The Light of Day

by Kristen Kehoe

  “Why’d you call A.J.?”

  “Because I knew she would come see me,” she answers honestly. With a sigh, she adds, “Because I’m weak enough to want someone else to save me when I’m not capable of saving myself.”

  “Wrong,” I say and turn her face toward mine with a fingertip under her chin. “If you were weak, you wouldn’t be here, Cora; you never would have moved home to face every demon that’s ever haunted you, you would have just kept running. You’re so fucking strong, Blue, you don’t even know it. You want to know why you called A.J.? Because you knew she would come and get you, that she could; you knew she wouldn’t let you down and you trusted her to help you.” If it feels like a knife is slicing into my chest at those words and the fact that she didn’t call me, that she had no reason to call me because I’m the one that walked away, I do my best to ignore them.

  “It’s not weak to admit you need someone, Cora,” I tell her and it hits me here and now how true it is. I walked away because I was afraid I would hurt her, or she would hurt me, that neither of us would survive whatever we had because it was so strong, so real, and so fucking scary. Now, shit, now isn’t the time to admit that I need her more than I need anything or anyone, because with her I can survive anything.

  Swallowing that back, I hold out my hand and wait for her to take it. “You’re stronger than you know, Blue, and asking for help only proves that.”

  She stares at me, her hand in mine, and I wish to Christ I could lean forward and put my lips on hers, pull her into my lap and just hold her, let her know that I’ll always be here if only she’ll forgive me and let me, that I’ll protect her so she never feels the need to give away any part of herself again just to ease the pain. But I don’t, because even that offer would have expectations on it, expectations and considerations she isn’t ready to deal with, so instead, I hold her hand and wait for her to tell me what she needs.

  “I’m sorry they called you,” she says again, only this time she continues before I can interrupt. “But I’m not sorry you came, either. Thank you,” she says and I understand that she’s talking about more than the long drive. Not pressuring her, not asking for more than she has to give, more than she can process right now.

  Hoping she understands, too, I scrape my thumb over her knuckles. “Always, Blue. I mean it. I’m not going to disappear again,” I say because I can’t help it. “So don’t be afraid to send a text or leave a message — I’ll always call back, and I’ll always listen. Okay?”

  She nods and I know that it has to be enough for now. Sitting back, I pick up my cold coffee and drain it, swallowing back all of the words I want to say to her. Not the time, I remind myself.

  “Any other questions?” she asks and I see how tired she is.

  I work to shift gears and ease the tension, to give her a break so she can relax. My grin is almost real when I flash it. “Yeah, did you wear those pants to torture me?”

  She responds like I hope, and her smile is light and teasing. “Of course.”

  ~

  We keep the rest of the day casual. We do end up going for a run along the water, and even though the sun is blaring and the mid-July weather is near sweltering in the afternoon, I feel more content than I have since I left almost three months ago. Neither of us acknowledges the routine we slip seamlessly back into when we walk home from the water and make small talk. When we walk into the apartment, she heads to the shower and I start dinner, trading off with her when she comes into the kitchen clean and smelling like almonds and flowers and everything else that makes my head swim and my blood hum.

  She’s wearing a pair of faded jean shorts that are probably new, though they’re ripped and short enough that the pockets hang longer than the frayed hem to grace her thighs. Her black and white striped tank top is loose and shapeless, just meeting the waist band of her shorts with wide arm holes, hanging on her in just a way that I glimpse the flesh beneath every now and then, and her skin looks golden and smooth, enticing me to touch, just a brush of my fingertips. I don’t, because I’m sure that one touch won’t be enough, so instead, I hand her a bottle of water and grab my small bag of clothes.

  “Okay if I shower?” I ask and she nods.

  Twenty minutes later, I’m wearing a new T-shirt and some gray Volcom shorts that I brought with me, my feet bare like hers while we share a dinner of grilled chicken and pineapple at the table.

  We’ve talked about nothing important since we sat here this morning, and I wonder if we’ll keep up the same sort of small talk. She surprises me when she asks a question first.

  “Aren’t you supposed to be at your game against Boise?”

  I pause mid bite and raise my brow at her. “Do you know my schedule, Blue?”

  She nods without hesitating, her smile small but honest. “I’ve been thinking about you, Handsome Jake, and seeing you, even if it’s just your name and some statistics I have to have Mia decipher for me, makes me feel closer to you.”

  Her words wash over me, filling all of those places that have been so empty these past few months. I can’t help it; I reach across the table and link out fingers, watching as her narrow, red tipped fingers link through my much larger ones. “I pitched last night, so today wasn’t my game. I’m meeting up with the team as they head north to Vancouver tonight.”

  She nods as if she knew that was our time frame. “Won’t your coach be mad that you weren’t there today?”

  I shake my head. “He understood when I told him I had a family emergency.”

  I look at her while the words hang between us, and I wait for her to understand and accept them. I can’t push, but I have to let her know, to tell her somehow that everything that felt necessary all those months ago doesn’t really feel like anything now that I’m without her.

  Before either of us can say anything, there’s a knock at the door, followed by a shout, and the moment is broken. When she frowns, I offer a smile and let her hand fall.

