The Truth About Aaron

by Jonathan Hernandez

  “You had nothing to do with this,” he said. “It’s not your fault. I’m just blown away by his decision. Aaron doesn’t know much about Florida. I can’t believe he didn’t talk to me first.”

  “I know, Coach,” I said, shaking my head. “Neither can I.”

  Chapter 9

  JULY 2006

  THAT SUMMER, I STAYED at UConn, working out with the team. I called home a few times a week, checking in on my mom and Aaron. But even that was hard, because the phone calls triggered memories of my dad. He had always answered when he was home, often picking up halfway through the first ring. With Dad no longer present, my mom now answered the phone and she always sounded tired, like she hadn’t slept in days.

  One July weekend I went home to visit. I noticed a change in the house as soon as I opened the side door. I knew that Aaron didn’t have a game and my mother had finished work for the day, but no one was in the kitchen and the lights were off. I walked across the worn green rug into the living room. The television was off and the sectional couch looked as if it hadn’t been touched in months. The throw pillows had no body-weight imprints on them and the remotes were side by side on the ottoman.

  I went to my childhood bedroom. I turned on the light; the blue blinds were pulled down to the window ledge above my old bed. Wrinkled clothes were stacked up on the ironing board.

  In the old days, Aaron would sometimes jump out from around a corner and yell “Ahhhhh!” to surprise me. Today no one was there.

  I opened the old wooden doors to my father’s side of the closet. His clothes were still there, untouched since the day he died. I grabbed the right sleeve to his beloved maroon fleece and lifted it to my nose. His scent was lost, overtaken by the constant smoke coming from my mother’s burning cigarette.

  I walked into my parents’ room. It was dark, the bed wasn’t made, and the nineteen-inch TV cast its glow over my mom, lying on her side under the covers. It was the middle of the afternoon and she was sound asleep.

  Her black nightstand was covered with balled tissues, and the ashtray—which she always dumped out—overflowed with a mound of crushed cigarette butts. I gave her a kiss on her head before she woke up and let out a slow, “Heyyyyy.”

  She turned on her bedside lamp and stood up. I was startled. “Mom, are you okay?” I asked. “You look exhausted. You are so skinny. Are you eating?”

  “D, I’ve lost thirty-five pounds,” she said. “I’m down to one hundred.” Her pants didn’t fit and her neck was thinner.

  “It’s like I have a nervous energy constantly traveling through my body,” she said. “I can’t make it stop.”

  The first few months after my father’s passing, I, too, had trouble eating. My weight had dropped from 212 pounds to 182. I vomited often. Almost every time I put food near my mouth, I experienced a gagging sensation. For breakfast I’d go to the dining hall and try to keep down a banana. But now, five months after the funeral, my appetite had returned and my weight was back up to 205.

  “I’m so sorry, Mom,” I said. “Do you know where Aaron is?”

  “He’s either working out or over at Tanya’s,” she said.

  Growing up, back when Aaron was in diapers, my father’s older sister, Ruthie, and her daughter Tanya used to babysit us. I remember sitting under the kitchen table next to my aunt’s leg as three Rottweilers roamed around the kitchen floor. They terrified us. Every now and then, my aunt would drop one of her Bingo markers on the ground and Aaron and I would stamp each other with it. As Aaron grew older, his relationship with Tanya strengthened.

  Aunt Ruthie and Tanya would welcome anyone with a pulse into their house—drug dealers, drug users, even convicted felons. At times our dad would stay there all night playing dominoes and drinking with the guys. Aaron and I would be at the kitchen table playing board games with our cousins and aunts until our mother said it was time to leave. When our mother gave us the ten-minute warning, we would begin giving our family members at the table hugs and kisses before going downstairs to say good-bye to everyone else. Walking down the steps, we passed through clouds of smoke.

  “The boys and I are leaving in five minutes,” she’d tell our dad. If he wanted to stay and finish his game, our mother would say, “Find a ride. We are leaving.”

  On the car ride home, she would be pissed that he didn’t come with us. “I fucking hate going over there,” she told us. “In that house there’s no rules, no structure, and they let people do whatever the hell they want.”

