Escape Points (12 page)

“I didn’t expect them to be mean,” I told Susy when she brought over dinner for all of us.

“Oh, those wonderful boys. They are so scared,” she said.

I knew she was right. I knew it was scary for them. But for some reason I thought that fear would manifest itself as them trying to take care of me, being very low maintenance, taking care of themselves, not requiring more of me, certainly not fighting with each other and definitely not talking back to me. I pictured them being sweet and solicitous, perhaps throwing in an extra load of laundry. What the heck, making me a cup of tea. I don’t know what in the hell I was thinking.

While Weldon held it together better than the other two, I would say my cancer made them mad as hell. And they were mad as hell at me. I was the one who was sick; how dare I do this? You could see it in their eyes, the skittishness, the doubt; they were pissed off. When they would ask how I was, they would leave the room before my
answer; they would not want to know any details. I had to be OK. Brendan could be sweet, you could see him trying, when he made me breakfast or when he bought me hand cream, trying so hard to be caring, when I could see how scared he was.

What’s next? Will you die next?

Colin had a harder time and was uncharacteristically argumentative with me and with his brothers. One night Colin would not stop arguing with me, so I called Madeleine for help; she sent Mike over to get Colin for a few hours. Absorbing their fears and their anger was exhausting. I would lie down on the couch for a half hour and sleep for five hours.

“I’ve never seen you take a nap,” Colin said.

I was so tired; a bone-deep weariness I couldn’t shake or emerge from immediately. After surgery, even after the abbreviated radiation treatments, for about a month, I woke up tired. I started out feeling like it was the end of the day. My head felt swollen, I couldn’t think clearly, I couldn’t take care of everyone else while they were screaming for me to do more please so they didn’t feel afraid. But I kept going.

The night after my third day of radiation was parent-teacher conferences at the high school. I met with six of Weldon’s teachers. The next night I would meet with six of Brendan’s, second floor, fourth floor, third floor, second floor, all right after radiation. Most of the conferences were six minutes apart; some sessions had breaks in between. In the four-floor high school, many of the sessions were two floors apart. First was room 411 with Mr. Goldberg for history, down to 217 for math, back up to 417 for Spanish, down to 333. I sat in the third-floor hallway outside the classroom waiting for my time with Weldon’s English teacher, Brendan Lee, Weldon’s favorite. My conference was from 6:42 to 6:48. I would talk fast. I had a few minutes to get to room 361 for Mr. Potts. Then down to 284 for Mr. Martinek, science.

“What’s wrong with you? What makes you look so tired?” asked another woman I had known since our oldest children were in preschool together. She wasn’t a good friend. It was different out in the noncancer world. Questions were curt. Judgments were made.

“Must be the radiation after the surgery,” I answered and went back to the pile of papers in my lap from the other teachers, on top of the legal pad where I had taken notes on comments about Weldon and Brendan.

“Oh, sorry. I didn’t know.” And she didn’t ask me any questions.

My work life went on. Wrestling went on, basketball for Colin, dinners in the room off the kitchen, loads of whites and loads of colors separated every morning. Gas in the car. Checks to pay the bills, boots and sneakers piled in the mudroom needing to be straightened. Dishwasher to load and unload, kitchen floor to sweep. Homework to proofread, forms to sign.

A few weeks later I sat in the stands watching one of Colin’s games talking with Alex’s mom, who was an emergency room doctor.

“The tamoxifen upsets my stomach,” I told her.

“Eat jelly beans. One at a time. Licorice ones will help. The pectin and the sugar will soothe your stomach. Try it,” Sherry said. “Get the cheap ones; for some reason they work better.”

So I sat in the stands and in meetings with brightly colored jelly beans in my pocket. It was a small solution, one bite at a time.

T
he day before Christmas Eve there was a local tournament for Weldon, then the day before New Year’s Eve a tournament in Elmwood, Ohio. I couldn’t get away for that one; I stayed home with Colin and Brendan. Weldon went with the team. Then four more wrestling tournaments were at local high schools, followed by the Huskie tournament at home in the field house. Weldon won that 140-pound championship with a pin. That pin and others from the team pushed Oak Park to win the invitational tournament with 263 points.

The following Friday night was a dual meet at another local high school, Lyons Township. The boys’ father had left a message on the house answering machine a few days earlier that he was in town from Amsterdam. Surprise. He had not spoken to the boys in two months. I listened to it, told the boys he called, and no one called him back. Weldon said his father had also left him a message on his cell. I had not spoken to his father, but I knew he must be watching Weldon’s wrestling record online for the season.

