Fight For It

by Jessie Harper

  "I'm not gloating. I told you that I think it sucks. Obviously, I know what I'm talking about." I stand with my arms folded. This is a nowhere conversation that I'll be happy to leave behind as soon as I convince her to move toward the door.

  Abbey looks at the floor and her bottom lip juts out in a pout. "I'm sorry I did that to you. To us."

  Her admission knocks the wind out of me. She's never taken responsibility for anything that went wrong in our marriage. Abbey's always insisted on putting the blame on me. I wasn't ambitious enough or romantic enough. I ignored her and had a temper. While there might be a bit of truth in all these accusations, Abbey's infidelity was the bomb that blew everything to bits. That, and her later surprise that I could have been a father. And now not only is she getting a taste of her own medicine, but she's apologizing for her mistakes. If she had been able to do that years ago, I might have stuck things out for longer. I might have kept trying.

  She must see the confusion on my face because Abbey takes this opportunity to move closer to me. She's close enough now for me to see how tired she looks. She's aged in the last three years even if I haven't been around to see it; the evidence is right there on her face. "I was a terrible wife."

  I want to agree with her, to remind Abbey of all the ways she hurt me. I want to watch her face crumble when she's confronted with every single mistake she's made. Or at least that's what I thought I would want when I imagined this scenario in my head. But now I'm realizing that even if Abbey made me feel like my life was over when she left me, in the end she gave me a gift. Without her betrayal I wouldn't have worked my ass off to make the gym operational. Without her selfishness I wouldn't be with Julia. So instead of ripping her a new one and living out my revenge fantasy, I just shrug. "That's in the past." I'm not about to say I forgive her; I can't. I might not ever be able to, but I can let it go for now.

  "I'm guessing that's as close to forgiving me as you can get." Abbey raises her face toward mine. "And things seem to be going great for you." Her mouth puckers like she's tasted something sour.

  "Yep."

  "And now I should leave?" I know she wants me to tell her to stay, but I'm not doing that either.

  "Yep. Out you go."

  37

  Zach

  "Fork goes on the left, Coach Z," Noah whispers to me. "Haven't you done this before?"

  I look down to realize that not only have I put all the forks on the right, but I've got the napkins all screwed up too. Noah looks up at me quizzically. I'm pretty sure he's wondering how he got roped into setting the table with such an idiot. "Of course I've done this before. Like I said, it's the little brother's job, right?" I raise my fist and Noah bumps his smaller fist against mine. "I just got distracted that's all."

  "Uh huh." Noah doesn't look convinced, but he comes over to help me reposition the silverware. "Like this. You can look at his one if it helps you remember the right way." He gives me a pat on the back. Yep. He thinks I'm an idiot.

  "Thanks, bud. I'll do that." I give his hair a quick ruffle and laugh when he starts smoothing it back down once he moves over to his side of the table. His place settings are all perfectly straight—forks aligned neatly over napkins. My mother will be sure to go all gaga over his work. My side looks much less professional but it's hard to concentrate on napkins when my sisters have Julia cornered in the kitchen. I've been straining to hear what's being said but I'm only getting every third word or so. They could be having a great time in there or they could be having World War III. It's impossible to tell and it's driving me crazy.

  "I can finish the table stuff if you want to go check on Mom." Noah doesn't raise his eyes to meet mine, but I can see the beginning of a smirk on his little face.

  "What? And leave you here to do all the work? No way. Little brothers' club is busy in here. I'm sure she's fine in there." That last part doesn't sound very convincing, even to me, and Noah gives me another look.

  "If you say so." He slides another fork from the bunch wrapped tight in his fingers and places it on top of a napkin.

  "I do. Let's get this work finished so we can go and watch more of the football game." Charlie's with my dad in the den, the game cranked up to ten. Every now and then we hear them yell about something that's happening on the screen. Luckily, this week isn't one with Graham plastered all over the TV, so I feel a little more relaxed. I'm never going to be a big football fan, but it makes it easier to watch when Julia's ex-boyfriend isn't likely to pop up in front of me unexpectedly. I'm finding myself relieved that football season isn't year-round.