  The next morning, we would have a bowl of Fruity Pebbles for breakfast and then make our way to the living room. My mother, Aaron, and I would be watching television and our father would spend the entire day snoring in his bed. “That son of a bitch,” our mom would say. “I hate when he fucking goes over there.”

  Years later, it was at Tanya’s where Aaron would be introduced to Ernest “Bo” Wallace.

  AARON’S DAILY ROUTINE CONTINUED as before. He seemed happy and rarely expressed any hurt, pain, or depression that he might have been experiencing. My mother would ask him if he was okay, and he’d respond with one word: “Yeah.” Unlike our mom and me, he was gaining weight rather than losing it.

  Whenever I asked “How are you doing?” he’d reply “I’m fine, D” and change the subject. He was immersed in working out.

  One night he was running hills with a weight vest on with one of his teammates. The other kid passed out from the exertion, and as Aaron carried him home, he told him, “I am going to be the best tight end in the NFL someday, you watch. I work harder than anyone else.”

  When Aaron wasn’t training, he would usually spend time with Tanya and Tanya’s husband, Jeff, who in a short period had become Aaron’s closest friend in Bristol. Jeff taught him how to drive and how to fish. Aaron asked me to join them one morning when I was home during my summer break.

  Right away, as we stood close together with our lines cast in a still pond deep in the woods, I noticed they had a great rapport. Their conversation was smooth and effortless.

  In September of Aaron’s junior year, he made his official visit to Florida. Aaron invited his high school coach and Jeff to come along with my mother. One night, after Aaron had gone off with his host and several other Florida football players, my mother and Jeff explored campus together. They eventually stopped for pizza, then returned to the hotel with a six-pack of cold beer. They talked for hours.

  BACK IN BRISTOL, JEFF and my mother would cheer on Aaron at his basketball games. Both smokers, they often went outside together for a cigarette. Jeff asked my mother if she would be interested in grabbing drinks one night.

  A few nights later, they met in the school parking lot. As Jeff closed the passenger door to my mom’s silver Nissan, Tanya pulled up in front with her brights on. She jumped out of her car and began shouting at Jeff and my mom, accusing them of having an affair. My mom told Jeff he should get out of the car and go with Tanya.

  As Jeff stepped out, my mom said, “Tanya, we’re not doing anything wrong.”

  My mom drove off by herself. Tanya followed closely, flashing her high beams and honking her horn. My mother took a left into the gas station at the bottom of the hill. Tanya parked behind her and told Jeff to get out of the car. “You’re fucking my husband!” Tanya yelled to my mom. “I can’t believe you’re fucking my husband!”

  “Tanya,” my mom said, “we didn’t do anything. We were going to have a drink.”

  Tanya peeled off. Jeff got into my mom’s car a second time and she took him back to the school’s parking lot to retrieve his white hoopty. They decided to go get a drink like they had planned.

  Tanya went home and immediately marched across the street to the youth football field, where Aaron was watching a practice.

  “Your mother is fucking my husband!” she yelled loud enough for everyone in the crowd to hear.

  Aaron was stunned.

  THAT NIGHT I WAS lying in my hotel bedroom in Bloomington, Indiana. The next afternoon I would be m
aking my fifth career start at quarterback against the Hoosiers. The room was dark, the TV was on, and my roommate, another quarterback, was napping in his bed on the other side of the room.

  My phone vibrated. I answered.

  “I can’t take this anymore, D,” Aaron said.

  “Calm down,” I said. “Please tell me what’s wrong?”

  “Mom ruined our family,” he said.

  “Aaron, where are you?”

  “I’m over Tanya’s now,” he said.

  “Let me call Mom and I’ll call you right back.”

  I dialed my mother’s number. “Mom, how could you?”

  “Everything is being blown out of proportion, D,” she said. “I didn’t do anything wrong. I don’t know why everyone is acting like this.”

  I called Aaron back and told him I had to attend a team meeting. As I sat with the other quarterbacks, my mind wasn’t on Indiana; all I could concentrate on was what was happening to my family in Bristol.

