Undisputed (7 page)

A
fter getting out of the shower the next morning, I turn the TV on, immediately caught off guard by the sound of my name coming out of the news anchor’s mouth. My head is killing me, and I have to turn the volume down as she begins her segment.

“Mixed Martial Arts superstar Breccan Carlisle seems to be enjoying his latest victory in the cage. But is he enjoying it too much? Our sources have told us that Carlisle was at Club Raw until the wee hours of the morning before being thrown out amidst what is best described as a barroom brawl. No word yet on whether any charges will be filed against him for the damages done to the club. Management says they are reviewing security tapes and will make their decision later in the day.”

The screen flashes to several pictures of me, clearly intoxicated, being dragged out of the club by Tripp, several angry-looking bouncers on our heels.

I rack my brain, trying to remember exactly what went down that resulted in my being kicked out.

“Tripp! Hey, man. What happened while we were out last night? I just saw myself on the news, and…let’s just say it wasn’t anything flattering,” I say as my best friend walks in to the kitchen, rubbing his face.

I need at least a whole pot of coffee and about ten aspirin. I’m rummaging through the cabinet, looking for anything clean I can pour my coffee into, when Tripp starts laughing. Only his laugh is devoid of any actual humor.

“You got drunk. That’s what happened. What else is there to say, man? Pretty much the usual. You ordered liquor, drank more than any human should be allowed, then decided you needed to get laid and went off to pick up some chick. I don’t know for sure, but I assume you tried to pick up another guy’s chick, and when he called you out on it, a brawl ensued.”

I blink, desperately trying to remember any of what he just told me. “I met a chick. I remember now. I think. What was her name?” I’m thinking out loud.

Tripp throws his arms out to the sides. “I don’t fucking know. You meet a lot of chicks. Apparently, this one’s name was ‘already taken’ though, ’cause you almost knocked her dude out.”

Shaking my head, I tell him, “No. She wasn’t his. That’s why I hit him. I think. Fuck, I drank too much. Man, how the fuck did we get home?”

He waves his phone at me. “You wouldn’t give me your fucking keys, so I shoved your ass in the back seat of a cab. You should have just let me call one in the first place.”

“You left Velma downtown overnight? You know I don’t leave her anywhere!” I bark, though I should be grateful that Tripp stepped up and played the responsible one for the night.

Again.

Tripp cracks his neck as his face starts to turn red—the telltale sign that he’s close to losing his temper with me.

Trying to diffuse the situation before I end up in my second brawl in twelve hours, I cut him off as he opens his mouth. “Yeah, yeah. I know you were just trying to watch out for me. Look, let’s just go pick her up before the city does.” Then I turn to leave the kitchen.

Tripp grabs me by the arm, forcing me to stop and face him. “Brec, we have been friends for as long as I can remember. You know I consider you my brother at this point. Mainly because I want to use your fame to my advantage, but also because I love you.”

I can see where this is going, and I desperately want to stop him. I don’t do feelings. Not with chicks, and definitely not with the one guy who’s always had my back. A scene from last night flashes, and I remember wanting to tell him that I loved him. Grimacing at the memory, I silently thank God that those words did not make it out of my mouth. I don’t think I could stomach his spilling his guts to me.

I smirk and wave him off. “T, I’m not gay. Stop hitting on me already,” I say in a lame attempt at humor but really just to get him to stop this conversation before it gets started. But it looks like Tripp isn’t taking no for an answer this morning as he holds his hand up to shut me up.

“I’m not joking with you right now. You
are
my brother, and as
your
brother, it’s my duty to tell you this.” He closes the distance between us, stepping into my face until our chests nearly bump. “You need to stop. You’re partying too much, too hard. You’re lucky we were somewhere that the owners knew you.” He pokes my chest. “You’re
lucky
I was able to get you in that cab. And you are
damn lucky
that the other guy threw the first punch. What the hell is going on with you lately? Something’s been going on with you outside
and
inside the ring. Is there—”

I interrupt him before he can press me further. He’s right, but I refuse to acknowledge that my fights have suffered.

“Tripp, I’m fine. I had one bad fight.” Waving him off, I continue trying to prove my point. “Which I still won. So, even at my worst, I am better than the rest. There’s nothing for you to worry about. Now, let’s go get my truck. And can we please stop talking about last night? I need something to eat to soak up this alcohol.”

And, with that, I effectively end the conversation about my partying habits. Tripp isn’t buying it, but he doesn’t press me any further.

Three weeks later…

T
he last few weeks of Connor’s dialysis treatments have been tough on both of us. In an effort to keep a sense of normalcy, we’ve allowed him to continue to attend school. His sessions are in the afternoon, three times a week. This has been beneficial to me as well because I’ve been able to continue to go to work every morning and attempt to get everything done before leaving to pick Connor up from school.

However, the sessions usually leave him exhausted, and by the time we get home, he’s too tired to even eat, instead going straight to bed each night. He’s even lost a little bit of weight; his clothes are beginning to hang on his already slim frame.

Once he goes to bed, I stay awake half the night, trying to catch up on paperwork from the office or researching anything that might help with his health. I’ve even gone so far as to Google kidneys on the black market. Sad but true. After a few disturbing websites popped up, I quickly erased my history and said a prayer that the feds aren’t monitoring my Internet usage. So far, the door hasn’t been kicked in by a SWAT team, so I think my search history is just that—history.

