Single Player: Humor, Love, Breast Cancer and a Gaming Girl...

by Nicole, Jamie

  The message is from Mrnotsosmall@all. Oh shit. The message reads (OH MY GOD, NO!): Hi, about last night. I don’t think you’re aware of this but somehow in the course of your night you video chatted me. Lucky for me, I was home, but I don’t think you knew I was there or for that matter that you were messaging me. Anyway… uhm. I just felt like I had to be honest. Well, because, I saw you, your face I mean. I’d like to talk to you and in case I haven’t told you before my name’s Christian. Okay, hope to talk soon… CeeCee. HE KNOWS MY NAME! HE SAW (HIGHLIGHT SAW) ME! As I’m having this thought my eyes scan down my body and I’m immediately reminded of my current state of undress. And, you’d be shocked to know that yes, I can barf again.

  ***

  Here we are hours after the message incident and I’m in no better shape, though I have stopped barfing. In light of current events that’s the least of my concerns. I am desperate to recall what I might have said or done during my drunken foray but my minds drawing a blank. Apparently I’ve blocked myself from… myself. My mind has turned on me and I can’t decide if it’s a good thing or a bad thing, but I’m leaning heavily in the direction of bad. Self preservation is a very strong human attribute and I’m almost certain that’s exactly what my brain is doing, providing me with the wonderful innate ability I have to just… forget. If only there were a way I could help Christian forget as well. But, alas, mind control is not yet a real thing.

  So here I am not only worrying about the very real “mom-situation” that I’m currently dealing with but also the very real ‘Christian-saw-me-in-my-pretty-panties’ situation I’ve gotten myself into as well. Before I’m able to delve too much deeper into the dark and dangerous thoughts of my mind I’m interrupted by the obnoxious sound of my landline ringing yet again. Struggling to my feet, I walk the few steps it takes to answer it while trying to stay upright on the wobbly, dehydrated legs I woke up with.

  “Hey Cee, we’re at the hotel.” I can hear a door open and shut and then Liddy’s voice muffled in the background while Connor talks. “Liddy’s freshening up and then we’re heading to the prison. According to the guy I talked to on the phone this morning visiting hours go through most of the day so we have plenty of time. How are you doing with this whole thing?” Duh.

  “Hey, to you too.

  And, I’m fine. I’m dealing.” I’m an a-hole this morning. “You sound like shit.”

  “Flatterer.” I hear Liddy come back into the room and declare that she’s ready. Holy Crap! This is happening.

  “Alright Sis, Liddy’s out which means, we’re off to prison. I’ll be in touch as soon as possible. Please try to be okay. Remember to count, play your games, write stuff down, draw pictures, whatever. Just stay busy,” Busy. Gotcha. I’ll go barf some more. “I can’t handle this if I know you’re sitting on your couch all alone having a panic attack. I need to know you’re okay. Can you do that for me? Be okay?” The thought pops into my mind that one day he’s going to make the best dad. Liddy’s a lucky girl, because this guy? He loves big.

  “I’m on it. If it will make you feel any better I’ll start counting right now before we even hang up and I’ll even do you one bigger and grab my drawing pad at the same time. How’s that for being an overachiever, huh?” He laughs, tells me he loves me one more time as an added reassurance before I hear Liddy shout, ‘I love you too Cee’ and then the phone goes quiet. They’re gone, off to meet the wizard, the elusive mystery person that’s been hiding behind the infamous green curtain for the past twenty five years. The Mother.

  As I set the phone back on its dock I see the answering machine in the kitchen is blinking with a missed message. Oh god, when did I get a phone call? Seriously, what the hell happened last night?

  I’m standing in front of the small ominous looking machine, finger hovering over the red blinking light while trying to decide if it’s wise to hit play. With all the surprises that I’ve had so far this morning about what went down last night there’s a possibility that I may hear something on this machine that I don’t like. But, I forge on because for whatever reason, the subconscious, sober part of my mind identifies no real threat and I allow my finger to do what it wants and hit the play button.

