Game Changers

by Jane Cuthbertson

  “What? No.”

  “Are you sure?”

  It doesn’t take much imagination to see Toni running roughshod over Jaye, permanently “fixing” our relationship by shattering it completely.

  “I’m sure. Jaye and I will work out, one way or another.”

  “You’re not easing my mind.”

  I sigh. “That’s the best I can do right now.”

  After a brief pause, Toni says, “Will you keep going until you're out of Hell? No matter what? Rachel?”

  A flash of intuition strikes, and I don’t censor it. “Did you guys ever go through this? Did Paula ever not let you in?”

  “Umm, no.” Toni’s answer is quick, but not unequivocal. I’m puzzled, but only for a second.

  “Did you ever not let her in?”

  “Maybe.”

  “How did she finally get through to you?”

  Toni hesitates. “I don’t recommend it.”

  “Don’t recommend what?”

  Apparently, I’ve hit a nerve. “Let’s just say I learned my lesson. Jaye will learn hers.”

  I recognize by her tone that I’m not going to get anything further out of Toni on the subject. Not today, anyway. “Maybe I’m the one who needs to learn a lesson.”

  “You both do. Guess I’m not much help.”

  “I’m glad you tried. I really am.”

  

  My take from the frustrating and somewhat confusing chat with Toni is to avoid provoking Jaye. Over the course of the next week, I go out of my way to be solicitous and kind. I don’t back down completely when we disagree, but I back down a lot, hoping something of my behavior will get through.

  No such luck. If anything, Jaye grows even more irritable. The moments of connection we had when we talked about suicide are long gone. One night, ensconced in the office, computer open but blank, I think back to the early days of our romance, trying to relive the kindness, the sex, the love.

  “It’s happening too fast,” Nickory had said. She meant it as an accusation. Jaye and I took it as something meant to be. Now, though, I wonder if what we have is nothing more than a shooting star, a meteor breaking up in the heat of the atmosphere as it falls to Earth.

  A crashing noise comes from the kitchen. I get up to see what’s happened and find Jaye staring at the shards of a large glass serving bowl. It’s not a family heirloom, not anything super special. But that bowl held many of Jaye’s fantastic salad creations, and its loss is a symbol, for sure.

  I scan the counter top, clear of cutting board and salad ingredients. Perhaps Jaye was getting ready to make salad.

  “It slipped out of my hands,” she says. Her voice is back to flat and uninflected. “I’ll get the broom.”

  “I’ve got it,” I tell her. “Don’t risk your knee.”

  I mean this. She’s so close to being able to use the leg again, there’s no point in taking chances.

  I get the broom and a dustpan from the laundry closet. When I come back to the kitchen, Jaye is bent over, picking up the larger shards and throwing them in the trash.

  “I broke the bowl.”

  “Yes, and I’ll clean it up. It’s okay.” Funny how one says things, sometimes. How one small thing gets blown up into a larger thing, suddenly representing an issue it was never meant to refer to at all.

  “You don’t have to clean up after me.”

  “No, I don’t. But I choose to. It makes sense for me to do this. Don’t worry about it.” I move to sweep up the mess, but Jaye’s next words stop me cold.

  “Rachel, can you just not be perfect right now?”

  Slowly I swivel my head to face Jaye. She stares at me, a little irritated, a lot distant. Uncompromising. I’ve been watching this expression for weeks, but suddenly my resolve to be patient, my resolve to be kind, my resolve to trust in Jaye’s certainty about us, and my certainty in her, yadda yadda yadda . . . my resolve snaps.

  With one simple sentence I have found out what my breaking point is.

  I lean the broom against the counter and step back. My own tightly packed anger now simmers over. It doesn’t explode, it doesn’t break anything, it merely vibrates the lid holding it down inside me and steams out the edges.

  “Yes, I can definitely not be perfect right now. I can definitely not be perfect for the rest of our fucking lives. And I can definitely not be perfect by myself.”