Even though I haven’t found much in the way of restoring Connor’s kidney function, I’ve read hundreds of success stories of people who haven’t received a new kidney but still go on to live long, happy lives. It gives me hope that Connor will have the same outcomes as these other people, and it’s the only reason I’m able to sleep most nights.

Abby’s had multiple interviews all over the world, so she’s been away for the last week. I’ve tried convincing her to stay and at least take Connor to some appointments, but she refuses, saying she works too hard to get sit-downs with these world leaders. If she has to reschedule, she may never get another chance.

And, in her words, “Sidney, there’s a major shitstorm brewing and the people deserve to know what’s going on.”

Like I give two shits about what the people deserve.

What about what Connor deserves?

A few days after that talk, it was a story she had to cover in India, which kept her away until earlier in the week. She was home long enough to take Connor to his appointment Wednesday, and then she had to rush off again. Of course, she made sure to bring him back several souvenirs, including an intricately carved horn with images of animals. Connor loved it and immediately set it on display next to his prized baseball, which was autographed by the entire Atlanta Braves organization. Abby brought that gift home after covering the World Series they’d won two years ago.

The horn was a beautiful authentic buffalo piece I’m sure she paid dearly for, but all it did was piss me off further. While her son’s kidney was failing, she was out shopping for a trinket she hoped would make him forget what a shitty mother she could be. When she announced that she would be leaving again, I didn’t even bother asking where she was going this time. It didn’t matter to me. She could have been out saving the world as Batman and I wouldn’t have cared. The only place she truly needed to be was here, with her son, taking care of him and comforting him. But it was the one place she wouldn’t stay.

It’s obvious she loves Connor. Her face lights up when she talks about him, and she will talk about him to anyone who will listen. But she was never meant to be a mother. She was meant to have a career. Abby has always been quick to run off and cover a major news story, but since we received Connor’s diagnosis, she’s been avoiding being home more than usual. I’m beginning to think she is avoiding the truth about his condition instead of trying to find a way to fight it.

When we arrive at the dialysis center, the nurses greet us warmly. With a megawatt smile always plastered to his face, Connor is easy to love. Judging from their reaction to him, he has already charmed them as well.

Bringing over a cinnamon bun and a bottle of orange juice, Margaret says, “Hey, Connor. How are you today?”

It’s clear she has a soft spot for my nephew by the way she talks him through the process even though it’s nothing new. She reminds me of my mother, and my heart aches that Connor never got to know her, because she would have been charmed as well.

“I’m great. Never been better, actually. Feeling so good, in fact, I think it’s just about time to put a stop to these treatments. But don’t worry, Ms. Margaret. I won’t forget about you. I was planning on taking you out on a date when I get my driver’s license. Which is only, like, three years away,” Connor jokes, a silly grin on his face.

She smiles back at him, but it’s forced. I know exactly what she’s thinking, but thankfully, she’s able to mask the thoughts and teases him back. “Now, Connor, you know that Mr. Margaret wouldn’t like that one bit. He’s a bit old-fashioned and doesn’t want to share me with anyone. But, as long as you promise to take me to the Olive Garden, it can be our secret.” She winks.

After turning back in my direction, she offers an encouraging smile. “Where’s Abby? I thought that, since she was back in town, we’d be seeing her today?” Margaret asks kindly, a concerned expression on her wrinkled face.

I roll my eyes and open my mouth to speak, but Connor beats me to it.

“She’s in Canada! The prime minister there did something bad and she’s on a mission to find out what it is and then make him answer for it! She is always seeking out the bad guys and asking them things that make them uncomfortable. She says the world deserves to know the truth and that someone has to be the person to deliver the answers.”

Leaning back in the oversized hospital recliner next to his chair, I bite the inside of my cheek. When he puts it that way, I feel a little guilty for all the terrible things I’ve been thinking about Abby these last few weeks. If Connor isn’t upset that his mother is gone, why should I be? I’ve been angry enough for the both of us, and I haven’t even stopped to think about how he feels about Abby being gone. Judging from the way his face lit up while he was talking about her, he doesn’t seem upset that his mother hasn’t been by his side for the last three weeks.

Looking up from the screen of her tablet, Margaret says, “All right, handsome. Tell me your birthday one more time.”

“February twenty-six, two thousand one,” he replies giving her a mischievous grin.

Margaret’s head snaps up from the computer. “I knew there was a reason I skipped lunch this afternoon. You’re old enough to take me out to dinner after all!”

Chuckling, I jab Connor with my elbow. “Don’t age me any more than I already feel, buddy. You know you weren’t born in two thousand one.”

“Okay, y’all. Just holler at me if you need anything.” Margaret says. “I’ll just be over there, daydreaming about salad and breadsticks.” With another laugh, she heads back to her desk, and Connor and I settle into a comfortable silence.

Folding forward, I ruffle Connor’s messy hair and am rewarded with one of his famous smiles. I lean back in my seat again but continue to take him in.

At twelve, Connor is tall for his age, standing at least three inches taller than my five foot five. Most boys hit their growth spurts when they are teenagers, but not him. Over the summer, he shot up six inches and gained about twenty pounds, which was just what he needed to make the JV football team at school. I stare at his face and ponder the origins of his jet-black hair and dark-brown eyes. Our entire family is Irish American, and we all sport the same strawberry-blond hair and clear, blue eyes. Abby maintains that Connor’s dad was also Irish, but there’s a lot of skepticism.