Going for the Record

by Julie A. Swanson

  Addicted, obsessed. She spits the words out like venom.

  She shakes her head. “A girl your age should be more well-rounded and not spend every spare moment working out. You should go to parties. Go shopping. Hang out with girlfriends. And what about boyfriends?”

  I can’t believe it. It actually feels good to get her old lecture on overdoing it. It’s the first time since Dad picked me up in Ann Arbor that anything’s felt normal.

  “It’s not healthy, Leah. You can’t eat, drink, and sleep soccer. Back me up on this, Pete. Don’t you think she should take it easy?”

  “Your mother’s right,” says Dad. “Keep this up and pretty soon you’ll be pooping little soccer balls.” But he winks at me; he’s the same way about golf. Still, his pooping-little-soccer-balls irritates me.

  “Ha, ha, Dad.” It’s not that he thinks he’s clever that gets me. It’s that he says it just to satisfy Mom. What about me? Why doesn’t he ever back me up?

  I hate it when Mom says I’m obsessed. Like I’m a psycho. But, hey, I don’t care. There’s nothing more important to me than my goal, and it’s paid off. Most mothers would be delighted if their kid earned a free college education.

  “I’ll take it easy, Mom, I promise.”

  “Leah, the sun’s about to set. I don’t want you out there alone at night, and you know that. I’m afraid I’m going to have to put my foot down.”

  That does it. She always pushes me to this point. “Don’t worry, Mom. I won’t be alone. I’m going with Clay.”

  “All right, but stay where it’s well-lit. Don’t go off—”

  “We won’t!” I say, and I’m out the door, running. Each step kills. My muscles are raw meat. But this is what I said I was going to do, and I know Mom is watching out the window.

  Clay is waiting at the mailbox in his black Lexus. He’s got this big grin and looks as fresh as a peach, but then it all drops away when he sees me up close.

  “Whoa, you do look tired. Your eyes.”

  “It’s been a long week. A long day.”

  “You okay?”

  I shrug. “Been better.” I can’t fake happiness tonight.

  “What’s wrong?”

  I start to cry and feel so stupid. I’ve only cried in front of Clay once, when I sprained my ankle. But never because I was upset. I get hurt, mad, frustrated, but I don’t get emotional. Not like some girls.

  “What is it, Leah? Did you get in a fight with your mom? She’s not going to let you go to national camp?”

  I shake my head and wave for him to go. Drive, just drive.

  Instead of going to Borden’s for ice cream he takes us to East Bay beach. Which is fine with me. I’m a mess, and the sunset’s better at West Bay, so hardly anyone comes to East Bay this time of evening.

  As soon as the car comes to a stop, I get out and walk down towards the water. Clay will follow me; I know he will.

  “Are you going to tell me what’s wrong, or do I have to keep guessing?” Clay says from behind me. I stop and sit cross-legged in the sand. Clay sits down facing me, and I tell him everything.

  I don’t know how long it’s taken to get it all out, but it’s almost dark, and I’m a snotty mess.

  “Promise not to tell anyone? Because Dad doesn’t want anyone but family to know right now.”

  “I promise,” says Clay, moving so he’s sitting beside me now. “I’m sorry. So sorry. I don’t know what else to say.”

  I start crying again, softly this time, under control. I’m just starting to feel really peaceful—glad that I told Clay and that I’ve got a friend like him here with me—when he puts his arm around me.

  “Don’t,” I say, pulling away. “I’m gross. Look at my shirt.”

  Clay gives me one of his little I-can’t-believe-you coughs, crosses his arms over his knees, and stares out at the lights across the bay.

  “I think we better get going,” I say. “I don’t want my mom to worry.”

  Mom’s there to greet me when I get home. My loyal watch-dog. She’s so excited to see me, she’s practically panting.

  “You got some phone calls while you were out. One was from Coach Kenney. He wants to know how your week went and whether you can make it to practice on Wednesday instead of Thursday. You’re supposed to call him. And several college coaches called. I can’t remember where they said they’re—”

  “—Clemson, Notre Dame, Harvard, and Wisconsin,” Dad barks.

