been enough pain. It was time to introduce Mason to his daughter -- to have the joy they’d never shared before. Emory reached in her purse, digging through the clutter, and pulled out a black-and-white photo, its edges slightly curled and worn.

  “I carry her with me all the time.” Mason dropped his jaw in disbelief, carefully taking the ultrasound in his hands, never thinking he’d get the chance to see his child. “Look here,” she said, pointing at the photo, “this is her head. So pretty. And here you can make out her arms and han
ds. So tiny. And there are her feet -- can’t really see the toes.”

  “She’s beautiful.” Mason gently ran his finger over the photo. “How old?”

  “Twelve weeks here. That’s the only photo I have,” Emory said, watching him study his daughter, seeing her for the first time. “How about you carry her for awhile?”

  Mason nodded, then tilted his head looking at the photo. “Looks like a little chicken nugget.”

  Emory grinned. “I like it. Let’s call her that.”

  “My little nugget.” He leaned his head onto hers, as they gazed at their daughter together.

  “Are we OK?”

  Mason tilted her head to look into her eyes. “More than that.”

  “Well, let’s go back to the condo.” She bit her lip. “I’ll walk on glass to your bed.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  If Mason wasn’t with Emory or on the field, he spent most of his time at their new house, very much still a work in progress, going over details of various projects with his contractor on an almost daily basis. One project of particular importance had just finished. Mason waited outside for Emory to come see it, though she thought she was coming over to discuss kitchen design with the contractor. She didn’t care at all about kitchen design -- she just wanted a refrigerator -- but always pretended to be interested since Mason had spent so much time pouring over every last detail.

  As the last of the crew pulled out, Emory pulled into the driveway. Mason waved and walked out to meet her. “Where’s everyone going?” she asked. “I thought we had a meeting.” Mason grinned mischievously and quickly took her hand, intertwining their fingers. “What have you done now?”

  “I made a few changes.” He led her down the side of the house, along a cobblestone pathway to a crepe myrtle tree in the backyard. Under the shade of the tree stood a small cement statue, about two feet tall, of an angel holding a baby. Emory slowly knelt down before it, examining it, slowly running her fingers across the angel’s wings. My mother holding our baby. She looked up at Mason with tears in her eyes.

  “For nugget,” he said. “I thought she should have a place in our new house.” He pulled her up. “There’s one more thing.” He took her through the back of the house, together making their way to the unpainted staircase, side-stepping boxes and plumbing supplies along the way. Mason led her up the dusty stairs to a hallway, stopping outside a closed door. “Now I know we said we were going to redo the house together, but I did have one room finished.”

  “Really?” Please not a man cave.

  “Yeah, I’ve been picking out some things here and there.” Emory looked at him in disbelief, trying to picture her muscular soon-to-be husband shopping for furniture, draperies, or anything. “It finally got finished today.” He turned the knob on the door and slowly opened it, Emory having no idea what to expect.

  She dropped his hand and stepped slowly inside, looking around in amazement, the natural light shining through the huge bay window filling the room, decorated in neutral creams and yellows, the floor a light-stained hardwood. An antique white crib stood against a side wall, laced with plush ivory baby bedding, flanked on each side with built-in bookcases lined with children’s books and plush animals. An oversized chair and ottoman sat opposite the crib. A child-size table and chairs filled one corner of the room, while an old carousel rocking horse took up another.

  Her mouth wide open, Emory moved gracefully across the room, touching the linens, picking up a stuffed animal, and looking through the huge window down at the crepe myrtle tree blooming a halo of pink flowers over the angel statue underneath. “This is the most beautiful room I’ve ever seen.” She turned around to Mason, still standing by the door, his hands in his pockets, beaming with pride. “You picked all this out yourself?”

  “Yeah.” He took a step into the room. “I saw the carousel rocking horse a few weeks ago and couldn’t resist. It kind of snowballed from there.” Emory ran her hand along the railing of the crib, and on the wall above, she saw a framed Bible verse. Before I formed you in the womb I knew you, and before you were born I consecrated you. She looked back at Mason. “Jeremiah,” he said. “A little tip from Father Tony.”

  She smiled, then turned her attention to a painting hanging next to the Bible verse, an abstract piece with soft green and yellow colors, the trace outline of ballet slippers and a football clearly visible. In the lower right hand corner, she saw the name of the artist. “Tomás did this?”

  “He owed me a favor.” Second chances. “I’ll tell you later.”

  Emory was in love with the room -- so breathtakingly beautiful, so meaningful, so perfect -- though a part of her was unsure of Mason’s expectations in creating a nursery. “Mason, the room is lovely, but . . . .”