  After the meeting, I sat on a step in the hotel stairwell and phoned Aaron. He was crying and saying that our mother wasn’t answering her cell phone anymore.

  It was getting close to bed check, so I returned to my room, still talking to Aaron. I was usually in bed asleep by now, but I didn’t want to leave him alone like this. I buried my head under my pillow and whispered, not wanting to wake up my roommate. I fell asleep with Aaron on the other end of the phone.

  The next day I played the worst game of my career. I was 5 of 13 for 27 yards, with two interceptions, and lost a fumble going into the end zone. I was a sleeping quarterback, no energy. I was relieved we won, 14–7.

  The next day, back at UConn, I walked into the film room to review the game tape with my position group. Just before the projector bulb warmed up and shined out onto the white screen, Coach Edsall entered the room.

  “We have to play better at the quarterback position and we need more consistency,” he said. “We’re going to make a change this upcoming week. DJ, you’re going to be the backup.”

  “Okay,” I said. “It’s a business. You have to do what you have to do.”

  I was shocked that those words even came out of my mouth. It caught both Edsall and my quarterback coach by surprise. Edsall asked me if everything was okay.

  “Yep,” I said.

  Before the Indiana game, being the starting quarterback for the Huskies was everything I had ever worked for. But over the next few weeks, Edsall could tell I wasn’t focused because of my poor play from practice to practice. He finally asked me to come up to his office.

  As soon as I sat down in front of his desk, he rose from his chair and shut both of his office doors behind me. Right then I knew this was going to be a serious conversation.

  “DJ, I need to know what’s going on,” he said. “You’ve been a leader for us, but I’ve noticed something hasn’t been right for a while.”

  He looked at me in silence, waiting for me to respond. I met his stare, saying nothing, shaking my head. I didn’t want to open up about my family. I was ashamed of what my mother had done; I thought it made my entire family look bad.

  Finally, Edsall spoke again. “DJ, I don’t want to do this, but if things don’t change soon, we are going to move you down to the scout team because we aren’t getting anything out of you. If you don’t let anyone in, no one can help you.”

  Edsall sat there patiently, waiting for me to say something, anything.

  “DJ,” he said softly, “I’m here for you.”

  “Coach, I lost my family,” I said, with my voice cracking. “I have nothing. My father died, my brother is going to Florida, and my mother took my cousin’s husband. My family will never be the same.”

  Trying to keep it together, I explained to him that I hadn’t spoken to my mother in months, since the night before the Indiana game. I told him how much I hated my life.

  Edsall got out of his leather chair and gave me a fatherly hug. He left the room for a minute and then returned with my position coach. “Anything you need, just tell us,” Edsall said. “We’ll always be here for you.”

  I walked out of his office ready to move forward. I felt like I had a family again—my football family.

  IT WAS WORSE FOR Aaron. Four days after the Indiana game, our grandmother had told Aaron, who was staying with Tanya, to call our mother.

  “Aaron, I didn’t do anything wrong,” my mother said, referring to her night out with Jeff. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

  Tanya had started telling Aaron that our mother and Jeff had likely been seeing each other when our father was alive. Tanya wouldn’t even let Aaron say my mother’s name; Jeff would soon move out of Tanya’s house. “It was like Aaron was being brainwashed to hate me,” my mother told me later. “There was no truth to what Tanya was telling him. I was sick of their shit and the things they were allowing him to do over there.”

  My mom finally called Tanya.

  “A bartender just called me at work telling me you brought my sixteen-year-old son into their bar and slipped him drinks,” she said. “It stops now!”

  Tanya replied, “I’m his mother now,” and hung up.

  Their tension grew as time passed. In November, Jeff moved out of Tanya’s house. In December, my mother sat Aaron down and explained that she was going to start dating Jeff.

  After losing our dad, Aaron now felt like he had lost everything—me to college, our father to death, and now our mother to Jeff.

  Chapter 10

  OCTOBER 2006

  ON OCTOBER 21, BRISTOL CENTRAL played Maloney High School at Muzzy Field. I returned to watch Aaron play for the first time during his senior season.