  I go back into the office and close up my computer, put it in its carrying case along with the power cord and other accessories. Back in the living area, I grab my keys and wallet, search for my iPhone, spot it and pick it up, too. Jaye is still standing in the kitchen. She hasn’t moved an inch. There may be a hint of consternation in her expression, but I’ve been hoping for something other than flat and blank for weeks now and am sure I’m imagining this.

  “Have a nice life,” I say in parting, to fling something out and get the last word. I open and walk out the front door. I think Jaye calls out as the door shuts, but I’m not stopping.

  I stomp down three flights of stairs, cross the parking lot, unlock my car. Get in the front seat, close the door, put the keys in the ignition.

  Then, only then, does what I’m doing hit me. I’m leaving. I’m walking out on the love of my life. I’m going, and I’m alone again.

  But wait, there’s more: I’m breaking my promise to Jaye’s parents. I’m as bad as the soccer coach bitch from all those years ago.

  My brain goes numb. I drop my hand from the keys and fall back against the seat. Some unconscious part of me knows that not starting the car is a good thing. As strung out as I am, as upset as I am, I shouldn’t be driving. But if I don’t drive away, what do I do?

  At first the answer is “sit there.” I stare into space, seeing nothing. Hearing nothing. Thinking nothing. This goes on for a while. Then the nothingness in my head becomes interspersed with images of Jaye, from those first glorious days and weeks. The gorgeous stranger in the cemetery, the confident soccer player, the enthusiastic lover in my bed, the tender protector of my trust.

  One image gets stuck on repeat, and it shatters me. Jaye, about to take the free kick in Boston, stepping back from the ball, her eyes burning into mine, reading my thoughts, feeling my love, interlocking my soul with hers.

  My eyes, so blessed to see such a vision three months ago, squeeze themselves shut on this warm Kansas City night, squeeze tight against the sudden flood of tears roiling up from my psyche.

  The tears win, bursting out of me. I put my face in my hands and cry.

  Tears, I learned very early in life, did not impress my parents. My older cousins would make fun of me too if I cried, so when I was six, I made a conscious effort to hide my tears. In the darker moments of my depression I’d occasionally break down, but by then I couldn’t cry for very long. A minute, maybe two, was all I could ever manage before the waterworks dried up.

  Since I met Jaye, crying has come back to me, mostly in the expression of tears of joy. On this night it’s the opposite, and the heaving, gulping sobs of despair don’t stop after a minute or two. The earlier images rewind and play again, faster now, with newly remembered scenes and memories. Jaye taking my picture in the park, Jaye awed at the grandeur of the Rocky Mountains, Jaye calling my name as orgasm envelops her. Jaye simply being with me. I cry through them all. And when at long last I believe I can rein it in, my cruel little mind throws out one more thing.

  I’d predicted an May-December affair. I’d told myself this could never last—Jaye was too young and too beautiful to stick with the likes of me. And goddamn me, I was right. The six weeks before the fateful last game, the six weeks we shared an apartment and made two lives one, were the happiest of my life. Now they always will be.

  The tears gush out again.

  

  Eventually I dry out. Or maybe I wear out. When that happens I simply stare straight ahead again, blind, deaf, still numb, trying to find the energy to move.

>   But to move where? Start the car and drive away? Go back up to the apartment? Throw myself into the pool and refuse to swim? Nothing has any appeal. Nothing is worth the effort.

  Time passes. The night deepens. I’m vaguely aware of cars coming and going. Perhaps some of their drivers see me. Who knows, who cares. My eyes are open, my body is breathing, but there isn’t anybody home inside. There isn’t anything at all.

  When the phone rings I’m so blank it doesn’t even startle me. Jaye’s ringtone plays, a clip from one of the most mushy, romantic songs I’ve ever heard. Slowly the tune registers in my brain, the blankness lifts. I close my eyes tight against a new sheen of tears while I decide if I’m going to answer. Yes, or no?

  One second before the call would go to voicemail, I choose yes, and hit “Accept.”

  It takes me a moment to get my mouth working. “Hey.”

  “Rachel? Where are you?” Jaye’s tone is full-on scared little girl.

  Another moment. “I’m in my car.”

  A long, long pause. “Are you going back to Denver?”

  I match the pause with one of my own. “No. I’m still in Kansas City.”