  Laughter comes from the kitchen and my mother moves through the doorway, bringing my father another beer. If they're laughing everything is probably fine. At least that's what I tell myself as I try to copy Noah's work. I can already tell I'm about to be compared unfavorably to a five-year-old. He's finished his side of the table and is looking at mine, furrowing his brow and shaking his head.

  "What? I think those look pretty good." I wave my hand in the direction of my place settings. They're still a little crooked and I've only managed to finish a few, but I'm distracted. I watch Noah's chubby fingers flex and then relax. He's itching to make my side perfect.

  "I'm going into the den," he tells me after one more backward glance at the table. I'm sure he's on his way to tattle to my parents.

  "Hey, run in the kitchen first and grab me another beer," I shout after him. I'm not sure what the general consensus is on asking your girlfriend's five-year-old to handle alcoholic beverages but I'm pretty sure it's frowned upon. Either way having Noah grab a beer from the fridge should interrupt whatever's going on in the kitchen. Right now I'm willing to risk whatever I get just to have him run a little interference.

  Noah's nose wrinkles. He seems to agree that my request isn't one of my better moves. Luckily, he's distracted by his older brother rushing into the dining room before he can help me dig the hole I'm digging any deeper.

  "Coach Z, did you ever fight in a cage match?" Charlie asks, throwing his hands around wildly. "Did you?"

  I freeze. Of course, after thirty minutes alone with my father this is what Charlie's found out. I stall. "Where did you hear that?"

  "From Mr. Frank," Charlie tells me. I notice that the TV in the den has gotten awfully quiet.

  "What's cage match?" Noah asks. Great. Now he's in it, too. Thanks, Dad. I would call him in here if I thought it wouldn't just make things worse. Who knows what else he'd bring up?

  "Guys fight! In a cage!" Charlie shouts. "We saw a commercial for it on TV and Mr. Frank said Coach Z used to do that." The kid's eyes are so wide I'm afraid they're going to pop out of his head. "Did you do that, Coach Z? Did you?"

  "You fight in a cage? Like a cage at the zoo?" Noah's confusion isn't doing anything to temper Charlie's enthusiasm and soon both boys are peppering me with questions.

  "Slow down. One at a time."

  "Did you do that, yes or no?" Charlie waits expectantly.

  "Yes."

  Charlie’s mouth drops open. It's almost worth having to explain my slightly younger, much stupider self to him.

  "What did you do? I want to know!" Noah's frustration takes away from Charlie's amazement.

  "Well, there are these professional—semi-professional—fights that people can participate in." I pause, looking down into two sets of extremely interested eyes. "And, I used to—a long time ago—sometimes fight in them."

  "Inside a cage?" Noah seems confused.

  I squat down so that I'm eye level with them. "Yeah, in a big enclosure. Chain link. Like a fence."

  "But you said," Noah begins, brow furrowed and mouth set in a stern frown, "You always say that we aren't supposed to really fight. That it's for self-defense and stuff, right?"

  I let out a sigh. This is exactly why I hadn't wanted to tell the boys about this. I never mention it to kids at the studio because it's too complicated to really explain. I tell them not to fight for the sake of fighting. Not to start shit with anyone for no
good reason. How do I explain fighting for money? For other people to watch? I know they've seen boxing on television, maybe not an entire fight, but they know that exists. But having someone you know who has consistently told you not to do something suddenly being guilty of the very thing they've warned you against? That's hard for kids, even smart ones.

  "A long time ago," I tell them, even though it wasn't that long ago, if I'm telling the whole truth, "I thought that I'd like to be like those guys who fight in the big matches on TV."

  "Like the one in the commercial?" Charlie asks.

  "Yep, like that, but you have to start smaller than that. You can't just go to the big fights from the beginning."

  "Sort of like how you play tee ball before baseball?" Noah asks.

  At least he didn't make it a football analogy. Baseball I can work with.

  "Like how the pro guys don't start in the pros," Charlie adds.