“Dad e-mailed me about my match,” Weldon said. “He said he wanted to see me wrestle.” Then he added, “I blocked his e-mail address.”

Weldon was annoyed at my questions for more details.

“I don’t want him there; he is not going to ruin this for me. I can’t be distracted,” he said.

I didn’t know what it would be like being monitored online by a phantom father, but I imagined it was something like a version of a scene I saw in the 1937 movie
Stella Dallas
, starring Barbara Stanwyck. I loved the old black-and-white movies that were romantic and emotional with grandly feminine characters in bias-cut satin dresses swooning over handsome men with mustaches. At the end of the movie, Stella watched her daughter Laurel’s wedding from outside the window of the house her ex-husband shared with his new wife.

I knew their father would go to the meet; he loved being in control of a surprise, even if no one wanted it. Both Brendan and Weldon went on the team bus to Lyons. Colin went to a friend’s house. I took my place in the stands with the other Huskie parents and told Paula, Kake, and Caryn that I was nervous. They sat closer to me.

I saw him immediately. Their father was standing on the top stair in one corner of the gym, wearing a bright red sweater, with both his arms stretched out holding onto the wall. You could not miss him. Anyone glancing up at the stands from anywhere would see him, a half-body length above the crowd, the only one in bright red and the only one with outstretched arms.

“He’s looking right at you,” Nancy said.

I watched Brendan’s junior varsity match and waited for the 140 varsity match, wondering if Weldon noticed his dad. Weldon paced back and forth before his match as he usually did, and jumped high in place bending his knees beneath him in this limber frog move that had become his trademark. I watched his face, more stern than usual. He jumped about four feet in the air from a standing position, his legs tucked tightly under him. Over and over.

Weldon was pushing really hard, and there was something about his mood, something about the way he wrestled, so driven, so intense.
He knew he was being watched. He won 20–5, another technical. Brendan was sitting in the stands on the opposite side of the gym from the spectators, with his junior varsity teammates. I watched him to see if he noticed his father and if Brendan would go to speak to him. After Weldon wrestled, I glanced over at the top deck in the stands where his father had been standing. He was gone. I went down to the floor to speak to Weldon after his win.

“Are you OK?” I asked.

Sweat was pouring down his face and he was clearly agitated.

“He better not be in the parking lot,” he said.

“No, he’s gone,” I said.

Then I walked over to the stands and asked Brendan, “Did you see your dad?”

“No, was he here?”

When the dual was over, I went to the parking lot, looking behind me, around me, nervous that he would pop up out of the shadows. But he had disappeared.

We were less than a month away from the 2007 state championships. In July 2006 I had made hotel reservations online for the upcoming February Illinois High School Association (IHSA) Individual championships. The year before when Weldon made it to state, I was unprepared, panicked, and couldn’t get a room when he won regionals. All nearby hotel rooms were booked. Not ever having had this experience, I had no idea that parents of wrestlers booked a year in advance, confident they would need to attend because their sons would have winning seasons that qualified them for state.

So I went online the year before just days before state and called every hotel and motel in a ten-mile radius with no luck. I knew I couldn’t drive the three hours each way there and back safely in one day. When I told him about not having a room, the boys’ uncle Mark somehow managed to book a room for Colin, Brendan, and me at the local Holiday Inn. Mark then drove down to meet us and watched Weldon.

I knew Weldon would qualify for state again. I was more convinced of it every time he wrestled. We were less than a month away
from the finals and he was winning almost every match. Reserving the room six months ahead of time was easy; now all he needed to do was keep winning. A lot of us Huskies parents had our eyes set on state for the boys.

A few days after he appeared in the stands at Lyons, the boys’ dad left a voice mail on Weldon’s cell. “I have tickets for state and a hotel room . . .” Weldon hung up and screamed for me; I was upstairs in my room.

“Mom!” Weldon bounded up the front stairs two or three at a time. “Mom! Tell him not to come. Tell him I don’t want him there.” Weldon was extremely upset, pacing, shouting. “He said he has tickets and a room!”

I felt like a mother lion protecting her cub from a python that had slithered in from the nearby grass.

“OK, I will, OK,” I said.

I called his father’s cell phone. He answered. I didn’t know if he was local or back in the Netherlands. I started shouting. “Leave Weldon alone right now. Do not ruin this for him. Do not come to state. Do not take this away from him.”

“Let me explain,” he said.

“No more explanations, no more. You will not hurt him anymore. I will not let you.” Now I was frantic. “He told you what he wants. You must respect him. Don’t come.”

“Relax,” he said.

