I clicked on the Photos tab and went back to the picture I took of Sawyer the last night we spent together. He wasn't looking at the camera in the phone. He was looking at me. And he looked so content and ... entranced. Yes, I said inside. I love him, and why does that scare me so much?
London entered the room again. "Hey, can I borrow your phone? Mine just died and I have an important business call I need to make."
I smiled and handed it to her. She walked away and returned a few minutes later, set the phone on my bed, and walked back out.
I spent the rest of the night watching TV and around 10p.m. my phone rang and London's name popped up on the screen. I picked up and said, "Why are you calling?"
She didn't answer.
"Hello?" I said.
"That wasn't exactly the greeting I hoped for, but I'll take it I guess."
"What?" I gasped and looked at my phone screen. "Sawyer?"
"Yes...."
"Oh my gosh."
"I'm sorry I called. I know you just got back, but I miss you and London said you wanted me to call.”
I couldn't believe I fell for her trick. Changing his name to her name in my phone so I'd pick up, how clever of the lawyer friend.
"I'll hang up if you want," he said.
"Sawyer, stop."
"What?"
"Stop being so nice to me."
He exhaled into the phone. I couldn't tell if he was frustrated laughing.
"I've spent the last few weeks ignoring you. Be mean to me."
"I don't know what you mean. I don't feel angry with you."
"Why not? I'm angry with you." My voice trembled. "Everything was good. I was dealing with everything so well, then this happens to me and I can't think straight. I don't even know what I'm thinking most of the time. Everything's changed."
"You say that like it's a bad thing now.”
I nodded to myself, then shook my head. I felt like two different people having a tug-of-war to see who would speak.
"Nora," he said. "I'm not going to force you to do anything."
"Yes! Yes, Sawyer. Force me. Just force me. Make me have no choice but to be with you. Make it impossible for me to live without you. Force me." I lowered my voice and whispered, "Please."
He didn't say anything, but the sound of him breathing burned like flames in my ears.
"Sawyer,” I said. “Say something."
"When I say nothing I mean everything."
"Are you still playing for the Bruins?"
"I'm not doing this, Nora."
"What?"
"This is like a freaking merry-go-round and it's making me sick."
I picked at the loose thread in my blanket. “I’m sorry I can’t please you.”
“It’s not about that. Stop making this about you every time.” He paused.” Look, I’m not forcing you to do anything. You need to make your own damn decisions. And I'm not playing this game where we ignore reality and pretend to have a normal conversation for a few hours. You need to face reality and stop turning life into a movie. I'm not a puppet in your show. This is real life and you're always trying to ignore it for some cheap fantasy version where no problems exist. That's not noble of you, okay? You're not strong. You're a weak person like the rest of us. You've just learned to excel at avoiding issues. But there are issues. Life has so many freaking issues and if you can't force your own self to face life and make decisions without someone telling you what the hell to do, you're just going to end up another chess piece moved around by others."
"I guess I asked for that."
"I guess you did."
"I want to run away from you right now, but that only proves that you're right. Why am I always running?"
"Same reason we all do."
"Why’s that?"
"If you're standing in front of something that can hurt you or embarrass you or steal your happy view of yourself, then the natural reaction is to run from it.”
"So we're supposed to face the hungry lion head on even if it could eat our heads off? Just walk right up to pain and say, ‘Welcome? How ya doing today?’”
"I'm still figuring this out myself, but when I was a kid my brother was always taunting me to challenge him. He would climb this one huge tree and call me a wimp because I wouldn't even try. My mom saw this one afternoon and pulled me aside. She told me that risking my life for something is never worth it when I'm just trying to prove something to someone else, but that there's always a time when risking everything is the only option."
"When you are doing it for your own happiness?”
"No," he said. "When you're doing it because the thing you love is worth more than your life."
Sawyer's words stayed with me the rest of the week. We didn't talk again and I'm sure it was intentional on his part. I replayed those words in my head constantly though, wondering if I loved anything more than my own life. I always thought of myself as strong. I built a wall that kept me from getting hit by anyone and before Sawyer I saw it as a virtue. I was able to focus more and deal with the media better because of my wall. It was a good wall. A healthy wall.
Then he poked a hole in it somehow and I felt like I was peeking through this microscopic hole and saying, "Hmmm ... that looks really beautiful over there, but it's dangerous," so I put some duct-tape over the hole and tried to keep ignoring it.
But since our last conversation, I found myself peeling back the tape and wondering ... wondering a lot of things I never wondered before. He had that effect on me.
CH. 23 - Sawyer
My brother called me on a Tuesday morning as I was parking my car before practice. Shocked, I stared at the number for a few seconds before answering. I hadn't seen his name on my phone since before the iPhone even existed.
"I found something you have a right to see," he said. "When you get a chance, stop by."
I started to say, "Okay," but he already ended the call. He always liked to have the upper hand and I secretly believe that he found satisfaction in frustrating me.
We played the Rangers again in four days, on their ice, and we had games each night before then. Except one. So I planned to get to NYC the day before the Rangers game and visit then.
