by Suzanne Hart
He opened the door for me and gestured for me to leave. I turned to give him one last hopeful look before he shut the door in my face. I nodded at the secretary as I passed through her small office and re-entered the waiting room, where another candidate sat crossing and uncrossing his legs over and over again.
My interview with the Dallas Cowboys was my last order of business before I got back on the plane to Iowa City, where I had just served as a resident of Iowa State General. I obediently answered the anxious calls from my mother as I got off the plane. I told her that my interviews went great and that we all just had to wait.
The next week, I spent most of my days in my drafty, cosmopolitan apartment in the city center, enjoying my days off as I waited on call-backs. It had been years since I had more than a couple of days to myself that weren’t over a holiday and I enjoyed the quiet. It wasn’t more than a week before I was standing in my kitchen drinking my second cup of coffee and getting a call from Dallas.
“Hello?” My heart had already started fluttering.
“Dr. Waters?”
It was some secretary. “This is Alexis from the office of the Dallas Cowboys Health and Safety.”
My eyes widened. “Yes?”
“We are pleased to tell you that we would like to offer you the position.”
“Thank you!” I listened to the rest of her instructions through a kind of daze as the butterflies in my stomach fluttered with the thoughts of my whole new life in Texas.
◆◆◆
I stretched my neck to catch a glimpse of my flight on the automated television screens.
“Dahlia.” James, my boyfriend of three years, squeezed my hand as he stood next to me, his eyes on the screens too.
After committing the number of the gate to memory, I turned to face him. “Don’t worry.”
He shoved his glasses up higher on his face, the loose frames sliding back down almost immediately. He was too set in his ways and too socially lazy to suffer the afternoon at the eye doctors necessary to get himself a new pair. “I’m not worried.” He said the words a little too fast.
I planted a kiss on his cheek trying not to think about the next time I would feel his skin beneath my lips. “I can feel your anxiety,” I whispered.
He frowned, the lines around his lips solidifying even more. He had the kind of wrinkles that happen prematurely through unnecessary strain. “Don’t worry about it. I’m excited for you.”
He didn’t have to lie like that. Still, I squeezed his hand again. It was my job to see through his words. I had to start the conversation he really wanted to have but was too afraid to initiate. “You can come visit me whenever you want.”
He scoffed. “That just depends on the money.” He was being spiteful. I knew with his job as an analyst, a $500 flight every once in a while was not going to break his bank.
“Right.” I wished he didn’t have to be like this on my last morning with him. I glanced at my watch. I was approaching the 45-minute mark. It was time for me to at least start the trek through security. I glanced over at my mother, who stood a couple of paces off, clutching her oversized sweater tightly around herself. She glanced this way and that, her phone nudged in her right hand as if she were expecting a call. It was so hard for her to simply be in a place. “Mom!”
She jogged over in that instant. “Right, then. Is it time now?”
I cocked my head to one side, wrapping my arms around her. Her soft skin caressed my cheek. “Don’t worry. I’m gonna be fine.”
She nodded as I pulled away, stretching her pink lips into a half-hearted smile. “I know. I’m used to this now.”
I raised an eyebrow. She was referring to the time she sent me off to college, then the time I went off to medical school, then my residency, my fellowship and now.
She let out a weak cough. “I just wished you didn’t have to keep going away like this.”
“We have already talked about this.” My eyes were starting to water.
“I know. I know.” She gave me another tight hug.
I turned and landed right in James’s arms. He gave me several squeezes before he held me at arm’s length, his brown eyes scanning my face as if committing it to memory. His hands slipped to my hips before he drew me in for a kiss. It was the kind of thing that didn’t happen as often as it should, the kind of thing that we planned and over thought and contemplated once it was over.
As I walked farther and farther away from them and towards the gate, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of relief. It washed over me like a cold ocean spray on a scalding, hot day.
Chet
I stood in the back corner of the comfortable hospital room that had my dying father as its centerpiece. Liver disease. He said it was natural causes, but I would bet the doctors would blame his drinking habits. Not an alcoholic, though. Mother would never label him as such. She would just call it an occupational hazard.
She stood closest to him, her tall and slender body draped in a navy, blue blouse, and slats. Her white hair was neatly combed and folded into an updo at the top of her head. Her nails were perfectly groomed. Even though she had been in this room for the better part of the last several days, she looked as if she had just stepped out of her office back at the Dallas Tribune.
She gazed down at my father, who, himself looked as if he were desperately trying to hide his illness. He a wore cashmere sweater, punctuated with a Rolex watch. His beard was neatly trimmed and his bald head moisturized. He was tucked into satin sheets, the book he had been reading, Machiavelli’s The Prince, lying leisurely just by his hand.