  "Just like that," I tell them although most professional baseball players don't get the shit beaten out of them over and over again.

  “I thought I'd like that, but I didn't, so now I don't do it anymore." I try to make it sound as boring as possible, leave out the adrenaline rush, the sound of the crowd. Those things I liked; I won't lie. But I didn't like the recovery time, having people stare at the bruises and cuts, and the sheer barbarism of the whole thing. At the time I needed the laser focus of preparation to keep my mind off other things, to forget my failed marriage and the anger that burned in my chest all night and day. I also needed the money. I leave out that part, too.

  "Does Mom know you used to do that?" Charlie asks and I have to consider the question.

  "She does." Julia's been told about my fighting days, as short-lived as they were.

  "Was there blood?" Noah asks. He's rocking on his heels, obviously not too comfortable with this conversation. I'll have to be sure to give Julia a heads up about this one. And I'll need to wring my father's neck as soon as I can manage that.

  "Yep. That's another reason I decided I didn't like it. I don't like to hurt people for no reason and I don't like for them to hurt me. Does that make sense?"

  The boys look at each other, considering. Finally, Charlie shrugs his shoulders. "I guess." Noah seems to agree.

  "If you have more questions you guys can ask me. Anytime," I tell them and they seem satisfied. Before I can blink they're running back to the den and the TV. I hear the volume crank back up, sure my father's been listening in the whole time.

  Jerk.

  I go back to my last place setting, smoothing out the napkin and laying the fork on top, hoping I handled that alright. Teaching kids isn't the same as parenting. Julia will have every right to be angry if I just fucked that up. Obviously, my family's going to need a refresher on little kids before they make Noah and Charlie at family dinner a distant memory.

  I'm thinking about the best way to broach the subject with my parents when I hear the commotion. More than a commotion, really, because it's my mother screaming, yelling for us to come quick. My legs are moving before my brain can catch up, aware that she's not calling me for something trivial. My mother does not scream the way she's screaming now unless it's an emergency. I think of Noah and Charlie in the den with my parents. Of all the furniture that could have toppled over on them, of all the sharp edges they could have fallen onto.

  My sisters and I all reach the doorway at the same time, shoulders fighting to squeeze through, bumping elbows and knees as we spill into the den. The TV's still on at top volume which makes the decibel level of my mother's screams even more impressive. I scan the room for the boys and find them clustered tight against the wall, eyes as big as saucers. No blood. No visible injuries. Nothing but sheer terror on their faces. I can feel the prickling on my neck subside a bit, but still I move toward them, getting ready to feel their arms and legs, to be certain they aren't hurt. Julia beats me to it and gathers them in toward her body, wrapping her arms around them. They turn their faces toward her and bury them in her skirt. She's looking over my shoulder following the path of my mother's cries and when I turn my head toward the source of the noise it's then that I realize this isn't about the boys at all.

  It's about my father.

  My father who's now slumped over on one side of the couch, his body limp. My mother is flailing her arms, yelling his name, pulling on his arms and face. I watch as my sisters join her, trying to get him flat on the sofa, feeling for a pulse. I watch all of this like I'm underwater, the sound traveling through liquid, the action blurred by the waves. Only my sister motioning me toward them pulls me back into the moment. They need my help. My father's too heavy for them to maneuver. I'm on autopilot then, coming to them and working with Amy to start CPR. We're both in jobs that require us to be ready for emergency situations and we work together now to clear his airway and start compressions.

  "Kat, call 911." My voice comes out more sure and steady than I feel. "Mom, what happened?"

  She's beside herself, tears washing down her face, the fear making it hard to understand her. "I don't know. One minute he was watching the game and the next he was slumping like that." She pulls her hands to her face, shaking her head. She wails and Kat pulls her in close, cell phone fixed to her ear. She's giving them our address, urging them to hurry.

  I'm counting in my head, keeping my father alive until the ambulance can get here. I've only had to do this once before and that incident was a blur. I'm hoping that this time will be the same, that I'll eventually forget the feeling of pushing down on my father's chest, letting my palms circulate the blood through his system. That I'll forget the feeling of putting my mouth to his to help him breathe.