  “Can—can you come home?”

  A whole long string of moments passes while I ponder this question. Eventually I say, “You can keep anything I left, and throw away what you don’t want. I don’t care.”

  Now I hear what sounds like a muffled sob. “Rachel, please. Please come back. I don’t want you to leave. Please?”

  The last “please” is cut off by another sob. This cracks through some of my numb veneer, and a small part of my mind grasps the fact that Jaye’s pain is as great as mine. How, by the gods, have we done this to each other?

  When I don’t answer Jaye tries again. “Bogart, are you there? Please don’t hang up.”

  The nickname keeps me on the line. “I’m here,” I say quietly. “I’m not far away. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

  I click off the phone, check the display and see the time. It’s one-thirty a.m. I’ve been sitting in my car for something like six hours. Whoa. How long did I cry? How long was I staring into space? And was Jaye doing the same thing?

  I take a few deep breaths, get out of the Toyota, slam the door, and walk the walk.

  As I get to the third-floor landing the apartment door opens. Jaye stands there with one crutch, her face tired and haunted. Her hair is a mess, her skin is flushed and sallow at the same time, and her eyes have a shiny glaze, like someone with a fever. My neutral façade cracks, and my heart thumps hard in my chest. For all the mess Jaye is right now, I see only her beauty. I see only the love of my life. The pain accompanying the image of Jaye, real this time, is almost unbearable. I bite my lip, blink back tears (surely I must be out of tears?), and walk in.

  Jaye lets me into the apartment, then closes the door. As it clicks into place I move to let her past me. She collapses onto the couch. I watch, and I keep my distance. She sees me standing there, unmoving, and her body slumps, deflates, and takes on the air of someone defeated.

  Still, she speaks first. “Where did you go?”

  “The parking lot.”

  She frowns, like she thinks I’m being deliberately difficult. “And then?”

  “I never left. I sat in my car. I was going to leave, but after I stopped crying, I had nothing left.”

  “You were crying?”

  Suddenly I’m too tired to dance around whatever new reality we’re creating. “Are we done, Jaye? Is this it?”

  I watch her dissolve into tears, the epitome of utter defeat, and I feel what remains of my hope dissolve, too.

  But the sight brings back some of my humanity. Moving like I’m a hundred years old, I go to the couch and sit right next to the most important person in my life. She’s close enough to touch, but in this moment she seems a thousand galaxies away. Despite her anger, and mine, and the distance of the last few weeks, I still want to hold Jaye, comfort Jaye, make everything better. But I’ve wanted that since she got hurt and haven’t gotten it right yet. Why should now be any different?

  “I’m sorry,” I murmur, maybe too quietly to be heard above the tears. “I’m sorry I’m so bad at this. All I wanted was to love you, help you heal. I don’t know how. And I don’t know if I have anything left.”

  With a gasping shudder Jaye pulls herself together. She faces me. “I talked to my mom tonight.”

  About fucking time. If anyone can get through to Jaye, it has to be her mother, right? Of course, I’ve never been convinced Marcia Stokes was truly in favor of me at all. Tonight was her perfect chance to get me out of Jaye’s life.

  “I should have called her sooner,” Jaye says, in synch, yet again, with my mind. “She always sees things differently.”

  I swallow hard. “What did she say?”

  “She said deep down I know what I want. So I need to listen to deep down.”

  Simple advice. Good advice. Maybe. “And what did ‘deep down’ say?”

  Jaye meets my eyes. Decision time. “I want you with me.”

  The words sound good, thank you, Mrs. Stokes, but I’m can’t let hope back in quite yet. “As what? Your friend? Your caretaker? Your whipping girl?”

  Jaye closes her eyes. Opens them again. She tentatively puts her hand on my shoulder. “I want my lover. I can’t lose you and soccer both. I didn’t see that until Mom pointed it out. I think it would kill me. For real. Without me even helping.” Her eyes, glittering with a feverish shine, bore into mine. “Please tell me we can try?”

  She desperately seeks the comfort I desperately want to give. My heart thumps hard again, and my mind lets out the me who also wants her lover back. I bring my fingers up to Jaye’s cheek. She leans into the touch, drawn to the thread of hope I’m offering.

