What You Left Behind

by Jessica Verdi

  “Why is everything so hard?” I ask. I’m still face-to-steering-wheel, so I’m pretty much talking to my crotch, but I know Dave can hear me.

  “What do you mean?” he asks, sounding a little less pissed off.

  “Why does everything suck so bad? Even when you think it’s getting better, it’s not. Life’s building up suckiness, getting ready to hit you again, at the worst possible moment.”

  “Dude.” Dave’s voice is way lower. I can barely hear him, so I lift my head and roll down the window a little. “Is this about Meg? I…uh…I’ve been meaning to tell you how sorry I am about…you know, for your loss—”

  I hold up a hand to stop him. “Don’t. Just don’t, okay? I can’t talk about this right now.” Not without breaking a few car windows and hand bones anyway.

  Dave nods, all relieved-like. “Well, I don’t know what’s going on, but you need to play, man. That recruiter is here to see you. Besides, we have no chance of winning without you.”

  The recruiter is here to see me. No one else, only me. And that’s who I need to be thinking about now—me.

  I squeeze my eyes shut for three seconds, promising myself that by the time I open them, I’ll be ready to play. One. Two. Two and a half. Three.

  I open my eyes.

  Everything’s the same as it was earlier today before I laid eyes on that godforsaken journal, I tell myself. Just because the whys have changed doesn’t mean the whats have. Everything’s fine.

  Yeah right. Nice try, brain.

  But I can still do this. I need to.

  Don’t let her win.

  I unlock the door.

  “Okay. Let’s go.” I throw on my uniform right there in the parking lot, right in front of the stragglers who are still making their way to the stands. At this point, I don’t give a shit if people see me in my underwear. Dave and I break into a run.

  The stands are completely packed with fans dressed in Puma blue and white, the lights are on, and the guys are out on the field, ready to start. Coach O’Toole is standing next to a middle-aged guy in a blue-and-gold jacket. UCLA Bruins is written on the back. Walter Paddock. I remember him from my visit to the school.

  The energy of the place pushes into me. Yes. This is exactly where I need to be.

  “Thanks, Dave,” I say, clapping him on the back. He raises his eyebrows in a good luck—you’re going to need it look and runs out onto the pitch.

  Fuck luck. I don’t need luck. This is soccer. I’m good at this.

  Just don’t think about her.

  I approach the sidelines. “Coach,” I say, trying desperately to clear my head. I secure my hair back in a rubber band and pull my socks up over my shin guards. “I’m sorry I’m late. I had a…family emergency.”

  Coach looks like he would love nothing more than to punch my lights out. But he knows how important this game is to me—he’s got to know I wouldn’t have been this late unless something major went down. You know, like finding out your dead girlfriend was a lying, selfish, cruel bitch.

  Goddammit, Meg.

  Don’t. Think. About. It.

  “Ryden, this is Walter Paddock, the head recruiter for the UCLA men’s soccer team,” Coach says simply, letting his eyes do the real talking. Even if I kill it tonight, I’ll be lucky to see any more game time the rest of the season.

  I shake Walter’s hand. “Mr. Paddock, of course, I remember. Nice to see you again, sir. Thank you so much for coming all this way. My team is waiting for me, but I’d love to speak with you more after the game.”

  Walter nods enthusiastically. “Looking forward to it. And I’m looking forward to seeing more of what you can do out there in front of the goal. If your stats and game film are any indication, I’m in for quite a show tonight.”

  “Thank you, sir.” I pull my gloves on and run out to rousing cheers.

  “Wooooo! Go, Ryden! Number One forever!” Shoshanna shouts, waving her pom-poms and shaking her ass.

