Fadeaway

by E. B. Vickers

  Across the crates of colorful produce, Daphne comes into view, and I fix a smile on my face, hoping it looks genuine enough.

  But she’s not smiling. She doesn’t even pretend, doesn’t try. She just comes and wraps her arms around my waist and lays her head against my shoulder and cries. This motherless girl, so small but so strong. I smooth the hair from her face and hold her close, and we stand there, weeping softly, surrounded by what should nourish us—but emptied, gutted all the same.

  Until, once again, Jake bridges the divide by giving me the right words.

  “It’s not your fault,” I say, dropping a kiss on top of her head like I did with my own boys until they grew up and laughed and blushed and pushed me away.

  She only holds me closer, and my mind reels in reverse, all the way back to when Jake was a toddler. I had to follow him around all the time then, just to keep him from hurting himself.

  What would I have seen if I’d followed him the night he disappeared?

  Could I have kept him safe?

  Could any of us?

  The knock on the door isn’t a surprise. Coach B has been expecting it. Hoping for it, even. He’s been dizzy today, which isn’t unusual, so he’s had plenty of time to think of what to say while lying in his bedroom, the curtains tightly drawn to guard against the spinning world outside.

  He’ll admit it’s selfish—wanting to feel he played some part if Ashland takes home the trophy tonight. But when he sees the figure before him on the front steps, he wonders how many others have looked at Jake Foster and hoped to take a little of his light and make it their own. How many people see him as the boy he still is: unsure, anxious, too much riding on him? So Coach B will do what he intended all along—sit and listen and give only the advice the boy’s actually asking for. And he will remind himself that every bit of it’s for Jake.

  “Come in,” he says. “It’s cold out there.” And then, with surprise, “It’s snowing. And you’ve shoveled. Oh, my boy, I wish you’d saved your energy for the game tonight.”

  Already he is saying the wrong things. Jake’s face falls; he starts back down the steps.

  “What do I know?” Coach B says, opening the door wider. “It’s probably the perfect way to warm up. And you’ve got plenty of time to recover.”

  The tournament is being played in the university arena three towns over, a couple of hours’ drive away. Still, the neutral site is closer to Ashland than to their opponents, so most of the crowd will wear the same red and white as Jake and his team. The boys have been able to sleep in their own beds and eat at their own tables throughout the tournament. They’re all hoping it will feel like a home game; the Warriors are undefeated at home this season.

  But all that is hours away. Now Jake comes in and sits at Coach B’s table, eating the chicken and rice Mrs. B started in the slow cooker this morning for just such an occasion.

  “She’ll be so glad you came by,” Coach B tells Jake. “In fact, I hope you’ll see her before you leave. She just ran to the pharmacy for me.”

  “I hope so too,” Jake says, and there’s still a bit of that sixth grader in him, so hungry to be seen. This year has been rough on him, but things are getting back on track.

  Still, Coach B notices the way the boy winces as he shifts in the chair. He shouldn’t have shoveled the snow.

  They talk strategy for a while. How the Warriors aren’t as big as their opponents, but they’re quicker. Smarter. How they can come out with the win if they control the pace of the game. It’s nearly time for Jake to leave for the school and get on the bus when Mrs. B comes through the door.

  “Well, there he is,” she says, like she’s been looking for Jake all morning. “Can I fix you some cocoa?” She frowns. “And which one of you shoveled the walk? Somebody at this table is in trouble for wearing himself out on game day or disobeying doctor’s orders.” She looks back and forth between them as she takes a bag of cinnamon bears—Jake’s favorite—and sets them in front of him. “Good luck tonight. And you don’t have to share those. Not with the team, and certainly not with anyone watching their sugar intake.” She gives Coach B a stern look and leaves them to talk, but they hear her voice once more from down the hall. “Wallace, I’m putting your pills in the bathroom. Don’t come to me asking where they are, and don’t forget to take them this time.”