  Wow. Coach Sobek was right. I didn’t think it would happen this fast though.

  “What’d they say? What’d you tell them?”

  “They wanted to talk to you, of course, but I told them you were out for a run.” Mom smiles this silly grin, all proud of herself for saying something that might get me a few bonus points. “They’re going to call you again tomorrow.”

  Great. So now I’ve got to hang around the house tomorrow dreading those phone calls.

  “Weez?” Dad calls to me as I walk down the hall towards my bedroom. “When you talk to Coach Kenney tell him you’ll be there for practice on Wednesday. Nothing’s changed; I’m still your chauffeur.”

  I often forget to say my bedtime prayers, but not tonight. Please, God, bless Dad. Please, Jesus, bless him. Please bless my dad. Please bless Dad, please bless Dad, please bless Dad. I’m storming heaven, just like Gram said we should.

  The moon’s coming up right outside the window over my bed. It’s big and round over the trees, and the woods are full of slanty moon shadows striping the ground. You wouldn’t even need a flashlight out there tonight, it’s so bright.

  It’s really eerie in here with these rectangular shafts of blue-white light beaming in over my bed. They cut such a low angle they’re almost parallel to the ground. Telescoping as they cross the room, they fall like spotlights on my Wall of Fame.

  It’s been a long time since I took a good look at that wall. Paul made up the name—Wall of Fame. He makes fun of it. “Nothing like celebrating yourself,” he says.

  But it’s the one un-modest thing I’ve allowed myself, and it isn’t a braggy display or anything. It’s in the privacy of my own bedroom, on the wall you can’t see when you look in the door. My plaques, medals, and framed awards hang on the wall. My trophies and game balls sit on the shelf over them.

  These are my prized possessions, my treasures: Most Valuable Camper, All-Conference, Single-Season Scoring Record, All-State, Player of the Year, All-American.

  And now I’ve got another honor to add to my collection: Region II U-18 ODP Team. They didn’t give us a trophy or anything, but we had our picture taken. I’m going to frame it.

  CHAPTER 4

  Saturday, June 21

  “Leah,” Mom says, shaking me. “Honey, wake up.”

  I crack an eye and squint at the alarm clock. It’s only ten-thirty. “Just give me a couple more hours, Mom, please.” I could sleep until dinner.

  “I would, honey, but the Notre Dame coach is on the phone for you.”

  I tear out to the kitchen and by the time I get there I’m practically hyperventilating.

  “Hello?” I manage to spit out fairly normally, and then I quickly cover the receiver so she can’t hear how loud I’m breathing.

  “Hi, Leah. This is Coach McNall from Notre Dame. Sorry to get you out of bed. I should have known you’d be tired after the week you had.”

  “Oh, no, no, no, it’s okay. I should be up anyway.”

  “Listen, I saw you play in Ann Arbor, and I was really impressed. Congratulations on making the regional team.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Do you have any interest in the University of Notre Dame?”

  “Yeah. I mean, yes. Yes, I do.”

  “Good, because we’re very interested in you. We’d like to invite you for an official visit in September.”

  September. The month Dad’s supposed to die. I flush hot all over. “Well, our high school cards aren’t printed up yet. I don’t know when our games are.”

  “Tel
l you what. Why don’t you talk to your coach and find out. Get back to me soon as you know something. We’ll set something up then.”

  “All right.”

  “It’s been good talking to you. I’m looking forward to meeting you.”

  “Me, too.”

  “You take care, Leah. And again, congratulations.”

  “Okay, thanks. Bye.”

  What a mess. All these coaches will be calling with the same questions, and I won’t be able to give them a straight answer to anything.

  I think I’ll go running. Or to Clay’s house. Anything to stay away from the phone.

  When Paul arrives, slung low in his new gold Porsche convertible, my first instinct is to run out to him, but I hold back. I don’t want to look too eager. He already has such an inflated opinion of himself.

  I watch him unfold his body from the car, looking like he just stepped off the cover of GQ: shiny black shoes, creased dress pants, starched white shirt with the collar unbuttoned, tie loosened. He pushes his sunglasses up into his tousled black curls and looks around. Now I run out.