  “I called Mia, figuring you wouldn’t have because you knew she was with Ryan.” She nods, her eyes wet with emotion, and I go on. “I have to leave, but I knew I wouldn’t be able to until you had someone here with you, and I know Mia enough to know she needs to be here for you, Blue, because she loves you. Let them be here for you, Cora,” I say quietly, and she takes a deep breath and nods.

  Another pound on the door and Nina’s voice hollering through has Cora’s eyes clearing and a small smile coming to her lips. She stands, and after a second of a debate, she lays her hands on my shoulders and her cheek against mine. “Thank you,” she whispers in my ear. “For being here, for calling them, for today. Thank you for all of it.”

  I turn my head slightly, my nose brushing hers, my eyes at half-mast as I breathe her in. “Always.” And I mean it. This girl has my heart and my soul and even though I can’t take her now, can’t claim her and make her mine without playing on her vulnerability, I know that when my season ends, I’m coming back and I’m not leaving again until I know she’s mine forever.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Cora

  Contrary to what many people think, sobriety does not mean an addict has conquered their addiction. Sobriety, while being the ultimate goal, is really only a part of recovery. The other part comes from completing the twelve steps and, sometimes, those are harder than saying no to your drug or drink of choice.

  The early steps are difficult because as one starts out their recovery, every day is a battle. Waking up, eating breakfast, going to work, even looking in the mirror can be a task, because while you’re grateful that you’re alive, you’re not always grateful that you’re sober and, therefore, able to feel. Taking away that substance induced fog is like giving a blind person their sight back only so they can realize the world isn’t nearly as beautiful as they hoped it would be.

  My first step was easy because it was taken out of my hands. Rafe had no choice but to take me to the hospital when I recklessly chased pills with alcohol, and Mia was no longer conte
nt to sit back and let me run my own life, not when it was clear that I could care less which direction I ran it into. So, after admitting to myself that I did in fact have a problem, I began group therapy and admitted to others that I was an alcoholic who found it easier to sink into a bottle and then a person because life was complicated, and often painful. After that came my health craze and my spiritual recognition as I left group and went to AA, and though I’ve never found comfort in the organized religion like so many of my contemporaries, I did find my understanding of a higher being when I began running. The beach in the morning, the quiet of it as my feet hit the sand, the waves and the endless water as the sun rose overhead — they helped me to recognize that I wasn’t in control, not the way I wanted to be, and that life takes its own turns, leaving people to ultimately just live. How I lived was the only thing I could control. When I started doing yoga, I learned how to center myself and block out the noise that often surrounded me when I was alone, and focus only on my center, on the stretching and strengthening of my muscles and, eventually, my confidence.

  In my first year of sobriety, I learned that life can’t be controlled, and the only person in charge of my actions is me. And I learned that being alone doesn’t mean being lonely.

  Now, over a year in and only days after almost ruining my hard earned eighteen months of sobriety and self-worth, and my finger is hesitating over a name in my contacts because once I press it I’ve officially re-started step nine, the step I’m not sure how to complete, the one where I make amends with those my addiction hurt. I look at the handwritten list in front of me and wonder if I can really speak to all of the people there and explain to them what I barely understand myself; that I’m sorry, so goddamn sorry that I hurt them, used them, blamed them.

  I started with Mia and Nina this morning before their flight left, emotional at the thought of them leaving, grateful for the few days I had with both of them before they began their Ph.D. programs in different states. We sat at the kitchen table and I explained to them what my ninth step was, why it was important to complete it, and then I apologized, not just for lying to them each time they asked if I was okay, but for ignoring that when I hurt myself I was hurting them.

  As expected, their reactions were polar opposite. Mia held my hand in her own and showed her quiet love and support while I spoke, and Nina fumed the entire time until I was done, eventually telling me, “Barbie, don’t apologize to me. I’m your friend — standing up for you, even when you’re being an idiot and refuse to stand up for yourself — is what friends do. You’re my friend, which means I’ll pull your ass out of bad choices every time, because I love you. Don’t forget it again, and don’t ever think I need an apology.” Then she stood, kissed me smack on the lips and told Mia to get her ass in gear so they weren’t late.

  It was rather poetic, in a sense, and left me feeling lighter than I had since Jake left. Now, though, I’m taking another step, a more difficult one as I call the one name on my list who has the true right to hate me and blame me for everything.

  Taking a deep breath, I press down and bring the phone to my ear, wondering if it will be harder or easier if he doesn’t answer.

  It only rings twice before he answers, the “Hello?” hesitant enough to tell me that he still has my number programmed into his phone, and he’s just as unsure about this phone call as I am.

  “Rafe, it’s Cora.” You know, the girl who married you and then probably cheated on you because you couldn’t spend one hundred percent of your day focusing on her? Remember me?

  I swallow and wonder how the hell people do this, how they survive this, when he speaks. “Cora, I’m glad to hear your voice.”

  My laugh is a little shaky and a lot caustic. “Really? Because I figured you might be happy to never hear from me again after the way I let things happen.”