Mother had one hand on his bed and the other on the arm of the priest from our local parish. My parents donated about half a million dollars a year to his church. So when they called him for a bedside service, I’m sure he didn’t hesitate. I let my eyes flicker shut, wanting to pretend that I had been listening for the entire duration of that prayer, and not just the ending.
“Thank you.” Mother’s voice was like a knife slicing through the tension in that room.
“Great,” I said, then clamped my mouth shut. The word was, ‘amen.’ I rolled my eyes at Mother’s disdainful look.
My father gave a short wave of his hand. “Chet.”
I nodded, an open expression on my face.
My mother waited precisely three seconds before impatiently waving me over.
I didn’t want to leave my place on the edge of the room. His bed was right at the center. In the spotlight. I hated being stared at. “Yes.”
I expected my dad to smile at me, or widened his eyes, or at least acknowledge me, considering he had summoned me in the first place, but he barely bat an eye.
“Give me some space, Nance.”
My mother nodded eagerly and motioned for the priest to follow her out.
The door barely shut behind them before he gazed at me. “Take a seat, Chet.”
“Are you sure you have the energy for a lecture?”
“I definitely don’t have the energy for insubordination.”
I slid a chair to his bedside and sat. I had to pick my battles, especially now. “What did you want to discuss?”
“The company.” He made a difficult move to turn his entire body to the side, putting the full force of his beady gaze and strong jaw on me. I hated that look. “Look, you’re my only son. And therefore, the only one who can have it.”
I huffed a breath. I couldn’t say I wasn’t at least a little surprised.
“Of course there are several more qualified men to take this team to where it needs to go.”
“Then why not save me the trouble?”
“Our family snatched this team and made it one of the most successful in the league. It is just as much what makes you a Blackwood as the blood in your veins. It is your duty to take it and you will.”
“Understood.” It was the man’s dying wish. And I barely had a dream of my own to hold onto. I had been told what to do ever since before I could remember. By the time I had r
ealized I might have to decide what to do with myself, my father had been handed a death sentence by a team of very experienced and very reliable doctors.
In an uncharacteristically swift movement, he took my hand in his. The iron, yet wiry grip caught me by surprise. The last time he had held my hand was my college graduation, almost twenty years ago now.
“This is my life’s work. It is everything to me.”
“I know.” There was something ghostly about his hollow cheeks.
“I’ve never been a religious man. But I have to have faith in something.”
“Of course.”
“You are irresponsible, impulsive and cannot finish something to save your life.”
I blinked, but I was far too old for his little statements like that to bother me. He was dying, so the least I could do was give the man a chance to finish.
“But you’re all I’ve got,” The way his voice cracked at the end of that made my heart drop.
“I know.”
“So don’t let me down.”
“I won’t.” I felt compelled to make that promise to him, even though I had no idea how I was gonna see it through.
He pointed at the ceiling. “I’ll be watching you.”
When he said that, it gave me the first glimpse of what it would be like to say goodbye to my father. The idea that he wouldn’t be around anymore was not one that I had given myself any time to think about. I went through the motions of the funeral services, all taking place in a Catholic church in downtown Dallas, as per tradition. I followed the coffin down that aisle, outside and on to the graveyard.
My mother clutched my arm for dear life, her thin fingers digging into my skin. “Women always live longer.”
I bit my lip. I didn’t like how vulnerable she sounded. I was in my forties and should have gotten used to seeing my parents vulnerable, but burying a father is not something you get used to. “That’s true.”
She swiped her hand across her face, drying a tear. “But I thought I’d be eighty when it happened. I thought I wouldn’t have anything else to do but wait for my death.”
Words could not describe how much I did not want to talk about this. “I’m sure everything will be okay, mother.” But even as I spoke, it felt as if a rock was lodged in my throat.
She dug her fingers even deeper, as if that were at all possible. “Only if you follow in his footsteps.”
I groaned. I just wanted to get through this day in one piece. “We’ve been over this, mother.”
“No.” We both stopped. We had reached my father’s grave. People were slowly gathering around us. Grave. Wow. I had never buried anyone in my life. And now I had to do this.
“Please,” She hissed, leaning ever so slightly up so that she could speak without anyone listening. “You’re all I have left of him.”
My mother cried through the rest of the ceremony, in such a way that made it impossible for me to think about anything else other than the sound of her tears. We buried my father and then made the short walk back to the church, where we then got in our cars and went back to my childhood home for his wake.