I laced up my skates in silence and moved on to taping my stick. Jones sat down and did the same, only silence was unusual for him.
"You alright?" I said.
He laced his skates tighter and faster without looking at me. I flicked his arm. He grabbed his stick and stomped off. I followed and caught up to him on the ice. "Don't bother," he said. "Some things can't be fixed."
I skated alongside him, although he was clearly trying to lose me. "I'm not trying to fix you, Jones."
He skid to a stop by the goal, spraying ice into the net. I did the same.
"And for the record,” I said. “I feel like I'm beyond fixing too."
"It's not like that.”
Coach blew the whistle.
"'We'll talk later," I said, and we both skated toward the line with one too many reasons to be distracted.
Coach really gave us a tough time at practice, but I noticed that Jones didn't push himself and Coach didn't seem to mind. When Jones and I finally made it to the locker room we were both too exhausted to talk, but I figured I'd open the door back up anyway.
"What's going on?" I said.
He looked around at the guys.
"No one's paying attention." I nodded toward the others. "They're all too busy messing around."
"It's my leg." He pressed his hand into his thigh. "Doc says I'm on the bench for the next few games. Maybe the season."
I stared at his leg, knowing any consolation I’d give wouldn't matter. "Didn't know it was that bad," I said. "I'm sorry, man."
"I know it's not the most important thing in the world, but it was my dream."
"It doesn't matter how important it is to others. It's your dream and that's all that counts. I know how it feels to lose things you love. It's not easy."
He breathed in and
rubbed his knees. "Thanks, Reed. Appreciate it."
I knocked on Quin's door, enjoying the bitter March wind and wondering what he was about to show me. Had to be important if he called me.
Took a few minutes, but he finally opened the door. Didn't say a word as he turned his wheelchair and went toward the living room. I ignored the pictures in the hallway and focused on his arms spinning the wheels. Even if he'd forgive me, I thought, not a day would pass where I didn't wish it was me in that chair instead.
He urged me to sit down, then flopped a book on my lap. A worn leather journal. I looked at him, then the book. He nodded for me to open it. I held my breath, fearing that he had given me his wife's journal, but the first page said: Rosemary Reed. "Where'd you find this?" I said, turning the page.
"I was going through old boxes and it somehow got mixed up with my old yearbooks. I never saw it before. Read the entry.” He pointed toward the book. “The one I marked with the bookmark, then you can take it home and read the rest."
I turned to the page and silently read.
Dear Sawyer and Quin,
If you ever read this and I'm gone I want you to know something that has been weighing on me. I watch you two play and it can be so sad sometimes. You two have been best friends since Sawyer's birth. Always inseparable. It's been adorable, but comes with its challenges. I'm worried when I watch you boys.
Quinton, you are always driven by your ego. You're strong and talented, but much too determined to beat down everyone in your efforts to be the best. You push yourself to win a competition, then shove it in someone's face. I’ve rarely seen you compliment others, but you always give yourself a pat on the back. You don't play anything for the love of it, you play to win and normally do. I've seen you tear down your brother so many times just to feel good about yourself. You don't have to do that, dear. You don't have to spend your life trying to prove that you're amazing. One day you'll fail and be alone because you've climbed to the top of a pyramid with only enough room for yourself. Don't let it get to that point and if you do, learn humility from your brother. He could do without so much of it.
Sawyer, just because you're most often the underdog and the peaceful introspective kid, don't think I'm letting you off the hook. Your humility has become your worst enemy. It's so intense that I wonder if it will be your vice one day, instead of your greatest virtue. It's one thing to believe you are below all men, even when you're not, but it's another thing to be crippled by fear and to no longer try. Sometimes, dear, I think you fear being good at something because you've tasted the bitterness of being the one who comes in last and you don't want to make others feel that way. That's sweet of you and I smile inside when I see you pretending to lose when you race your younger cousins, but if you always let people beat you they may never learn to work hard for something they want. It's okay to win, just win for the right reasons and always encourage those who lose. Oh, and Sawyer, I hope one day you read this. One day when it matters. If so, remember that the bottom of a mountain can be just as lonely as the top.
I hope the two of you can learn to climb together one day. As I'm writing this you are trying to climb the big pine tree out back. Quin is at the top, rejoicing in his victory and taunting Sawyer. And Sawyer is at the bottom, afraid to get hurt and afraid to be sad about it. I'm going to go talk to you two separately now. I hope my words mean something.
Love you boys,
Mom
Quin and I stared at each other in silence. I imagined myself at the bottom and him at the top, but maybe he saw it the other way around now. Maybe Mom was right. Maybe the top of a pyramid felt like it should be the bottom.
"Want a drink?" he said.
"Sure."
"Root beer?" He wheeled backwards as I nodded.
I flipped to the last page of Mom's journal and saw the date. Two days before she died. Then I closed the book and set it in my lap. I wasn't ready to read that yet. Quin came back with two root beers and some chips. He handed me the drink and flopped the bag of chips on the coffee table. I unscrewed the cap and took a sip. He did the same, then set his drink between his legs and said, "I knew you were never jealous of me."