  “Cora,” he says and his voice is a gentle scold, one I remember him using time and again at the end of our relationship when I walked home in the morning, strung out and hung-over, desperately wishing I could remember what I’d done the night before and lashing out at him when I never did. “How are you?”

  “Ha, isn’t that a loaded question? I’m here, so that’s good.” I swallow and go for it. “And I’m sorry, Rafe, for all of it. I’m grateful for what you did,” I say and wish for a second I could see his face so he would know how true that statement is. “If it wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t be here, maybe at all, but definitely not like I am now, sober, and working on being happy.”

  The line is silent for a second and then I hear a small sigh and in my mind I can see the beautiful boy with the beach-blond hair and brown eyes, the quick smile that charmed me those first months when all I wanted was for someone to love me. “I’m glad, Cora. Are you in San Diego? I… maybe we could meet up, talk. I’ve actually been wondering about you, but when I went by your apartment a few months after I last saw you, you weren’t there and no one knew where to find you. I’ve been working up the courage to call your cousin and ask her.”

  I smile at the thought of someone needing to have courage to talk to Mia, the sweet angel of the family. “I’m actually back in Portland now. I’m… working on things, I guess you could say. Making amends is one of them.”

  Though I can’t see him, I imagine him nodding as I hear him agree with me for coming home. “I wish it could have been different for us, Cora,” he finally says and I close my eyes, because for an instant I wish it could have, too, and then I think of Jake and understand that whatever I wanted to feel for Rafe was never even close to the things swirling around inside of me for Jake.

  “Me, too,” I say and mean it. “I want you to know that when we were together, when it was good, it was real for me, as real as I was capable of at that time. It’s not an excuse for what I did at the end, but it’s the truth.”

  “For me too,” he says, his voice tight with emotion and I know he gets it. Whatever we were is done; I’m different and so is he, but who we were for that brief period of time before I gave in and he got angry, it deserves acknowledgement. “Goodbye, Cora.”

  “Goodbye, Rafe.”

  I hang up the phone and stare at it before setting it aside and picking up my list. My fingers brush over the few other names on there, stopping on the last name on the list and the entire reason I moved back home.

  Tracing the letters, I pick up my phone and, this time, I don’t hesitate before dialing.

  “Dad, it’s Cora.” I clear my throat, realizing that last time I saw him was days ago when I walked out of the hospital and then into a club, too weak to remember that life isn’t always ours to control. But I’m here to live another day, I think, and straighten my shoulders. “How is she?” I ask and listen while he relays her progress.

  Slow speech, a few slurred words, difficulty in balance and hand dexterity, but, overall, recovering. He doesn’t add the words we’re both thinking: from this. She’s recovering from this, but not from the dementia. She’ll never recover from that, and this stroke appears to be one of many. The life that my mother was never quite satisfied with, the life that she worked hard to make into everything glamorous and idolized, has now turned on her and made it so that every day is unique, if only because it could be the last she’ll have.

  “I wanted to come see you and Mom, together, when she’s up for some company. I need to see her,” I tell him and whether it’s the words or my tone, he somehow understands why. When he says nothing, I take a deep breath and understand that he’s always going to protect her, and it’s time I started to accept that. “I just want to do what I should have a long time ago, and tell her I love her, that I’m sorry I didn’t try harder when I was younger, but that I love her. I need to do this, Dad, if you’ll let me. Will you call me when you think she’s ready to handle me?”

  He sighs, not unlike Rafe a moment ago, and then he agrees, ending the conversation with a quiet, “I love you, Cora.”

  I nod, and before I can think about it, I say, “Me, too,”
and hang up.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Jake

  I’m in the locker room suiting up for one of our last series of the season against Hillsboro, one of the teams in Oregon, which also happens to be the team in a neighboring town to Portland, where Blue is. We have five games against them and I’m pitching the first. I’m pulling my jersey on, sitting next to Laken, my ever present pain in the ass, roommate, and second baseman, and looking over his shoulder as he texts back and forth with some girl he met two nights ago in a bar in the Tri-city area when we were finishing our five games series there. Sexting isn’t even accurate for what these two are doing and since I’m doing my best not to text Cora and ask her if she’s coming, I’m vesting myself in Laken’s borderline pornographic text conversation. I can’t decide if it’s more or less painful than just throwing my pride away and sending a text of my own.

  When I texted a few days ago to let her know I’d be in Portland, she responded by simply saying she would make it if she could. I had someone leave tickets at will-call for her and her friends in case, and when I let her know that all she texted back was “thanks” and a little smiley face. Though we haven’t been as talkative as we were when we were together, we have talked more lately, shared stories, texted more regularly, so her lack of response had my imagination working in overdrive, putting together scenarios of relapse, a new relationship, or just the decision to be done with me. When I called Murph to talk it out, his suggestion was to calm the fuck down, find my balls, and remember that she was going through a lot of shit that required time. Bottom line: when she was ready to talk to me, she would tell me.

  I know he’s right, but it’s still taking all I have not to dial her number and ask her if she’s going to let me see her while I’m here, hence, Chris Laken and his distracting, albeit misspelled, conversation.