  Instantly I’m rewarded for my bravery because it’s him. Ashton’s peaceful acoustics immediately fill the small room that I’m standing in and all at once I’m able to relax. After everything that’s happened between us he’s still here for me. Maybe not in the way that I’m used to, or even the way that I want, but he’s here in the way that works best for him, the way that keeps him safe, and I accept that. It’s good enough because he’s here and more importantly, he’s not forgotten me after all.

  One one-thousand, two one-thousand, three one-thousand…

  eleven

  Believe it or not (believe it, it happened), when counting into my answering machine one can get all the way to ninety-nine one-thousand before it clicks off and so rudely dismisses your call. That’s no small feat (it actually is, but you do have to exhibit some serious patience to count that long into a machine, its super boring. I mean, try singing all the way through ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall. Borders on impossible.). Ashton knows me well enough to know that this unorthodox show of support means that my “forgive me” text was both received and accepted. This is his way of reciprocating the sentiment.

  I grab my cell from the table, plug it in to charge and wait for it to power on. As soon as it can be unplugged I pull it from its dock and hold it in front of the machine to record feature on my cellular, playback the treasure on my machine, again, for the fourth time… and hit the record button.

  I slide down the smooth face of the lower cabinets and land triumphantly on my butt with a loud thwack. My index finger quickly locates its target on the face of my phone and I’m rewarded with the best sound in the world when I hit play. A smile can’t help but to split my face in two as I sit there on the cold floor holding my phone in my lap listening to his smooth voice gliding along to the accompaniment of his guitar as he strums away to our favorite song, Blackbird, by of course, The Beatles.

  That has been ‘our song’ since that Christmas so many years ago when I gave him his very first book of music. The song’s words spoke to the two of us at such a young age because we’d both already had to endure so much pain and struggle that the deep and meaningful lyrics spread out on the page were there, as if written for the two of us alone to hear.

  Since then their music has been the backdrop to many a good and many a bad day spent between he and I. That was the easiest gift I ever picked out for Ashton. In fact, the day is still clear in my mind. Dad was shopping with me and he said that there was only one choice when it came to learning the craft of music and that choice was The Beatles. Then he handed me the book with Blackbird in it and said, “Here. You’re done. Anyone serious about learning music needs to be taught its beauty and complexity by the Beatles before ever looking at another artist.” My dad knew music so I did what the man said and never once regretted my decision. From the morning Ashton pulled the shiny paper off that book, and for many years to follow, the two of us would sit for hours on my bedroom floor listening to their albums absorbing the genius and heart that came through in their music. Ash was determined to learn every word and nuance from the great McCartney, Lennon, Harrison and Starr. There is a direct correlation between the amazing performer and musician Ashton Riley Stevens has become and his love, knowledge and dedication to studying all things Beatles. To “douche” it up for just a moment, they’re his inspiration.

  Because his inspiration was so easy to love they became mine as well. Their music convinced me that I could be unique, create unique things and love unique people without the worry of rejection ruling my life. Unfortunately this fear management did not translate to the doubts I’d later struggle with, such as my overwhelming fear of death and of being left alone in the world. It’s funny really how I’m acting out that exact fear every day even though it’s what I’m most afr
aid of, the being alone.

  You’d think it would be the opposite wouldn’t you? That I’d fill my life with as many extraneous people as possible, but that’s just it. I’m not afraid of the number of people I have or don’t have surrounding me but instead I’m afraid of the quality of people I’ll have left in the end. I fear the extraneous because that has no depth, no matter, no love. The real trick is to have the love, the BIG LOVE, the TRUE LOVE, with people who make a difference in your world. What my years of living have taught me up until now is that those are rare, hard to find relationships but, more importantly, they’re also even harder to keep. That’s the reason I do what I do. I push them away first before they have a chance to do it to me. Up until this point I thought this well-thought out plan was working for me. Turns out all I’m capable of is lonely love because in it, I feel safe and I feel in control.

