The Light of Day (25 page)

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 content 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.

              “Jesus, Chris,
accept
is spelled with an
a
. 
Except
implies exclusion or an issue, not an agreement of terms.  I know you didn’t finish college man, but what about high school?”

              He frowns and deletes, retyping at a rapid rate, forcing auto-correct to keep up with him even while it tries to turn words into things like “duck”.  Yeah, there aren’t a lot of ducks being talked about here.

              “Hey, Shakespeare, how come you never talk about your girl?”

              I glance over at Laken as he slips his phone away and finishes buttoning up his own jersey.  We’ve been here for five hours already, going through our motions, warming up, stretching, getting looked at, and now we’re in the final stages before we take the field.  We’re teammates, so we know each other well, but because we’re roommates and friends too, Chris sees more than others.

              I clear my throat, zip my pants, taking my time as I stretch out my arms and make sure my jersey isn’t too snug anywhere.  Really, I’m just buying time and we both know it.

              “I guess because I’m not sure I have a right to call her my girl anymore.  When I got the call, I had to leave.  We hadn’t really been together that long so it seemed kind of ridiculous to ask her to be mine when I didn’t know the next time I was going to get to see her and what kind of shape I would be in when I did.”

              He nods like he gets it, and on some level, I know he does.  However much he enjoys going out and hooking up, he lives the same kind of day-to-day life that I do.  We’ve reaped the benefits of being athletes all our lives, but no one sees the cost that comes with it either, the dedication to a sport that doesn’t give two shits about you as a person, the limited time for anything or anyone else.  He’s working toward the same dream I am, sledging through the constant bus trips and endless motel rooms like me, despite the fact that reality has told us that the likelihood of us both making it is slim to none.

              “I had a girl too,” he says after a second and I stop to look at him.  “We’d been together since high school and when we got to Kansas all I did was play baseball, and all she did was sit home and wait.  Turns out, the waiting is just as hard as the leaving, and eventually she found something better than a kid who couldn’t give up the game.”

              Laken shrugs his shoulders and keeps his tone light, but I can see it costs him a little to say even that much.  “We can’t change who we are, Chris, no matter how many times we wish to Christ that all we wanted to be was a goddamn car salesman who got to go home every night and live a normal life, where he saw his girl every day while knowing his job would still be there in the morning.”

              He nods briefly and we both grab our gloves.  As we walk out of the tunnel and onto the field, he laughs.  “A car salesman? Face it, Shakespeare, in your next life you’re going to be a goddamn professor, carrying some big ass briefcase full of papers and wearing tweed jackets and spectacles, making that shit look fly while you quote your damn poetry.”

              I laugh at the image and then shake it off as I take the mound, picking up the rosin bag of chalk and bouncing it back and forth between my palm and the top of my hand before letting it drop.  My cleats kick up dirt and I look over to home plate to make eye contact with Nielson, my catcher, holding out my glove to let him know I’m ready.  When he throws me the ball I catch it, leaving it in my glove and running my pitching fingers over my brim for luck, like I’ve always done.  And then I tuck thoughts of Blue and the future to the corner of my mind while I focus on the present.

~

Two hours later, I’m on the mound again, only this time I’m trying to figure a way out of the mess I’ve created in the last twenty minutes.  Coach called time and jogged out, so everyone in the infield did as well, and now they all surround me as we talk in riddles and innuendos and try to decide whether or not I can really take care of the guy at the plate and get us to the next inning, or if I’m done for the night.

              It’s the top of the fifth and we’re ahead four to two.  We took an early lead when our centerfielder hit a homerun with the bases loaded, but that was at the top of the second, and since then our bats have produced nothing, while we’ve had three major errors, two in the third which granted them their two stolen bases and subsequent scored runs.  From then to now it’s been a battle of high pitch counts and strikeouts or easily fielded grounders that have tempers on both teams soaring.  The lights of the field have popped on and as I listen to the guys around me discuss them and us at the same time, I look at the runners on second and third and then to the scoreboard.  There are two outs, two on, and their heavy hitter is up — it’s not the worst scenario to be in, but it’s certainly not the best.

              “What do you think, Shakespeare, you want this guy?”

              I look at Nielson and then to the batter standing at home plate.  His count’s at 2-2, and he’s crowding me because he fucking can.  I want to send him a message, to wing one in there and let him know in no uncertain terms that I’m not afraid of his fat ass, but I can’t, because while I’m not afraid of him, I understand that one shift, one graze of the knuckles, or one pitch that just isn’t thought out well could lead to full bases or runners batted home.  I won’t risk that for my ego, no matter how much his stance begs me to.

              I glance back at Nielson and then at Coach who hasn’t said two words since he stepped out here.  “Yeah, I do want this guy.”

              They all nod and continue to stand there, taking the time we have, giving Coach the time to agree or disagree, me the time to cool off, the batter the time to wait and stew.

              “How’s the elbow? You were whacking off pretty hard last night, I almost stopped what I was doing to offer you my girl so you didn’t get tendonitis.”

Laken’s comment earns some laughs and I shake my head, appreciating the time he’s giving me to get my shit together.  When Coach nods, accepting my choice, Nielson does too before slamming the ball into my glove.

              “Throw this motherfucker out and, after you do, look to home plate before taking the dugout.  There’s a bombshell there that’s been screaming your name since the second inning.  She even called you handsome.”

              I nod, and though a familiar tingle starts to pulse through me, I knock gloves with the rest of the guys as they head off to their positions and keep my head down for one more second, calling up the calm and the quiet that’s always gotten me through.  Licking my fingers, I run them over my brim again and take a deep breath.  My batter’s already at an advantage, because he knows what this conversation was about.  He knows they asked if I could finish him, which leads him to believe that it might be a mistake to leave me in here, to let me face the strongest hitter on their team when I’ve already thrown over ninety pitches tonight.  But it’s not a mistake, and he’s about to learn that.

              I start with an inside slider at Nielson’s call, and though I think it squeaked by, the ump doesn’t give it to me.  Now we have a full count and for the next four pitches I decide I’m going to give him what he wants, the fastball.  He fouls off all four of them, and his arrogant grin continues to grow, his eyes never leaving mine as he goes through his routine each time of kicking his cleats up, rotating the bat, testing his swing, adjusting his helmet.  I wait him out, because I know, in the end, one of us will break.  I’ll be goddamned if it’s going to be me.

I get him on the fifth pitch as he steadies his hips and readies his body for the same pitch I’ve given him the last four times, stupidly assuming that my ego demands to meet him on his level.  Instead, I throw a change up and it drops right in front of him while he blasts away, his bat cutting over it with enough force to knock him off kilter and force him to drop the bat and use it cane-like to steady himself or fall flat on his face.  There are cheers from my team and silence from his.

              I barely look at him as I jog in, taking the high fives that my teammates give, grinning at Laken as he makes a crude gesture that matches his earlier comment.  I stop at the entrance to the dugout and look up and over, and that’s when I find her.  Four rows up, three seats from the aisle, there’s my siren, her hair a little lighter from the last time I saw her, her skin glowing against the white tank top she’s wearing.  If I also happen to notice that the thin material forms to her breasts quite perfectly, well, it’s not a crime.

              I stay where I am, staring at her, absorbing the sight of her after what feels like years of being deprived, and then she stills, and ever so slowly she turns away from whoever she was talking to and our eyes meet.  The impact of the look punches me and takes my breath a little, and I can tell it’s done the same to her, but she doesn’t break her stare and neither do I, not until the person next to her taps her shoulder and she smiles, gesturing with her head.  When I glance over, any air that I had left leaves me completely as I stare into the face of my father.