My mind can’t take in the news she just told me. It was kind of her—I’m grateful for it.
The phone from the office rings and she gets up to leave.
I slide to the edge of the seat and rest my forehead in the palms of my hands.
God. . . Shay. . .
34
shay
I can’t remember if the sun shined today, or the names of the faceless people speaking softly and sympathetically to me now. As grateful as I am for us not to be alone in this echoing house, for me, they are still guests in it and I feel some responsibility to be a hostess. But I’m tired. I’m tired, and I’m broken. And everywhere I look the rooms have the same view, people dressed in rigid black funeral clothing, talking quietly among themselves. . . and filling every space.
I begin to feel the rooms spinning in slow motion, as if I’m part of a colorless scene, in a children’s revolving light box, going round and round, until my eyes finally come to rest on my dad in his red chair facing the garden. I don’t think he’s moved from it since our hands parted, walking through the front door two hours ago.
There is someone sitting beside him. As I get nearer, through the crowd of people, I can see it’s Uncle Elliott. A small plate of uneaten bean casserole and a half full cup of coffee sit on the adjoining table between them. I lay my hand on dad’s resting on the armrest. As he looks up at me he forces an efforted smile, and the strain in his face grips me. Tears fill my eyes and I try to speak. He squeezes my hand in both of his. Before the tears flow and the pulsing force of withheld sobs bursts forth from my throat uncontrollably, I bend down to him and whisper as best I can, “I’m going upstairs.”
I close the door behind me and lean my back against it. Who makes up the rules of life—of death? By now the tears are coming faster and the torrent of unfairness lashes about in my mind. I angrily force off the black clothes and rush for my bed gripping my pillow, burying my face down hard into it. Every controlled emotion of the day unleashes itself into a frenzied sob, until I’m convulsively gasping for air.
dane
I push the door shut on the locker, not walking away yet, just motionless. Five days. I lower my head a minute, taking time to collect myself from the long practice. . . and thinking of her.
“Good luck out there tomorrow.”
I sense the comment’s meant for me, haven’t been paying attention, but I think I’m the only one left hanging around the locker room, anyway. I turn to see Kip posting a reminder schedule of massage times on the cork board.
“Thanks.”
“You okay?” He passes by me, standing in the doorframe, checking.
“Sure. . . just winding down.” I give a nod of reassurance.
“How ‘bout that leg? Giving you any more problems?”
He’s got to be one of the most decent people the athletic department has, especially compared to the tool they signed as coach for the next couple of years. “Now and again, push past it pretty much though.”
“You think it needs to be looked at?” A little concern flickers in his expression.
“Nah, not a muscle, can tell that, just some phantom thing now and again—probably getting old.”
“Doubt that.” He pats the side of my arm as he starts to head off.
It’s not a muscle. He’s right though, if it gets any worse, and when I have time, I’ll have someone take a quick look at it.
35
shay
I listen to Uncle Elliott’s support. They’ll come out. See me. Won’t be long. . . he promises. . . He’ll help dad get things in order.
The long drive to the airport sounded like the same words over, and over again, echoing carefully, sparingly between my father and him. You need to get back to school, for your good. Your mom would’ve wanted it that way. . . please. Don’t lose your place. Don’t worry. . . Don’t. . . The words link together, until the hum of them leaves me.
Everything’s fractured.
I close my eyes remembering.
She would’ve wanted it that way.
I should’ve been home.
* * *
I reach forward and pay the fare for the cab, not moving, just waiting for him to get the one suitcase from the trunk I left here with two weeks ago.
The apartment is still.
My blanket is strewn across the bed, hanging off of the edge onto the floor. Things are frozen in place, the way they were on that night the call came. I release the handle of the luggage and let my sweater fall from my wrist, sifting down my leg, and walk over to my bed, sitting just on the edge.
I blink back tears to see my satchel stuffed up against the wall by my dresser and the front door. There’s an envelope on the floor. Jenny’s handwriting. A card slid under the door. I walk to it and bend down, but instead reach for the bag and search inside for the pocket, and that small folded piece of paper.
His voice is kind when he answers.
“. . . please come. . .”
dane
I turn off the light and turn to lock the door.
The sun is setting and the evening is quiet. Only two words. But they were the two words I’ve been waiting to here.
The four blocks there will steady me. . . I’ll need to be calm for her.
She’s standing by the front door of the house.
She looks so frail.
I follow her inside.
As she turns to close the door I see her fragility in the tremble of her hands, the sadness that consumes her, the tears escaping her cast down eyes now. I reach for her, gently lifting her up, cradling her small frame secure in my arms, and carry her to the bed. I pull the blanket around her, tucking it to her body and lie on the outside of it. I listen to her breathing, and slowly smooth her hair, holding her, not letting go. . . never letting go.
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The Season of Shay and Dane Page 10