  The ref flips the coin, and the Hornets win the toss. They choose their side, I head off to the goal, and the Pumas kick off. While the action is happening at the other end of the field, I let my attention drift toward the stands. Alan and Aimee are sitting toward the top of the bleachers, off to the left, huddled together under a blanket. Mom and I guess that’s Declan—he looks like he belongs on the cover of one of Joni’s romance novels with his dark hair, short beard, and leather jacket—are sitting along the halfway line down front. They’re sitting as close to each other as Alan and Aimee, smiling like there’s no place they’d rather be and no one they’d rather be with. Everyone’s all coupled up and blissed out. Don’t get comfortable, I want to shout at them. It doesn’t last forever.

  And then there’s Hope. She’s bundled in her hat and puffy jacket and propped up in Mom’s lap, bouncing up and down as Mom jiggles her legs. Declan makes a stupid face at her, and she laughs and reaches out toward him, trying to grab his beard. She looks happy.

  Out of nowhere, even though I look at Hope every day, it’s like I’m seeing her for the first time.

  Her face is almost perfectly round, except for a tiny little chin jutting out. She’s got dimples on either side of her mouth, and the way her little eyebrows arch reminds me of the way my eyebrows look in my baby pictures—long before I got my scar.

  Her hair is still like Meg’s—dark and wild—but really, her face has changed so much in the months since she was born. She doesn’t look as much like Meg anymore. She looks like me. The baby girl version of me.

  Holy shit. It doesn’t matter that Hope hasn’t said “Daddy” yet—I’m a dad already. It’s happening, with or without my permission and even though I don’t have a single clue how to do it right. That kid is going to grow up and go to school and get into trouble and break bones and have her heart broken, and I’m going to be there for all of it.

  Suddenly, the entire world is like an hourglass that’s been flipped over, the sand running back through the narrow hole in the opposite direction as before.

  It’s not about what I did to Meg anymore. The journal made sure of that. It’s about what she did to me.

  She blamed me—not for her pregnancy, but for her cancer. By writing about it in her journal and leaving it where she knew someone would find it, she made sure I would feel that guilt forever. Even though I didn’t even know who she was when she was diagnosed.

  And because she blamed me, she felt I was hers to do whatever she wanted with. So she used me as an unwilling means to her own selfish end. She left me sad and alone and with a baby. She never thought what my life would be like once the baby was born and she was gone. She knew she would be gone, and she didn’t even do me the courtesy of talking about it. She only thought about herself and how to fill her remaining calendar squares.

  I didn’t take her life away from her.

  She took mine.

  The ball whizzes past my head and into the net. I feel it and hear it, but I don’t see it because I’m still watching Hope.

  The crowd is on their feet and booing, waving at me to wake the fuck up.

  I wrench my eyes back to the field in front of me, where all the players—from both teams—are just standing there, staring at me. I don’t know what expression is on my face, but it must be pretty scary, because no one’s coming over to talk to me, to find out why I didn’t attempt to block that goal.

  I make myself move, though I feel like I’m walking through a wall of thick, gooey plasma, and return the ball to the ref.

  “You all right, Brooks?” he asks, low enough so that no one else hears.

  “Yeah,” I say. “Fine.”

  All this time, I’ve been trying to make the best of this awful situation, trying desperately to be a good father (and failing miserably), trying to reconcile my life now with the part I played in taking Meg’s from her. And it turns out I was the one being
played all along.

  The ref returns the ball to the center of the field, and the Hornets kick off.

  I try to get my head in the game, I really do. At least my feet aren’t nailed to the ground anymore, but the rest of the half doesn’t improve much. I manage to block one shot, but I let three others go by.

  By the time halftime hits, the mood in the stands is somber, and my team won’t talk to me. The only one who says anything is Shoshanna. “You’re joking, right?” she bites out as I make my way to the sidelines, her hands on her hips, a dark scowl marring her beautiful face. I pretend I don’t hear her.

  I sit on the bench for the entire fifteen minutes, alone, thinking, trying to regroup. I’m not confused anymore. Everything is more clear than it’s been in months.

  The fact that Coach hasn’t pulled me out of the game yet means the recruiter is still here. The guy came all the way across the country to see me play, and Coach has to honor that, even though no one wants to watch me play right now.