I couldn’t. The other two boys came upstairs to see what was wrong.

“I mean it. You cannot ruin this for Weldon. You have done enough. I will not let you.”

I hung up and called his mother. I told her that she needed to tell her son to respect Weldon’s wishes. She said she would. Five minutes later she called me back.

“Dear, he said he has no plans to go. He said he left a message for Weldon that he had tickets for state and he could give them to any friends of his who needed them or any families who wanted the room.”

I felt stupid. “Thank you,” I said.

I hung up and told Weldon what his grandmother said.

“Did you listen to the whole message?” I asked Weldon.

“No.”

“Let me listen.”

The full message was just as his mother said. I laughed out loud. All that roaring for nothing. I took a deep breath and called his father back. “No, thank you, no one needs the tickets. I should not have yelled, but Weldon told me I needed to tell you not to come.”

I
pulled to the curb outside Dorothea’s apartment at 6 in the morning on Friday. It was still dark and bitterly cold, four below zero, the kind of dagger-sharp chill that hurt your nostrils when you breathed and made you feel as if your clothes were made of cellophane. Snowflakes fell like promises. Brendan and Colin were stretched in the middle and third seats, each with a pillow and blanket, ready to doze on the 126-mile drive to see their older brother compete in the individual state finals. I’d called the younger two boys out of school the night before; Weldon had gone with the team on the bus Thursday night.

It was Weldon’s second year at the IHSA Individual State Wrestling Tournament, but as a senior, this was his last chance to make it to the finals stand, the winner’s boxes. Dorothea’s son, Dan, was wrestling as a sophomore at 145 pounds, one weight class above Weldon’s.

I’d gotten up by 5
AM
, making sure I had everyone’s overnight bags by the door. I packed sandwiches, fruit, snacks, soda, water, and
Gatorade for the day. The year before when Weldon competed at state, I’d learned that pretty much all the concession stands inside the arena offered was fried, refried, batter dipped, cheese or chocolate-smothered, and prohibitively expensive. Enormous scoops of ice cream in waffle cones, four-dollar fountain drinks, huge wedges of pie with fistfuls of vanilla ice cream on top, soft pretzels the size of catchers’ mitts. You could spend twenty dollars on lunch, easy. I also knew we would have to hide the food we brought from home in our coat pockets, as you were not allowed to take any coolers or food into the arena. They checked purses and bags. Dorothea ended up stowing some oranges in her sweater. We figured no one was going to frisk her.

We had a large entourage of parents from Oak Park and River Forest High School that year—nine wrestlers plus Coach Powell and all the varsity, freshmen, junior varsity, and youth wrestling coaches too. The youth coach took a group of Little Huskies in a van to watch. Every one of the boys on our team, and every team from across the state, Class A and Class AA (this was two years before Class AAA was added), were aiming for first place ideally, but a medal for second, third, or fourth would be great. Other members of the Huskies team had painted a sign for the Oak Park High School student center with the names of state-bound wrestlers and their weights alongside an outline of the state of Illinois. “Good luck at State!” it read in the center. Painted in blue were the names and records of the eight Huskies wrestlers headed to state—a huge number from the roster.

I booked a room at the local Ramada. We would drive back Saturday night, no matter how late. I was hoping it would be late and that Weldon would be the champion; there was chatter at the high school that he could win it all. His math teacher gave everyone in Weldon’s class extra-credit points because he made it to state. I didn’t teach on Fridays and brought my laptop so I could catch up on work, grade papers, or respond to e-mails when I could, in between wrestling matches high up in the stands. Twenty-four of us were seated in Section B for Friday and Saturday.

The boys slept most of the way there; Dorothea and I talked about our sons, our lives, and our work. We had to park about a block away in the lots surrounding the arena; it felt appreciably colder and windier, the temperature on a local sign read –9 degrees. A line of more than one hundred parka and fleece–clad parents and teens stretched down the snaking walkway to the glass-enclosed ticket booth to buy tickets, all of them hopping in place or rubbing their hands and face to try to stay warm. I apologetically rushed past them into the booth to the will-call window and picked up the block of tickets with my name on it.

From the outside, the University of Illinois Assembly Hall looked like an enormous white, glass, and metal spaceship that seemed to have landed amid the cornfields, low campus buildings, and flat, empty stretches of lawn and asphalt surrounding it on campus. What had been green in the summer and fall was now snow and ice–covered. Inside, the hall itself dwarfed the swirling dance of athletes, coaches, and parents. The arena held sixteen thousand people, and it was nearly filled to capacity, just as it had been years earlier for the Rolling Stones, U2, and Tina Turner. The throbbing anticipation was palpable.