  They talk a little longer. Coach B tries to get back into the strategy for finding the gaps in the opponent’s defense, but the focus has shifted. The boy is nervous. He’s spinning the package of cinnamon bears on the table, a quarter turn at a time.

  “I should probably go,” Jake says at last. “Mind if I use your bathroom first?”

  “Of course, of course,” Coach B says, waving him away. “I’ll make you a sandwich while you’re in there so I don’t get in trouble later for not feeding you enough.”

  But he can’t help but look back and worry at the hitch in the boy’s step as he walks away.

  * * *

  —

  Quietly as he can, Jake picks up the orange bottle. Pushes the lid and twists it open.

  Sixty pills, perfect and round, but pale green instead of white like his.

  Jake checks the bottle. Same stuff, different strength.

  Eighty milligrams.

  Holy shit.

  Even after his accident, the most they’d give him was twenty. Not that you can’t make eighty out of four twenties. Even Jake can do that math.

  If it weren’t for all that white outside, he’d be fine. But shoveling really did tweak something in his knee. He pictures the scars from last summer’s surgery. Nothing will ever be the same. He’ll never be as strong as he should be, never be whole again.

  And he definitely can’t play his best ball if he’s distracted by his knee. One pill will take the pain away, but two would help him relax. Two pills and he’d really see the court clearly.

  He shakes two pills into his palm and holds them there. Two out of sixty. Hardly any at all. And didn’t Coach B say he’d help any way he could? Isn’t two pills a pretty reasonable price to pay for six years of lawn mowing, snow shoveling, dirt hauling—just generally being Coach’s manual laborer?

  Jake is sweating now. The pills are beginning to stick to his palm.

  He knows it’s wrong, knows he’s wrong. Coach B needs these pills for his own pain—decades of pain left as a legacy of war and not some stupid game. Jake knows too that Coach B has given him a thousand times more than he’s ever received in return. Not just in sandwiches and cinnamon bears but in basketball advice and encouragement and a clear picture of the kind of person Jake hopes to be.

  He tries to imagine himself as an old man, somebody who means something in the world. Somebody people have pointed to for decades as the one who made a difference in their lives. He imagines spending all those years with somebody by your side who still looks at you like Mrs. B looks at Coach. And when he imagines it, the figure beside him, gray-haired and weary, definitely has echoes of Daphne.

  That’s the life he wants. Even if they don’t grow old together, maybe he could still fix things with Daphne if he goes back to being the guy she fell in love with. The person he was before…

  The pills make a small sound as he drops them back in the bottle and secures the lid. He closes his eyes and turns on the water, splashing it on his face, rubbing it along the back of his neck.

  There’s a gentle knock at the door. “Your sandwich is ready, son.”

  Son.

  And because Coach B is the closest thing Jake’s had to a father for a long time, Jake chokes on the words.

  “Thank you.”

  He’ll take the sandwich and go. He’ll see the floor and control the pace and bring home the title and make Coach B as proud as any father ever, anywhere. And it will all start with this moment—the one that defines him, the one when he is
strong enough to say, once and for all, no.

  The small orange bottle calls to him as he washes his hands.

  No.

  As he dries them on a hand towel with the Warriors logo on it, embroidered by Mrs. B.

  No.

  But when he reaches for the doorknob, the bottle, perched so dangerously on the edge of the counter, falls to the floor.

  And when he bends to pick it up, a shock of pain stabs into his knee.

  And then, somehow, the whole bottle is in his pocket as he opens the door, takes the sandwich, turns to go.

  Coach B stops him, a firm hand on Jake’s arm. “You okay?”

  “I’m fine,” Jake says, his fingers curled around the bottle so Coach won’t recognize the shape in his pocket.

  Coach B nods once, winces at the pain as he lowers himself back into the chair. “I’ll be there, Jake. At the game, and after. I’ll always be there if you need me.”

  Jake nods back. Closes his fingers tighter around the bottle. Hates himself.