  “Hi, you, kiddo!” He picks me up and twirls me around.

  “Pauly!” Gram hurries out the front door, followed by Mom and Dad.

  “I couldn’t get here fast enough,” he says. “I did about ninety miles an hour the whole way.”

  Mom kisses and hugs him, eyes closed, hanging on tight.

  Dad shakes his hand and whacks him on the back.

  “Tell me what I can do to help while I’m here,” Paul says. “Really, anything. I’ll cut the grass, chop wood. Heck, I’ll even tend bar at the restaurant.”

  We’re still standing in the driveway when Mary and Hugh pull up.

  “Daddy!” Waddling with her arms outstretched and her face contorted by emotion, Mary looks like a little kid pretending to be a monster. When she reaches Dad her huge, pregnant belly hits first and she topples over at the waist, collapsing into him.

  “Daddy,” she sobs. “Oh, Daddy, I’m so scared.”

  Dad looks uncomfortable trying to hold Mary up. He works to get himself out from under her wrap and transfers her over to Mom. Mary’s oblivious to it. With Mary draped over Mom now, Hugh shakes Dad’s hand, patting him awkwardly on the back, like he’s too fragile to take the hearty whack usually exchanged among the males in our family.

  We sit on the deck and eat hors d’oeuvres while Dad barbecues steaks for dinner. Mary talks endlessly about the baby. And all the while I’m doing isometrics, working my quads and hams.

  Isometrics are cool. You just sit there, tightening and holding opposing muscles groups, invisibly building up strength. You can smile and talk while you’re doing it, and no one will ever know.

  And Mom says I’m addicted. She doesn’t know the half of it.

  “Have you picked out names yet?” asks Paul. “I mean, besides Paul.”

  “Very funny,” says Mary. “For a girl we like Emily Rose or Laura Jane. For a boy we’re leaning towards a—a family name.”

  “What’s the due date, Mary?

  “September seventh.”

  Less than three months. In my mind I see a calendar, the date circled in red. It will give Dad something to shoot for, a reason to fight.

  “So, Leah,” says Paul, “what’s next for you and soccer?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Oh, yes, you are,” Dad barks. “I’m still your chauffeur. I can drive just fine. You’ll be going to practices, and you’ll be going to the Fourth of July tournament, and you’ll be going to the national camp in August.”

  “Honey, we haven’t settled that yet,” Mom interrupts. “The national camp is the same week as the family reunion.”

  “Mumma,” says Dad, “she’s worked so hard for this.”

  “I don’t want to argue about it right now,” says Mom.

  “No, we need to talk about it,” insists Dad. “If she’s going to go, I’ve got to book her a flight. You know how hard it is to get a good fare if you wait.”

  “Pete, my family has never had a reunion before. Some of my relatives haven’t even seen her!” Mom’s pleading with her eyes; they’re all sparkly.

  Dad just stares at her.

  “Oh, go ahead, then,” says Mom throwing her arms up. “Book her a flight to Colorado Springs. You know you will anyway.”

  “Mumma,” Dad grabs Mom gently by the shoulders, “don’t you see? This whole summer is up in the air. I don’t know how I’ll be feeling then. I don’t know if I’ll be up to driving that far. We might all have to miss the reunion. Let’s at least give Leah something to look forward to, okay?”

  “Leah,” says Mary. “Come here, quick! The baby’s moving!” Mary pulls up her shirt and holds my hand to her stomach. It’s hard, like a basketball. I don’t see how a tiny baby can make itself felt through that, but there it is.

  “Whoa!” I pull my hand away quickly and watch the bumps of little knuckles or toes swipe across Mary’s domed stomach. “That’s so weird!”

  Paul, Mom, and Gram take turns feeling Mary’s moving belly. Dad just watches.

  CHAPTER 5

  Monday, June 23

  When I asked Dad if he and mom could drop me off at the mall on their way to his appointment he acted like it was no problem. “I’m your chauffeur, aren’t I?”

  But now that I’m captive in his car, he’s giving me a hard time. “An exercise fiend like you could’ve run to the mall.”

  “Pops, it’s ten miles!” Not to mention it’s almost all uphill on the busiest highway in northern Michigan.