  I have to get my shit together. Show the recruiter what I can really do.

  Don’t let her win. Go to UCLA and prove your life is not over.

  When halftime ends, I calmly get up and take my place at the opposite goal.

  For the entirety of the second half, I do not look at the stands once. I do not think the M-word. I do not think the H-word. I don’t even think about UCLA. The only thing I think about is BLOCKING THE FUCK OUT OF EVERY GOAL THE HORNETS ATTEMPT.

  It’s like therapy.

  And it’s even better than last week.

  Gradually, the mood in the stands lifts. The cacophony of sounds coming from the crowd becomes higher pitched and more amped up. My moves become sharper. My name is chanted with rising enthusiasm each time I make a clutch save. My teammates start high-fiving me. My blood is pulsing with adrenaline and defiance.

  Final score: 6–4 Pumas.

  • • •

  I head straight to Coach O’Toole and Walter Paddock like a man on a date with destiny.

  Walter extends his hand. “I’m not sure what was going on in the first half, but boy am I glad I stuck around for the second. That was quite an impressive comeback, Ryden. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything quite like it.”

  “Thank you, sir. I know it’s not an excuse, but I got some bad news right before I arrived tonight and it affected my game. But I’m glad I was able to pull it together and show you some of what I can do. And if you allow me to come play for you, I will bring one hundred and ten percent every single day.”

  Walter’s glance cuts to Coach. Coach doesn’t look nearly as happy as he should after winning a game like that. What am I missing?

  Walter looks back at me. “Ryden.” He says it in a way that sounds less like my name and a whole lot more like, You might want to take a seat, young man. I’m afraid I have some more bad news. “You’re an excellent player, and UCLA would be honored to have your kind of talent on our team.”

  I hold my breath. “Thank you, sir.”

  “But Coach O’Toole here has filled me in on your…personal situation.” He what? “I wish I had been informed before coming out here. In fact, I wish our department had been notified as soon as your situation changed.” He looks kind of annoyed. “If this were just about your skill, it would be a much different story. But unfortunately, we cannot offer you a spot on the UCLA team at this time.”

  My head is on the verge of exploding. “If this is about the way I played in the first half, it was an extenuating circumstance,” I manage to eke out. “Please, let me have another chance.”

  Walter shakes his head. “Division One athletics are an incredibly demanding commitment, Ryden. It’s hard enough for our players to manage a healthy balance between academics and athletics. There’s simply no way for someone to manage that while also being the primary parent to a young child. Which, it seems”—he looks at Coach O’Toole—“has already been proven during your season. Your coach said today is not the first time you’ve been late or distracted by personal issues. Plus, we require all our first-year athletes to live on campus, and the university does not offer family housing.” He pauses and looks right in my eyes, like he really wants me to know how much he regrets having to tell me this. “Unless you’ve made some other arrangements? Will the child be staying with her grandparents during the academic year?” He sounds almost hopeful.

  I glance at the stands, where Mom is still sitting with Hope and Declan. They look like a perfect little family. My throat suddenly feels swollen. If I left Hope with Mom—if Mom even agreed to it, I mean—they would be fine. But I can’t. Whether I wanted it or not, I have a daughter now. And I’m not going to let her grow up with no parents.

  I shake my head.

  “Then I’m sorry,” Walter says. “There’s simply no way it could work.” He gives a nod of acknowledgment to Coach and then walks away.

  I stare at Coach. He looks uncomfortable, pursing his lips and shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “How could you do this?” I shout. “Do you realize you’ve just ruined everything?”

  “I’m sorry, Brooks, but I had to tell him. Especially after you showed up late—again—and completely blew the first half of the game. I’ve kept quiet during my dealings with the UCLA recruitment office all summer because I’m expected to see my players off to good colleges. My job is on the line here too. But I could no longer in good conscience recommend you for his team without him knowing your situation. The truth is, you’re distracted and your playing has suffered. That’s the long and short of it, Brooks. I know you think things will be different once you get to college, but they won’t. You’ll be facing the same set of challenges you are now, constantly trying to find the time for everything and coming up short. Mr. Paddock needed to be informed. And since you clearly weren’t going to tell him…” He drifts off. I know the rest.