  “Oh, Jaye, I love you so much.” I brush her lips with mine, a feather-light touch. “Is the woman who smiles all the time still in there? Is the woman who loves life, and living, and me, still in there? Can I have you back, too?”

  She turns away and stares at the floor for a long time. Maybe one minute, maybe ten. My emotions, my hopes and dreams, run the complete gamut from A to Z and back again.

  Then Jaye lays her head on my shoulder. “We can find her if you stay with me, Rachel. She’s there, and she still loves you.”

  I slide one arm around her back, use the other to take her right hand and hold it up. The ring is there. Unlike me, Jaye never took it off at all, not for water or soccer or anything. She wanted this so badly, once; she was so sure. Does she truly want it still?

  “Do you promise to try?” I ask her. “It’s hard what you’re going through, it’s hard to heal. You’re going to need more help than I can give you. But do you promise to try? To try for us?”

  Jaye slides her fingers through mine, turns my hand so the ring I wear faces her, and kisses it fervently. “Yes, Rachel. I promise to try.”

  I lean over and gently kiss her lips. “Good.”

  She smiles, and for the first time in forever, I see light in her expression. But it also emphasizes the exhaustion in her eyes.

  “You need to get some sleep,” I say. She lets me pull her to her feet and leans heavily against me as she stands.

  “Sleep with me tonight, Rachel. Please?”

  I wrap my arms around her waist and hold her tight. We have a long way to go if we want to get back what we had, but her words tell me that now, finally, the tide has turned, and nourishing waters are coming in again.

  

  Despite the god-awful bitchy late night, my eyes pop open at half past seven feeling more than a little sand-filled, but I’m awake and that’s not changing. What makes it bearable is once again, at long last, I’m waking up next to Jaye. The woman I love sleeps beside me, and I have real hope this will continue, that we can somehow recapture the ease of our first months together.

  We’re not snuggling. In deference to her injury we simply held hands all ni
ght, but now I roll over, put my head on her shoulder and my arm across her waist. I know I won’t be going back to sleep and risk aggravating her injured knee, so we’re safe. Jaye slumbers on, oblivious. While she sleeps I take the chance to enjoy the simple contact of our bodies, to try to pass some of the tremendous love I have from my soul to hers. To begin the healing process of our relationship.

  We have a lot of work ahead, but it can wait. Right now, all I want—need—to do is lie here against Jaye and get reacquainted with the feel of her, the scent of her, the sound of her breathing. Oh, how I missed this.

  Maybe an hour passes before she stirs, probably because her arm, lying underneath me, has gone completely dead.

  “Rachel?” she murmurs.

  “I’m here.”

  Her arm moves, so okay, not completely dead, and I lift myself up enough for her to slide it around my back. I kiss her neck, then settle into her embrace and wonderful, warm contact.

  “What time is it?” she asks.

  “I don’t know, maybe nine o’clock?”

  “I’m sorry I’ve been so awful to you.”

  My first impulse is to say “It’s okay,” but it isn’t; I keep hold of the words and choose something else.

  “It’s been a rough time for you.”

  “I’m glad you’re here. I’m glad you didn’t drive away.”

  “Me, too.”

  We fall quiet again for several minutes. Then Jaye says, “I still feel empty, like, there’s this big hole where my life used to be.”

  “A void.”

  “Yeah. Is that how you felt?”

  “Sometimes. When the depression was at its worst, yes. Mostly I was angry, and sad, and disconnected.”

  “How did you survive?”

  “With some difficulty.” I pull away from Jaye’s body and slide up to a sitting position. Time to get down to the nitty-gritty. “Can I be honest?”

  A hint of fear flashes across her face. “You’re not going to leave, are you?”

  “No,” I say gently. “I love you. I love you more than I ever thought possible, and I’m staying right by your side. But it’s clear, Jaye, my love’s not enough to heal you, not enough to get you past this. We have to do something more. Otherwise we’ll end up where we were last night. Or worse.” I squeeze her hand firmly. “I really really don’t want worse.”