The next Monday morning was full steam ahead. I had a board meeting with the directors and shareholders, men I had only really seen at social gatherings, galas, games, birthdays, holiday parties. Now I was sitting at the head of their table. My masters in business and finance from Wharton felt like the knife I had brought to a gunfight. These men were all years beyond me and motivated by decades of interconnections and ties that I could never claim.
I watched their lips move as discussions of profit, stadiums, budgets, and coaches filled the room. I should have paid more attention to the lessons my father had given me in his office on Sunday nights. I should have taken my school assignments more seriously. I should have paid more attention at the drafts and the games.
I should have just said no.
But now my father was dead.
And it was too late.
Dahlia
Being on the sidelines of that Cowboys scrimmage was like standing against the wall of an emergency room; one when there was an explosion at a nearby hall, and you’re the only hospital accepting patients. There was activity everywhere. Those men shot past me, their massive bodies, heavy. Their thick muscles draped in a million different pieces of gear and jostling with every single, power-filled movement.
I uncrossed my legs and leaned back in my chair, letting out a sigh. I readjusted my baseball cap. At 97 degrees, this was more heat I had dealt with in my entire life. My thighs were starting to chafe, my shirt growing lighter and lighter with each new coat of sweat. I made a mental note to research stronger deodorants when I got home. This August atmosphere was more than I felt like I could handle. I pouted at the sensation of my white gold necklace clinging to the damp skin on my neck. I huffed at each new baby hair plastered to my forehead and the back of my neck.
I peered across the field at the other sports doctor on duty for the Chicago Bears. He sat leaning forward, his eyes darting back and forth with his players.
I took a cue from him and tried to mimic his posture. I decided I schould look less than completely out of my element, but couldn’t tell if I was succeeding or not. I grabbed a bottle of water out of my ice bucket and took a generous swig, readjusting my sunglasses. I started to watch the players more closely, realizing that sitting here, waiting for an injury to happen, was more lot like being at Iowa State General than I would have thought. Something would happen, and I would be the first person on sight.
Very cool.
I heaved another breath of the hot, dry air, and started to notice something about the players. They seemed to grow more and more fatigued. This was an obvious thing. But once we got to the third quarter, I realized that they were fatiguing faster. They were making the smallest mistakes, tripping over a foot here or there. Their necks got weaker, their heads bobbing back and forth.
I lifted my baseball cap just enough that I could wipe off the sweat forming on my forehead, then let it sit again and took another swig of my water bottle.
The coach, Russell Belmont, blew his whistle, the shrill sound of it cutting through the hot air.
When they huddled, I watched their chests rise and fall.
My heart started pounding as I anxiously watched them take their first positions. There was one player in particular, Milburn, that worried me. When the play began, he jogged to his position, but he could barely hold himself up straight.
I stood up, wandering towards him, but staying on the sidelines. He held his hands up as the ball came charging at him.
My eyes widened when he caught it and turned around to sprint towards the end zone.
But he was having way too much. The weakness in his ankles told me he wasn’t going to make it.
I turned back, my eyes landing on the coach. Russ was not someone I knew particularly well, or someone who even cared that we knew each other well. When we did the weigh-ins just last week, he gave me the cold shoulder. I figured as the doctor, I was his natural enemy, putting stop signs in every aspect of his practice.
But now was not the time to be nice, or to give a shit about what he thought about me. Now was the time to do my job. “Russ, call it!”
He ducked his head in agitation, his blind side-bang swiping into his face.
But before I could explain myself, Milburn fell out. His six and a half foot body came crashing to the ground, a player from the other team who had been in hot pursuit falling right on top of him.
I wasted no time. This was my jurisdiction. I ran out into the field with a fresh bottle of water in one hand and my kit in the other.
I felt like an ant next to these guys, but I didn’t care. “Let me get in there!” I said, breathlessly. I put my kit down and gave a little shove to the guy on top of mine.
He got up slowly, an incredulous look on his face.
I glanced up at Russ, who peered at me closely, his hands on his hips.
“Milburn.” I took off his
helmet and shook his shoulder. “Milburn.” One hand on his forehead told me he was hot as hell. Heat exhaustion. I took off the jersey, then the pads. I reached in my kit for a pair of scissors and sliced through his top.
I leaned over his sweaty, fit body, listening for his breath.
Strong.
I poured some of my ice water onto a towel and started dabbing his face with it. Before I got too far with it, I heard someone call my name. I looked up to see three medics jogging onto the field. I supervised them as they put him on the stretcher. “It’s just heat exhaustion. Give him a cold compress and get him inside.”