  And then he is gone.

  I’m almost through the arena doors when I realize I left Daphne’s good-luck Gatorade bottle on the bus. The tournament hasn’t been going well for me—a dozen points and barely more rebounds across three games—so I’m not actually sure how much luck it’s given me. But she’ll notice if I don’t have it on the bench, and she means more to me than the outcome of any game. I turn and trudge back to the bus.

  But as I stand at the door, out of sight, I hear Coach’s voice from inside.

  “How are those knees? I saw you limping a little when you got out of your truck.”

  “Nah, they’re good,” Jake says. “I’m ready to play.”

  “You still got prescriptions for those things?”

  “No. Not for a long time.”

  There’s a pause. A shuffle of equipment. “You sure about that? I thought I saw you swallow something before you got out of your truck.”

  “Just some aspirin.”

  “Would you be willing to open your bag for me?”

  I’m sure they’ll hear my heart beating in the silence that stretches between them.

  Jake clears his throat. “I’d rather not, Coach.”

  This is none of my business. I sneak along the side of the bus, then head straight to the locker room. Maybe I can come back for the Gatorade bottle later. I don’t say a thing as I dress for the game, but everybody’s pretty quiet. Focused. Or freaking out.

  Jake dresses in silence too, then walks out without a word. I can’t stop myself from staring at the bag he left behind. Were there pills in there? Did Coach take them away?

  It’s none of your business, I remind myself. It’s a little early, but I head to the training room to get my ankle taped so I won’t be tempted to look.

  But it really is too early; none of the athletic trainers are here yet. A voice drifts from behind the divider, desperate and pleading.

  “I’ve messed everything up.”

  I’ve known Jake nearly all my life, and I’ve never heard him sound like this, talk like this. I’m not sure whether he’s on the phone or there’s somebody back there with him. “Not just with you,” he says, “but with everybody. I’ve tried so hard to fix it, but I can’t. It’s not like some surgery, where you take out the tumor. It’s in me everywhere. It is me.” He’s sobbing now, gasping. “I’m not even sure I can go out there.”

  But before I can even wonder what he means, there’s another voice behind the divider.

  “You can. I know you can. I believe in you, Jake. I always have.”

  Daphne.

  I hear the truth in her words, and I can’t blame her. I believe in Jake too. The only person I’ve ever believed in more than Jake is Daphne herself: the way she walks through the world with grace and grit, the way she beats me to the answers in calculus and somehow still makes me feel good about myself. The fact that there’s nobody I’d rather have talking my friend down from this ledge before the biggest game of our lives.

  I’ve never said the words out loud, but I know in this moment that I love her.

  And in the very next moment, I realize what it might mean that they’re here together, and I wonder: Do I even matter to her at all? The question cuts me across the chest, and I can’t move, can’t breathe.

  “You should go,” Jake says, emotion still thick in his voice. “You should get out while you can.”

  “I can’t,” she says, softer now. “I can’t walk away, Jake. I’m afraid I’m going to love you for the rest of my life.”

  It’s quiet then, and I know I do not want to see what’s happening on the other side of the divider. But then I’m moving and breathing again, all at once, and I can’t stop myself from crossing the room silently, slowly, until I see their mouths pressed together and her fingers snaking through his hair. The slash of pain widens, leaving me sliced open, raw, gutted as I stumble back through the door.

  Neither of them notices me at all.

  The locker room is nearly deserted. Only one figure, hunched over Jake Foster’s bag.

  “Find anything?” I ask, my voice dry and flat.

  Coach startles, straightens. “Nope, he’s clean.” There’s a hint of disappointment in his voice.

  But no. What kind of coach would want to catch his star player violating the rules right before the championship?

  And what kind of captain would want that? Don’t be stupid, I tell myself. If Jake screws up right now, that hurts you too.

  Too late.

  “We get a little time on the floor,” Coach says. “Head on out there. You seen Jake?”