  From the corner of my eye, I watch Julia move the boys from the den, hustling them along the far reaches of the room, skirting the wall. Noah's crying now and she's talking in low whispers as she rubs their backs. They shouldn't have to be here for this. Shouldn't have to see me and my family fall apart as the football game blares in the background.

  "Can someone turn that fucking thing off?" I snarl, still pumping my hands on the warm flesh of my dad's chest. Much softer I chant under my breath, "Come on, come on, come on." Willing my father to live.

  "Was he dizzy? Lightheaded?" Amy asks my mother while Kat slides furniture around to make it easier for the paramedics once they arrive.

  After what seems like a lifetime we hear the sirens in the distance. Kat runs to the porch to help direct them into the house. Amy stays with my mother, gently patting her as she continues to cry. She's mewling like a kitten despite Amy's constant refrain of it will be okay, it will be okay. She's hoping as hard as the rest of us. I barely notice the paramedics pulling me from my father, loading him up and moving toward the door. My mother grabs her purse and my sisters follow. We can't all go in the ambulance, though, and somehow I end up sitting in the back with my mother, holding her hand as they attach an IV to my father's arm and try to take a medical history.

  Almost too late I remember Julia and her boys. My sisters are jumping into cars when she appears on the porch, her face furrowed with concern. She looks like she's been crying too and she has two visible wet spots on her skirt from the tears of two frightened children. I reach in my pocket with my trembling hand to fish out my keys and toss them to her. I open my mouth to say something, but when nothing comes out she takes over for me.

  "Don't worry. I'll take the boys to my parents'. Do you want me to meet you at the hospital?"

  "Please." No matter which way this goes I'll need Julia. Need to bury my nose in her hair and lose myself in the smell of her. Need to have her hand to steady my shaking one.

  She nods. As they close the ambulance doors I watch her grow smaller and smaller in the window, the flashing lights illuminating her face as we drive out of sight.

  I feel completely hollowed out, the space behind my eyes burning. I'm resting my head in my hands, elbows propped on my knees. The smell of the hospital is overpowering, a combination of disinfectant and sorrow that
's souring my stomach. Even with all this it still growls and I remember that we never actually had the chance to eat dinner. It's still resting in various bowls and platters in the kitchen and dining room of my parents' house, probably ice-cold by now. I'll have to remember to get back there first or remind one of my sisters to take care of the ruined dinner and the out-of-place furniture. I don't want my mother to walk back into the house and be reminded of this night any more than she will be already. If she's walking back into that house without my father then it's even more important to me that she not come home to a mess. I push that thought out of my head. That's not the way things are going to work out here. The universe owes me at least that.

  My father's in surgery now, where they'll try to repair his heart. The doctor explained the procedure to us, my mother's pale face looking up at him with complete incomprehension. I tried to listen for the both of us, but I only managed bits and pieces. Words like "blockage" and "stint" bouncing around inside my empty head. My sisters were a little better, asking questions and writing things down. They've given my mother something to calm her down and now she's curled in a chair here in the waiting room with me. Every time the door opens my head shoots up. I'm waiting for news. To find out if my father will survive something described as "massive" or if the last time I touched him will be when I was performing CPR on his failing body. But I'm also waiting for Julia. Needing her to soothe the ache in my chest and to take away the confusion I'm feeling.

  Amy and Kat have gone in search of coffee and something even marginally edible. They've been trying to keep busy, texting the necessary people, making the required phone calls. Now that they're gone the room is eerily quiet, the only sound the slight snore that escapes my mother every third breath or so. I should try to move her, straighten her out a bit so her neck isn't sore when she wakes up, but I can't convince myself to move and I don't want to risk waking her. So, I stay where I am, listening to her breathing, relieved that at least one of my parents is making it through this day, damaged or not. The lines on her face seem impossibly deep pressed against the scratchy green fabric of the hospital chair, her hair forced up into a tower on the top of her head instead of down around her ears.