  “What about riding your bike?”

  “I could have, I guess, but I thought since you were going out anyway I’d be able to hitch a ride.”

  “Hitch a ride? The hospital’s all the way on the other side of town.”

  I sit back and shut up. No use arguing with him when he’s like this.

  We turn into the mall and Dad suddenly panics. “I don’t know how we’re going to work picking you up, Leah. You won’t want to wait around outside for us, and I certainly don’t want to have to come in and go on a wild goose chase looking for you!” He’s so flustered his ears are turning red. “I don’t know how long this appointment is going to last. It might take a while.”

  Mom puts her hand on Dad’s forearm. “Let’s say four o’clock, Pete. That’ll give us all plenty of time. You don’t mind, do you, Leah?”

  No, I shake my head. Heavens, no.

  “Okay, then,” says Dad, calmer now. “We’ll pick you up right here at four o’clock.”

  I hit Sports World first. I love the smell of this place, all that new leather and rubber.

  I look at shoes, balls, soccer gear. Finger the satiny materials on a rack of shorts. They’re tempting, hanging there in their rainbow of colors, but I don’t let myself stop. I have plenty at home.

  I drag myself out, drooling, and head over to the bookstore. I’ve got business there. That’s the real reason I came to the mall.

  I find tons of books on cancer: books on prevention, books on detection, books on treatments, inspirational books written by people who’ve beaten it, even a cookbook with recipes that call for ingredients that supposedly fight cancer.

  My hopes soar as I read about the many alternative treatments to chemotherapy and radiation—special diets, exercise regimens, meditation, hypnosis.

  One book says you can get cancer from being unhappy for a long time, that cancer is “the manifestation of a deep-rooted psychological ill, a long pent-up frustration, suppressed ambition, emotional trauma, unresolved personal conflicts, job stress, even guilt.” It says that if you identify the source of your unhappiness and eliminate it, you can rid yourself of cancer.

  I’ve always thought of my dad as a basically happy person, but this makes me wonder: why did he get cancer? Not because he can get ornery sometimes, I’m sure.

  I finally decide on two books—an inspirational account of recovery and a book on self-healing. Twenty minutes left. I speed-wa
lk the length of the mall to General Nutrition Center. I’m going to get Dad some of that weird stuff I read about in the nutrition and self-healing books.

  It’s almost four o’clock when I leave the mall, a bag of books in one hand, shark’s cartilage and ginseng tea in the other.

  Mom and Dad are strangely quiet. I can’t see Mom’s face from the backseat, but I can see the wad of Kleenex she’s clutching in her lap. Her other hand is holding Dad’s. Probably not the best time to show them my purchases.

  “How did your appointment go?”

  Dad shrugs. “It’s pretty much what I thought. Slim chance that experimental treatments would do any good, and you’re almost certain to suffer more than if you let the disease run its natural course.”

  “So you’re not going to try them? You’ve made up your mind, just like that?”

  “That’s right.”

  I sigh real loud.

  “Now don’t be giving me that,” Dad growls. “Medicine isn’t the answer to everything. Miracles can happen.”

  “That’s right,” says Mom. “We’re putting this in God’s hands.”

  Well, at least they haven’t completely given up.

  When we get home, I wait for Dad to open a beer and sit down.

  “Pops? Can I show you some things I bought at the mall?” I hand him the books first.

  “One Man’s Story of Bravery and Victory,” Dad reads aloud. “Cancer: A Guide to Natural Self-Healing.” He sets them down on the coffee table. “Thanks.”

  “That’s not all, Pops. I got you some other things that I read about in the self-healing book.” I hand him the GNC bag. “Ginseng tea and shark’s cartilage. They’re supposed to—”

  “Shark’s cartilage! Weez, you shouldn’t be wasting your money on this stuff. They’re gimmicks. If they worked, everybody would be taking them. They’d be charging an arm and a leg for these bottles.”

  “They weren’t cheap,” I mumble.

  “The stores wouldn’t be able to keep them on the shelf.”

  “This was the last bottle.”

  “Oh, Weez, don’t be so naïve.”