  “Try the training room,” I say. Then I jog out to the arena, knowing Jake won’t be far behind.

  The team and assistant coaches are scattered around center court, stretching and chatting and probably just waiting for the rest of us. I sit down next to Kolt, determined to act like a captain even if I want to punch the other captain in the face.

  And in spite of how pissed and broken I am, I see the scene in front of me for exactly what it is: a bunch of teenagers who have sacrificed family and school and sleep, who have put their bodies through hell—all to get better at dropping a ball through a metal hoop ten feet in the air. Which would be ridiculous if we weren’t all doing it for each other.

  “You know what I see on this court today?” I ask Kolt, loud enough that the rest of the chatter stops.

  “What?” Kolt asks, playing along.

  “A team that’s worked their asses off all season.”

  The guys murmur their agreement.

  “You know what I see?” asks Kolt. “A team that’s ready to dissect the Panthers like frogs in bio lab.”

  Louder cheers.

  “You know what I see?” Jake asks, coming up from behind us. “A team I’m proud to play on.” The guys whoop their agreement, and I try to hold in my hate as he keeps going, his back to me as he claims this moment that Kolt and I built. “A team that knows the three keys to winning a game: head, hands, heart.”

  They shout it back at him. “Head, hands, heart!”

  “You know what I see here, gentlemen?” Jake shouts, and the guys are all on their feet, ready to follow him anywhere. “A team that’s going to take state tonight!”

  Coach takes his turn trying to pump us up as we stretch, but I don’t hear a word of it. I see Jake in my peripheral vision, trying to get my attention. I ignore him until I can’t anymore, until the speech is over and everybody starts for the locker room and he’s pulling me by the elbow back to center court.

  “Seth, I have to tell you something.”

  Six years I’ve been listening to Jake call the plays as we come down the court, and I’ve run exactly what he’s called, every single time. I’ll do it again tonight—for the team, for Coach, for the dream they keep tell
ing me we all share—but I won’t do it right now. It’s all I can do not to deck him.

  “Let’s focus on the game, okay?” I try to turn away, but he grabs my elbow again and spins me back.

  “Please. Let me explain.”

  When he puts his hand on me a third time in the hallway—right next to that damn training room—I lose it.

  “Explain what? I see you so clearly, Foster. I know every single thing about you that I need to know. You’re a crap friend. You’re a crap boyfriend. I mean, if Daphne picks you, I’m going to step aside. But know this: she deserves better than me, but she deserves a hell of a lot better than you.” I steady my fists at my side, even though he looks like I’ve already decked him.

  Good. He’s scared. He’s sweating, shaking. And then I see all the shaking and sweating for what it is.

  “Oh, and you’re a crap captain. Because we’re about to play the most important game of our lives and you’re hopped up on painkillers. Aren’t you? Are you high right now?”

  Jake looks away, and there’s my answer.

  I shove him, hard as I can, right into the wall.

  “I hate you, Foster. I freaking hate you.”

  Good thing he doesn’t try to stop me this time, because I would lay him out. I walk outside to the parking lot and lean against the cold, rough brick. The snow soaks into my expensive new basketball shoes, but I don’t give one single shit what Coach will say about it.

  I swear, I almost walk away right then, Jordans and all.

  But a junky old Jeep pulls up, rattling and sputtering like it must have done all the way from Ashland. The door swings open, and Coach B eases himself out, then circles around to open the door for Mrs. B. Arm in arm, they move through the slush with tiny steps, pausing here and there to share some little bit of information that makes them both smile.

  Then Coach B slips and Mrs. B struggles, pulling me out of my own mind and back to the moment. I hurry over and offer an arm to each of them.

  “Why, thank you, Seth,” Coach B says.

  I know Coach B follows the team, that he and Mrs. B are not the kind of fans who just show up for the championship. Still, it surprises me that he knows me. There is something warm in the way he speaks my name.