  For example, what if I said out loud to Ashton that I loved him? What if I do love him? I’ve never said it to him or even in my own head before now, not once in all the years I spent cuddled up next to him at night or wiping away the blood from his wounds when we were kids or even in thanks when he held me for hours and hours on the night that my dad passed. The reason is simple. If I say it, or even admit to it, then it’s a real thing, a weapon that could be used to destroy me. Until this moment I never thought it was worth the risk to say those words to someone, but now, now that I’m looking down the barrel of actually being alone I’m forced to look at my fear like the bitch that it is and decide if I’m strong enough to withstand the further wounds it could inflict upon me. The conclusion I’ve come to is this; I need it, the BIG love because without IT, I will be forever… alone.

  Master’s hitting the backdoor with his massive head desperately trying to get me to break free of my Ashton induced coma long enough to let him out. As soon as I come to I push open the cherry-colored door and watch as he barrels past me and into his absurdly small and inept poo-patch looking for an unused spot to go. He sniffs around in vain and sadly it becomes clear to us both that no way, no how is that ever going to happen while I’m crippled by this ridiculous homeboundedness.

  Worrying over the dirty potty field isn’t going to help me today. Right now, I’ve no choice but to keep my head in the game. My brother will be calling soon and his call could have some very real consequences on my psyche. What if he likes the pseudo-mom and then I feel forced to like her as well, or else risk the chance of his being upset with me?

  Then I have this devastating though. What if she’s a horrible person and then I never get the chance to pretend that she’s wonderful and lovely and pretty ever again? I sort of depend on that dream. It’s become a part of my daily reality and I’d hate to have to give up either my Playwoman or Victoria’s Secret fantasy mom. They’ve been a life-defining truth for me. Those fantasies have inspired my dream to design lingerie, and for the love of all things sexy I am not giving them up just as Liddy’s laid the opportunity in my lap.

  Now that I have Ashton’s message safely stored on my cell and cleared from the machine I can begin to process the reality of what’s about to happen with my brother and our long lost mother. For the first time since he was four years old they will come face to face.

  That thought sends my heart beating wildly behind my breastplate and on impulse I do something I’ve never spontaneously done before, I exercise. You’d be right to assume I have no equipment of any kind in my home, but that doesn’t stop me. On instinct I begin with one of the basics I learned in my earlier years of elementary school phys ed class, the classic jumping jack. The brilliant idea to play Ashton’s music and jump in time to his counts comes to me, and yes it’s a little slow, but I’ve been inside for a while and my fitness level requires slow motion. It’s the perfect tempo.

  Thirty minutes later I’ve jumped myself through two cycles of Ashton’s rendition of Blackbird (holy crap that’s a lot of jumping) and then I completed five whole proper pushups, (the most I ever use my arms is during gaming so keep your opinions to yourselves). In the aftermath of my strenuous exertion I am left with the inability to move any one of my four limbs and what feels like the lung capacity of a jelly bean.

  Master knocks into the door alerting me to his desire to reenter and I have no other choice but to roll myself the short distance to the door in order to pull it open. When he passes me he makes a ‘you stink’ face and then turns away from the offensive smell he’s encountered, me. When your dog tells you that you stink, I promise you, you stink. Between the morning’s vomit fest and my impromptu adrenaline-induced exercise routine, I take Master’s very wise advice and head to the shower.

  As I enter the sanctuary of my bathroom I see my pink fluffy robe all cuddled up on its wall hook and I’m immediately brought back to the night Ashton unleashed his naughty hands on all of my girly bits and pieces. See, he’s everywhere, I mean it’s a robe for goodness sake. With Herculean effort I push him and those yummy memories to the back of my mind so that I can concentrate long enough to take off my lingerie and rub my skin raw with my ever-faithful vanilla-cherry scented bodywash. Exfoliation is an absolute must (just some sound advice, nothing at all relevant to my life story).

  A couple hours later I’m clean, sober, dressed and shocked about how productive my day’s been in spite of all the underlying stress I’m under. Just yesterday I was certain I’d waste away every second of today worrying about what’s happening with my brother and the m….o….m, and I promise you, no one’s more surprised by this happy turn of events than me.