  “Don’t even think about saying ‘this hurts me more than it hurts you,’” I say, each word dripping with poison. “My life is none of your business. And you had no right to tell him anything about me.”

  Coach shakes his head sadly. “Then you shouldn’t have put me in a position where I felt I had to.”

  “You know what, Coach? I quit.”

  I storm toward the locker room. It feels like it should be raining. Thunder, lightning, torrential downpours. Big, fat raindrops saturating every last inch of every last thing in the world with cold, clammy bleakness.

  But it’s not raining. The weather is perfectly crisp and dry and autumn-y, which means the number of things that make sense in my life is officially zero.

  Mom and her boyfriend and Hope intercept my path. Mom gives me a one-armed squeeze. “You were awesome, Ry! What did the recruiter say?”

  I just stare at her.

  She must get the message that the news isn’t good, because she quickly moves on to, “Ryden, this is Declan.”

  “Ryden, it’s great to meet you.” He holds his hand out to me, but I ignore it. Eventually he drops it. “I’ve heard a lot about you,” he tries. “You’re a hell of a goalkeeper, man.”

  I turn back to Mom without acknowledging his existence. Something inside of me is breaking. It’s like hundreds of hairline fractures sprouted throughout my body when I read that purple journal—or maybe earlier than that, I don’t know—and there’s been more and more pressure placed on them throughout the night. I’m about to fall apart.

  I wrap my arms around myself, trying to hold myself together a little bit longer. “She did it on purpose,” I say to Mom.

  Her eyes narrow. “Who?” she asks.

  “You know who. I found the second journal today. She got pregnant on purpose. She did this to me on purpose. She—” My voice is dangerously shaky.

  Mom hands the baby to Declan and is about to pull me into her arms, but I know if I let her, I’ll collapse into a million pieces. I step a
way. “I have to go.”

  “Where are you going?” Mom asks, worry written all over her.

  I glance at the emptying stands, at Alan and Aimee and Dave and Shoshanna joining the mass exodus, working their way up toward the school, the locker room, the parking lot. “A party,” I say. “Shoshanna’s house.”

  Chapter 30

  I need to get fucked up.

  I push past the crowd at Shoshanna’s already full house and make my way to the downstairs bathroom. It’s where the keg is always kept, in a bathtub full of ice.

  “What’s up, Number One?” Matt Boyd asks as I enter the room. He’s in there with a group of sophomore girls. One of them—a girl with feathers dangling from her earrings—hands me a cup. I help myself to a second and fill them both. “Awesome comeback tonight, dude.”

  I chug one beer and hold it out to be refilled as I down the second one.

  “When do you hear from UCLA?” Matt asks.

  “I heard,” I say halfway through my third beer. “Not gonna happen.”

  “Oh, dude, that sucks. Well, you’ll get in somewhere, man. I know Coach has other recruiters coming to watch some games later in the season.”

  My head is getting cloudy. The girls aren’t joining in on the conversation. They stand there, pretending to be interested in everything we’re saying.

  “Nope. I’m done. I quit the team.” I refill my cup again.

  Matt gapes at me. “You quit?”

  “Yup. Not playing for that asshole O’Toole ever again. I have absolutely no chance of playing D-One or going pro, so there’s no point in sticking around. Like everyone keeps reminding me, I have bigger responsibilities now.”

  I leave the bathroom, full cups in my hands.

  The whole downstairs is packed. You’d think coming to this same house after every single game would get old, but Shoshanna has made it something of a tradition. Her parents don’t care, there is always more than enough beer, and her house is on this huge piece of property with no neighbors within hearing distance, so we can be as loud as we want. It’s actually the perfect party situation.