I imagined that as a wrestler on the floor of the arena, with six mats of contrasting orange and blue circles, standing at the center of your mat, you would feel like a rock star: the cheering crowds, the wish that you would be the one with your arm raised in victory. For every athlete who made it this far, it was a long way from early Sunday mornings of youth wrestling in the high school gyms.

Some of the young men on the floor of the arena looked moonlight pale, their faces gaunt, their bodies tightly muscular. They all carried themselves with confidence, having earned their place to compete after beating as many as forty other wrestlers along the way during the season, all of whom dreamed of coming here and standing inside the arena wearing his team’s singlet, his coach sitting at the edge of the mat calculating every move.

“Some of the other teams with their neat warmup suits and trimmed hair look like boy bands,” Caryn said.

Even though the wrestlers on our team had matching team shirts and warmups, they tended not to wear them to tournaments.

“Our boys look like wrestlers,” she said.

A group of four couples in their late sixties were seated in the row in front of us, carefully marking each winner in every weight class on their programs. After a few hours of observing them engrossed in certain contests and chatting about all the wrestlers, I asked, “So do you have a grandson or relative wrestling today?”

“Oh, no,” one of the men responded. “We do this for fun.”

Weldon had a bye the first round, meaning he was excused from wrestling in the preliminaries. Every first-place winner of every sectional had a bye when he advanced to the state finals. The top three sectional placers made it to state, and the second and third placers at regionals faced each other in the preliminary round.

Weldon faced a wrestler from Plainfield with a season record of 37 wins and 3 losses; slightly better than Weldon’s, at 32–4. Weldon had wrestled him at state in 2006, and lost to him 9–3. I moved from my seat in the stands to the railings to watch Weldon face him on the mat, as did Colin and Brendan. We were screaming for him; Colin was shooting video. Weldon got back points and took his opponent down, but he cut him twice, earning his opponent two points.

It was the only time you could stand by the railing; otherwise the security guards and ushers politely but firmly told you to get back to your seat. You hoped the opponent’s parent was nowhere near you, because the last thing you needed to hear up close was some other parent urging at the top of his lungs for his son to annihilate yours. This is where wrestlers ended up if they dared to be great. This was the goal. This was the bonus of working so hard.

Weldon lost the match 6–5, close; the last few seconds felt as if they passed in slow motion. The striped-shirted ref raised the other wrestler’s hand in the air and I wanted to cry.

It was good enough just to be here
, I practiced telling him,
you got this far, it was fine, it was all right, it was enough. Be proud.

When the match was over, Weldon crossed over the mat to shake the hand of the Plainfield coach, went back to speak to Powell, and
both of them headed to the sidelines. I expected Powell to put his hand on Weldon’s shoulder, console him, pat him on the back. But Powell was screaming at him, animatedly gesturing, his arms moving wildly, like I had never seen him do before to any wrestler, let alone Weldon, whose head was hung, nodding. Powell must have yelled at him for a full five or six minutes.

The boys and I walked back to our seats in the stands, the other parents offering their kind words. Paula gave me a hug. It was my instinct to want to hug Weldon, but he was down in the team section with the competing wrestlers and coaches, Powell still giving it to him pretty good. I was angry Powell yelled at him.

The last thing he needed was Powell berating him. Of course Weldon knew he let him down, of course he felt bad. Why make it worse?

According to Weldon, it was exactly what he needed.

“Powell yelled at me because I blew it. He wanted me to go to the finals,” Weldon explained later. “I didn’t have the belief or the confidence. Nothing happens miraculously unless you make it happen. I didn’t wrestle to win,” Weldon said. He said Powell told him, “Don’t stop now. Let’s get third.”

Hours passed; individual dramas played out over and over again on each mat for each wrestler, some elated to win, their parents jumping and screaming and hugging each other; some acting like gorillas flexing and puffing up their chests, taunting the opposing coach after a win. Still some other wrestlers cried, nearly inconsolable if they lost, shoulders shaking as they walked off the mat, sobbing into the sweatpants they picked up from the floor where they had dropped them. All of it happening at once, on four mats of wrestling for Class AA teams, two mats for Class A teams.

Some boys sat restless in the stands with their teams, humpbacks of ice bags taped to their shoulders or backs, staring straight ahead as they waited. All of it was as loud as the middle of a construction site with drills piercing cement, all of it confusing. Six matches were ongoing at all times relentlessly, with everyone moving—up and down in the stands, back and forth to the concessions. A constant
flow of fans and athletes, back and forth, whistles blowing incessantly on the mats, winners every few minutes, losers just as often. Outside it was still bitterly cold and snowing.