  Instead of my normal excessive pondering, I’ve allowed my mind to use today’s reunion as a form of inspiration to produce some awesome daydreams about older mom-aged women in beautiful lingerie. It sounds bad and maybe a little bit weird, but those images have helped me to produce some seriously impressive renderings of pieces that I’m proud of and that I’m positive Liddy will die for. Deciding I can’t wait another minute to show her all of the gorgeous work I’ve just imagined into existence I snap some photos and text them, adding a bunch of excited emoticon faces at the end to show off the true extent of my enthusiasm.

  What occurs next throws me for a loop, or to put it more accurately, it spins my world into a corkscrew-spin, tummy-turning, zero gravity, death defying free-fall. Ring-ring goes the land line. Caller Id shows me the name and I quickly snatch it up and press the receiver to my ear under my wet hair. Here’s the conversation word for word:

  Me to Connor: “Well? Was she crazy? Do I look like her (I don’t look like our dad so it would only make sense)? Did she ask about me? What did Liddy think?” On and on and on I go… until this happens.

  Connor to me: “She’s with me now.”

  Me to Connor: “I didn’t know they let you bring your personal phone into the prison? Wow!”

  Connor to me: “No.”

  Me to Connor: “What are you saying?” Very weighty silence…EARTH TO FREAKING CONNOR! “CONNOR?!” I holler hysterically into the phone.

  Connor finally to me (whispering): “We’re at the hotel. She’s in the bathroom now changing into some of Liddy’s clothes.” I grab my phone and press play on my melodic Blackbird meltdown destroyer. “Cee? Oh, I see. Now you’re going to be silent. Are you counting? Cee… really? I only have a minute, say something.” Holy… Holy… Holy… Hell, (actually that’s an antonym but that’s neither here nor there).

  “I… I…,” this is too much too fast and the only thing my brain has been able to compute thus far are the words mom and here so I cleverly say, “Does she have any underwear?” Oh Lord. Wow!

  “This is your question?” The phone is silent for only a moment before he answers, “If you must know, yes, now that Liddy gave her some of hers she has some. And I say gave because no way will I allow her to take them back.”

  I’m silent like the dead. Master approaches me slowly, weary of the sudden change in my mood. I’m currently crawling over to the liquor cabinet on all fours, the phone tightly pressed between my shoul
der and ear contemplating whether or not to make a drink for myself but then I remember last night (I didn’t actually remember but I know bad things happened) and I also remember that I am not an alcoholic, so there’s that. I may run like the road runner from my problems but I don’t typically drink them away. I just ever so nicely SHOVE them in to the farthest, darkest corner in the backest, back part of my mind. All it takes is a little push a couple times a day and voila, problems are gone. This techniques a real life saver, they should teach it somewhere to people, like at a college or something.

  Phone in hand, I hit play on my recording of Ashton and as soon as the sound of his guitar comes through the tiny speaker some sort of serotonin release is triggered in my brain and I instantly start to calm down. Oh my good Lord, I’m like Pavlov’s dog. That experiment is incredibly accurate, also, that makes me think of all the prescription drugs sold and how if everyone could just have access to Ashton and his guitar-counting-magic then the world would be a much healthier and happier place. Am I right?

  “Hello? Cee? Come back girl.” Connor’s voice startles me from my head on collision with the crazy-town train and I come back to the here and now. Well I’m back enough to reply in a soft whisper so that “she” can’t hear me through the phone or the bathroom wall she’s behind, “Are you bringing her here? I mean, to your house? What if she robs you? Oh my gosh! Is she a thief?” Oops, accidently shout-whispered on that one.

  “I’m bringing her home with me and no, she’s not a thief. You’re crazy.”

  “I’m crazy? Who’s been in prison our entire life? NOT ME! Who was the one that up and left her family? Not me, that’s who! Don’t you dare bring her to my house. I’ve decided that I don’t want to see her and her orange jumpsuit, no-panty-wearing self. And YOU! YOU are the one who’s gone crazy!” Now that I’m good and worked up the feeling of ambivalence I was having in regards to meeting “her” has taken a swift back seat to my newest emotion of the day, and hello MR. ANGER!