  With less than two minutes remaining in the fourth quarter, Bristol trailed, 27–26. I couldn’t take my eyes off my brother as the offense moved down the field. On the next snap, Aaron fired out of his three-point stance to engage in a block. His helmet collided with a linebacker’s helmet. Aaron’s body went limp, falling to the ground—first his butt, then his back, and then the back of his maroon helmet.

  His body remained motionless as trainers and coaches ran out onto the field to gather around him. I looked up to the top of the press box where Bristol’s offense coordinator sat, asking for an update. He shook his head, because he didn’t have one yet.

  Finally, the trainer guided Aaron upright before Aaron took his helmet off. When Aaron got to his feet, the crowd clapped. The trainer and his head coach helped him off the field.

  I saw Aaron smile as he walked and talked. But then his body language shifted when his coach said, “Aaron, you are done for the night.”

  “I am fine, Coach,” Aaron said. “I am ready to go back in.”

  I could tell something was wrong so I ran out of the stands to ask Aaron if he was okay. He said his coach wouldn’t let him play anymore. “I need to be out there,” Aaron told me. “I need to be out there with my team.”

  “Calm down,” I said. “You don’t need to be out there right now.”

  “I’m fine, I have to be in there,” he stated. “My team needs me.”

  Determined to reenter the game, Aaron started going up to his teammates and asking if he could borrow a helmet.

  “Let me wear your helmet,” he said to each in turn.

  I was confused. I looked back to the top of the press box and asked my old offensive coordinator if Aaron was going to return to play. “No,” he said. “Your brother was knocked out cold. He’s done.”

  Aaron remained sidelined for the rest of the game as he watched his team lose. He felt like he let his teammates down.

  My mother drove Aaron to the hospital, where doctors confirmed he had a concussion. After the exam, Aaron told our mom to take him to Tanya’s. “There was no telling Aaron the word no,” she told me. “Aaron no longer had respect for me. He was done listening to me.”

  AT THE CLOSE OF the season, Aaron was invited to play in the U.S. Army All-American Bowl in San Antonio, Texas. Aaron had finished his high
school career with 3,677 receiving yards and 47 touchdowns—both state records. And his 180.7 receiving yards per game over his high school career was a national record. He was a two-time All-American and a two-time state player of the year.

  My entire family met Aaron in San Antonio. This was the first time I witnessed how much hatred Aaron had developed for our mother. I could tell he was still seething from her decision to be with Jeff. After the game Aaron walked over to the stands and was nice to everyone, but he wouldn’t acknowledge our mother. When she approached him, he said, “I don’t talk to sluts or whores.”

  We flew from San Antonio to Gainesville, Florida, to move Aaron into his college dorm. He had finished high school a semester early so he could participate in spring football practice with the Gators.

  In our hotel room we watched Florida beat Ohio State for the national championship. Sitting on our beds, Aaron finally asked me how he played in the All-Star game. “You didn’t look focused,” I said. “You were all over the place. You better pick it up because if you play like that at Florida, you’re not going to be playing much.”

  The next morning we, along with our mother, drove to Walmart and filled a few carts with items Aaron would need in his dorm room. Our mother was trying to do anything to connect with Aaron, but he remained distant.

  I couldn’t wait to get away from the arguing and resume my life at UConn.

  Chapter 11

  JUNE 2007

  I GAVE AARON SPACE, ALLOWING him to settle into his new environment in Gainesville. After a few weeks, I called him to see how he was adapting to college life.

  “How is everything going?” I asked.

  “It’s good,” he said. He talked about the weather and how much he enjoyed the cool breeze at night. He spoke about how much he was studying his playbook and the amount of film he was watching. He thought he would have a good chance of playing as a true freshman.

  At the end of Aaron’s first semester of college, we both returned home for his high school graduation. When I pulled into our driveway, I found Aaron in our backyard with a few of his high school friends. Aaron was still angry with our mom, but he met some of his old buddies at our backyard pool. He spoke with a thick southern accent—thicker than some of my teammates who were from Georgia and Florida.