“Did you ever think you would watch five hundred wrestling matches in one day?” asked Tom, a father of three sons, two of whom were wrestlers on our team. That is how many they had per day and more.

Weldon would have a chance at the wrestle-backs on Saturday. That was a part of wrestling I loved. You lost once, but your loss did not define you. You could come back up to the championship through wrestle-backs, the consolation round. If the person who beat you kept winning and made it to the quarterfinal matches, you were eligible to compete in the consolation bracket; you were still in.

All of us from the Oak Park wrestling family made plans for dinner together. I called around town for reservations, but no restaurant could take our crowd of about twenty-four. Not the local Olive Garden or the hamburger and pizza spots, not even the Jolly Roger where about thirty of us had eaten the year earlier. It was a 1960s time warp of a restaurant that served retro food like shrimp cocktail, cottage cheese with French dressing, and large pizzas to feed ten that cost the same as a single sandwich from Panera. But this year it was closed. We gave up trying to find a spot and agreed to meet back in the lobby of our motel, where we ordered about ten pizzas and ate every morsel of them.

Weldon called me from one of the team’s hotel rooms.

“Did you get a chance to rinse out your singlet in the sink?” I asked. He was sharing a room with about six other wrestlers.

“No,” he said, as if that was the dumbest thing he ever heard.

Saturday weigh-ins were at 6
AM
for the athletes, plus skin checks. No wrestler can have a rash—MRSA, impetigo, ringworm, anything suspicious or contagious. Paul was planning to drive down and be at the arena by 9
AM
, but it was snowing hard in Chicago and on the way to Champaign visibility was near zero; several inches of snow were expected. Paul called to say I-57 was closed because cars were wiping out on the ice. He decided to turn back to go home.

Weldon won his first match of the morning 6–4. It didn’t look easy for him, but Weldon appeared much more confident, a different wrestler than the night before. Later that morning, Weldon competed against a senior from Conant High School with a record of 32–10. Weldon beat him 13–4, a huge win, and he almost pinned him. I was screaming and clapping and cheering so much my throat was hoarse. Brendan and Colin were ecstatic.

In the next match Weldon was up against a West Aurora wrestler who had a season record of 36–4. If Weldon won this match, he would be a placer at state. He could win third, fourth, or fifth. He could get a medal. The boys and I, plus several of the team parents, went to the railing to get as close as we could. I was wearing my H
USKIES
W
RESTLING
F
AMILY
T-shirt, as were Colin and Brendan.

Weldon took his opponent down, again, and again. Three times. And in the last period, he won 7–2. Colin was jumping up and down and we were all hugging each other, the arena spotlight on Weldon, thousands of people cheering.

The ref held Weldon’s hand in the air, and he stood straight, with a look that he was full of the moment and of himself. With his one arm raised, Weldon turned to where I was in the stands. With his free hand, he pointed directly to me and held it there for what was only a few seconds but felt like hours.

I gasped, held my hand in front of my mouth, and started to cry. He walked off the mat and leapt into Coach Powell’s arms. I went back to my seat and felt a buffet of emotions, from relief, joy, pride, and gratitude to elation.

Look what my son could do. See who he is.

“It’s OK, Mom,” Colin said, I guess embarrassed by my sobbing.

“I love you, Mom,” Brendan said as he hugged me.

It reminded me of when Colin was in kindergarten during the Valentine’s Day event called “Big Hearts, Little Hands.” Bill’s wife, Madonna, had created the school’s annual tradition of the afternoon musical recital for families and the local senior community, followed by a formal tea in the gymnasium. The little girls wore their pink-and-red party dresses and the boys wore suits and clip-on ties, stiff-
collared shirts tucked hastily into neatly pressed pants. The children sang a few songs, including the 1962 Woody Guthrie song, “I’m Gonna Mail Myself to You.”

For the recital and tea, I picked up my mother at her house, pushed her wheelchair to the end of the row in the school auditorium, and we watched as the rows of boys and girls squirmed and jiggled through the lyrics. They sang, “I’m gonna wrap myself in paper, I’m gonna daub myself with glue, Stick some stamps on top of my head; I’m gonna mail myself to you.” On the last line, every other student in the stands arranged on the stage pointed to Mrs. Halter, the music teacher in the orchestra pit. Not Colin. After weeks of practice and finally having every one of the thirty or so students pointing to her on cue, Colin turned to his right and pointed to me. My mother and I laughed.