I took another swig of my drink. "Okay...."
"Did you know I was jealous of you?"
I laughed through my nose. "Of what?"
"Read that journal and you'll see."
"Mom didn't favor either one of us. She wasn't like that."
"That's true. But you were so much like her." He wheeled over to a picture of Mom and Dad on an end table. "You always had something I couldn't get no matter how much I fought."
"You have plenty of Mom's qualities too. We're both a mix of Mom and Dad."
"Anyway." He faced me again. "I want you to know that I believe you about Tiff. I need to let go and I want you to know that I don't blame you."
"But you should, Quin. It was my fault. After that first drunken mistake she kept trying to seduce me, jumping on my lap and stuff and snapping her bra. You weren't talking to me so she just kept showing up at my place. I turned her down so many times and finally she came to me wearing nothing but a little coat, threatening to kill herself if I didn't make love to her. I told her I never loved her and I regretted having sex with her and she smiled and walked away." I imagined her face that day, the last day I saw her. “I didn’t realize she….”
"It wasn't your fault." He paused and bit the inside of his cheek. "You and Mom loved people. I didn't know how to love her so she kept looking for someone else. Of course she'd go after my brother.”
"Either way, the woman was messed up in her head before you married her. Some people can have a savior stare them right in the face and still choose to give up. We couldn't save her. She didn't want to be saved."
He tried to speak, but coughed instead.
"I really am sorry, Quin." I scooted to the edge of the couch. "For everything."
"You haven't changed at all." He laughed. "Still apologizing all the time, aren't you?"
I shrugged.
"I think ... I ... I'm ... Listen, I'm sorry." He looked down at his legs as his body started to shake. "I'm sorry, Sawyer.”
I stood and touched his shoulder. He shook for a few minutes, hunched over and crying without tears. I stayed there and held his shoulder until his body calmed down. Head still bowed, he reached for my hand and squeezed it, then looked up at me with clenched teeth. "I hate you," he whispered.
I loosened my grip on his shoulder.
"I hate you!" He thrusted his body forward and flopped off of the wheelchair. His legs landed in awkward twists as he reached for the carpet and tried to rip it out of the floor. In frantic, strong motions he yanked and yanked at the floor, then his hair, then the floor again.
"Quin, what are—”
He grunted and yelled like a man dying a slow death. I stood in place and swallowed hard. He punched the ground over and over while screaming as loud as his lungs allowed, each muscle in his arm flexing as he pulled back and plummeted toward the floor again. My brother was the strong one, the one who never cried, the one who lost a beautiful girl and moved on to the next, the one who broke his leg so bad the bone was visible and just said, "Ouch," the one who lost our parent's and went on a date the next night. Now ... he looked like Nicholason in The Shining.
His screams turned to howls. His arms flexed with less intensity as he bit the carpet and shook his head like an animal. My eyes burned with the scourge of everything I destroyed, of everything I … crippled. Quin flipped to his back and stared at the ceiling in a trance, saying, "I'm already dead,” in a hoarse voice.
I waited for the right time, but when that seemed non-existent I sat on the couch near his head and said, "How can someone be dead if they never really lived?" He didn't seem to hear me. "Get up, Quin."
He continued to stare.
"Get up, Quin," I said louder.
He stared. Not even a blink.
I leaned to the ground and slipped my arms around his back and
chest. He shook his body, resisting my efforts. I gripped harder and pulled with more strength, scrunching my face as I pulled him up with all the power I had. He knocked his head around, tried to punch me, and sunk his teeth into my arm. I forced him to stand with me as blood dripped down my wrist and his chest.
"Remember what it's like to stand?" I said, panting. "Good. Because the only thing different between this and sitting in your chair is the view." I eased him on to the wheelchair. "You didn't live when you had legs. You did a lot of stuff, but you didn't live. Now that you're here, what the hell do you expect?" I shook my head as his chest rose and fell rapidly above his clenched fists. "As far as I'm concerned, the wheelchair only provides a physical sign of the way you've always lived. So sit here and whine about your problems or get the hell out of the chair and live for once. Do you even know what that means?"
His knuckles turned white and his eyes narrowed. "The last thing I need is advice from the little brother who couldn't climb a tree."
"I climb plenty of trees. I just choose which ones are worth it and I'm afraid that's something we've rarely agreed on."
"What is life, huh? For an orphan with no legs and a dead wife? Tell me that, Dr. Sawyer. What is life if you can't walk on a beach or skate on a pond? What is it, huh? If you can't drive a car or walk down the street or have sex? I sit here in this damn”—he whacked the wheels—“chair and watch life walk by me. They all just walk by."
"I'm sorry."
“Stop apologizing." He reached for the chips and popped the bag open, completely ignorant of the blood on his shirt and carpet. "So since you've decided to come here and be all wise, tell me the meaning of life."
"I don't know."
"Exactly." He crunched a chip. "No one knows."
"Maybe it's just to live."
"Breathing isn't enough for me."
"Mom lived. And she barely left the house."
Marilyn Grey - [Unspoken 06] Page 12