  He interrupted her with a kiss. “Relax, babe. I’m not suggesting you get knocked up anytime soon, although that would be fine with me. I know you’re scared.”

  He’s right. I’m afraid.

  “I want us to focus on the future. Nothing will ever replace nugget -- that’s why I got the statue. But we’re going to have lots of babies, as many as you want, as soon as you’re ready, and this room is a promise of that -- of our future together.” A tear fell down her cheek. “I won’t miss a thing this time. I promise you that, too.”

  “This is all so wonderful!” She hugged him tightly, then turned to admire the room once again. “I love the painting! The Bible verse! The crib! I love everything!”

  When she turned back to Mason, he was down on one knee, fully dressed this time, and she gasped, her hand covering her mouth. “You told me we needed a PG version, so here it is.” He pulled out a three caret, oval cut, pink diamond ring. “Em, will you marry me?”

  “Yes, yes, yes!”

  Mason took her right hand. “I actually had it fitted for this one, since I want you to keep wearing your mother’s ring.” He slipped it on, her face glowing, and she knelt beside him, Mason kissing the tip of her nose and forehead. “I think it’s kind of shaped like a nugget.”

  EPILOGUE

  2 1/2 Years Later

  A crisp night breeze blew through Mason’s hair, as he stood, helmet in hand, on the sidelines of Bank of America Stadium, urging the Panthers defense to hold a tenuous three-point lead in the first-round playoff game, with just under two minutes remaining in the fourth quarter. He’d done what he could. It wasn’t in his hands anymore.

  Mason had started every game this season and last for the Panthers, including the final four games of his first season after the starting quarterback was injured. The coaches and management liked what they saw from him during those four games, all victories, and it helped Steven negotiate a five-year contract to allow Mason to finish his career in Charlotte.

  After reaching mid-field, the offense took a time-out, needing only about fifteen more yards to try for a game-tying field goal to force overtime. But there was still time to drive the field and take the lead with a touchdown. Mason looked up at an end zone suite -- everyone he loved was standing, nervously hoping, like he was, that the game clock would hit zero as quickly as possible.

  He saw Emory holding their two-week-old baby, headphones covering the baby’s ears. He’d urged Emory to stay home and avoid the crowds and craziness, but she wasn’t about to miss his first playoff game as a starter. She didn’t want their baby to miss it, either. So Mason arranged for suite tickets; at least there they’d be away from the real frenzy. Next to her was Father Tony, wearing a Mason jersey over his priest collar, holding his rosary beads, praying for a miracle. Steven and a newly-pregnant Olivia stood right beside them; Noah, almost three, held his grandmother Kathleen’s leg. The crowd roar during the time-out was deafening. It was well past little Noah’s bed time, and a far cry from the quiet afternoon Rangers game he’d slept through years earlier. He now cheered for Uncle Mason and the Panthers. It was an experience for him like no other.

  Emory’s father longed to be down on the sidelines, coaching up the team, urging the d
efense to hold the lead. But all John could do from the confines of the suite was add to the crowd noise, and he did, with vigor. Wesley and Tomás, neither at all interested in football, watched the insanity of the crowd, all screaming and moving in unison, as heavy metal blared through the speakers. It was spectacular.

  The offense took the field following the time-out, knowing the Panthers defense was tired. It had been a bruising, physical slugfest. Mason looked up at the clock -- one minute remained -- and lowered his head. So much time left. A minute can change a man’s life. Gus’ Bar.He remembered the long-overdue vow he’d made just over two years ago, looking into Emory’s eyes, wearing the most beautiful wedding dress. I do. He thought about words Emory had told him ten months earlier. I’m pregnant. And he never missed a doctor’s appointment -- not this time -- never missing a chance to hold her hand and hear the unmistakable sound of their baby’s heart. Swoosh, swoosh. Mason recalled being in bed in their Myers Park home, with his head and hand on Emory’s belly. Kick, kick. They had decided not to find out the baby’s sex, but Mason swore he had a kicker or punter on the way, while Emory insisted the baby was a Rockette.

  With thirty seconds left, the offense moved to the twenty-five yard line and took their final time-out. They had to decide whether to play for a fairly easy field goal and overtime, or take a shot for a touchdown. The percentages favored running one play to position the ball on the proper hash, then spiking it and trotting out the field goal team. After all, they were on the road, in a hostile environment, and there was no need to take the unnecessary risk of throwing the ball downfield. Mason looked out on the field; he wouldn’t play for a field goal in this situation. After all, he was never one to play for percentages. He played from his gut, relying on instinct. It’s how he lived -- for better or worse. To hell with percentages, play for the win.