by Cora Brent
“What if it did?” he muttered.
“What?”
“Nothing. You’re right. I’m just being an asshole, feeling sorry for myself. What’s that noise?”
“The ocean.”
“You’re at the beach?”
“Yes. That’s where they keep the ocean.”
He barked out a short laugh. “I remember. You digging for clams in the darkness?”
A tear fell down her cheek. “I love you, little brother.”
“I know, Anya.”
“It’s here. The symptoms. It started a while ago.”
The sound he made was small and terrible. It travelled a distance of three thousand miles and sliced through Anya’s heart. How she despised hearing it come from him. Easton breathed heavily a few times, obviously trying to compose himself, while Anya waited.
“I know that too,” he finally choked out. “Your voice. It sounds like Mom’s voice.”
Anya closed her eyes and saw Allie’s face. Jack was silent. Easton was silent. Even the ocean waves paused in their merciless work of battering the shore.
“I’m sorry,” she said a moment later. She was sorry for all of them, even more sorry than she was for herself. There was nothing else to say in the aftermath of such an awful reality. She told Easton that she would be watching the game next week. Then she told her brother good night.
The boardwalk was all but silent. Now and then a couple would softly walk by but for the most part Jack and Anya were alone, staring into the inky blackness that somehow contained the enormous sea.
Jack buried his face in her hair, breathed deeply, and then sighed.
“Do you remember that day when I brought over the lawnmower to help East?”
She smiled. “Of course.”
“That was the first time I saw you.”
“Nonsense. You’d seen me a thousand times before that day.”
“Nope. That was the first time I saw you. And I knew right then and there that I was going to marry you.”
“Jack. No you didn’t.”
“I did too,” he argued. “I’ll never let anyone say otherwise.”
“No one would dare.”
“Goddammit, I love you, lady.”
A slight chill was rolling in from the water but Anya welcomed the way the flesh rippled on her bare arms. She marveled at how the simple act of feeling filled her with gratitude because it was still possible. She had Jack. She had Allison. She was still here.
“I love you too, Jack.”
Anya knew her happy ending would always be bittersweet to anyone who thought of her in the years to come. But even if she was merely a role player in a larger story, she wasn’t ready to walk offstage.
No, she wasn’t done quite yet.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
EASTON
I knew the exact pitch where it happened. I threw a fastball to slugger Brock Hernandez in the first inning and as soon as the ball left my hand I felt a terrifying shift in my elbow. It wasn’t pain, not until I tried to throw again. I kept throwing anyway, tossing out hits and runs like they were fucking confetti. The pitching coach came jogging out to the mound a few times but I waved him off.
I’m fine. I’m FINE! Fuck all of you. I’m fine.
Benji finally yanked me in the fourth inning. He’d already let me stay out there longer than he would have let any other pitcher stay. A few guys offered some polite babble in the dugout as I kept my face passive and stayed on the far end of the bench. The veterans were silent and faced away because they knew there was no point in trying to comfort a pitcher who’d lost his stuff.
I refused to sit for x-rays. I muscled my way out of the dejected locker room and away from all the helping hands that tried to examine me, ignoring Benji Carter when he tried to call me back.
The smug face of my high school coach kept swimming before my eyes as I drove to my condo. He kept nodding and telling me to ease up, to change my pitch delivery or I would fuck up my arm one of these days. Every coach since then issued the same dire warning. I slammed the accelerator down and answered them out loud, told them all to eat shit and choke on the bones.
At home I sat out on the balcony and stared at my arm. It looked the same as it always looked. But when I pressed two fingers against the inside of the joint a sick pain shot up to my shoulder and down to my palm. This was bad. This was really fucking bad.
My stupid phone was buzzing like a hive of bees. Just assholes calling to gloat or girls calling to see if I wanted to feel better by getting sucked off. I didn’t want any of them. I only wanted Claudia and I couldn’t have her right now. The sound of her voice was the thing I most wanted to hear but I was afraid I’d say too much. I might tell her the horrible truth about my arm. Sure, surgery was an option but recoveries were uncertain. And I’d definitely have to change my style, which would mean I couldn’t be the pitcher I always had been. If I said all that out loud to the girl of my dreams then I’d probably melt into a weepy, womanish mess right there on my balcony. I couldn’t handle that. I could deal with half the world labeling me as an arrogant hard-throwing man whore of a dick, but I couldn’t stomach having Claudia think of me as weak. No fucking way.
So instead I stretched out on the hard floor of my balcony, stared up at the moonless sky and shut the world out.
In the morning there was less pain but when I shook my arm around it felt weird. Loose, sort of unhinged. Benji called six times before ten o’clock and finally I answered. I told him the arm was fine, that I’d just been coming down with some kind of a bug and I was still battling a fever. He didn’t believe me, although the hopeful tone of his voice told me he wished it was true. I agreed to be back at the clubhouse at nine a.m. tomorrow for an evaluation.
Since I wasn’t too excited about hearing any news about myself or seeing any clips from last night’s game, I stayed away from the Internet. I checked my phone logs to see if Claudia had called but she hadn’t. Part of me was relieved since I didn’t want to bawl in her ear.
All I had in the fridge was a six pack of beer and a carton of eggs. I made a feeble attempt at scrambling some up but they turned out gummy and burnt, nothing like my sister’s eggs. I ordered a few pizzas after that but then just picked off the pepperoni and left the rest. What I mostly did was avoid any thoughts about the future. My sole productive act of the day was jerking off to visions of Claudia.
The sun was starting to soften in the west when my sister called. Not surprising, since Anya would have seen the game, would know I was feeling shitty and would feel obliged offer her usual words of encouragement. Since I’d been so young when our mother started to go downhill and our father split, Anya had been more of a parent to me than anyone on earth. I loved her for it. I used to think if I could land a monster deal in the pros then I’d have all the money in the world to throw at doctors and demand that they find a way to save my sister. But that’s not how things worked. In fact there had been no medical breakthroughs at all in the last two decades. She never wanted to talk about her limp or her trembling hands so I didn’t mention them either. But now she was calling to tell me what I already knew. The disease was taking over and it was only a matter of time until the inevitable happened.
Anya was going to die. There wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it. Nothing had ever hurt more.
The next morning I got to the clubhouse early and cornered Tully, the team’s physical therapist. He liked me well enough but he wouldn’t risk his own reputation by hiding shit from management and my fucked up pitching arm was some big time shit. But when I opened up my duffel bag and showed him a pile of cash, all his scruples sailed out across Mission Bay and vanished over the horizon.
Tully led me to a back room and pushed a needle into my arm. “This ain’t a permanent fix, Malone,” he warned.
I winced as the needle plunged deep. “How long?”
He shrugged. “Depends on how much damage there is. You might be able to throw for a game or two but then you
might end up in worse shape than you started out in.” Tully disposed of the needle and gave me a searching look. “You understand what I’m telling you?”
“Yeah, but I’d bet my left nut that there’s nothing to worry about. I just can’t have Benji throwing me on the DL right before the All Star Game.”
“Benji wouldn’t put you there unless there was a damn good reason to put you there.”
I flexed my elbow. The shot had already begun to work. There was no pain at all.
“Look,” I said. “I don’t feel like taking my chances. Here’s your cash. You get me a few of those shots to take with me on the break and I’ll give you twice as much.”
Tully’s morals were evidently still for sale. He gave me the shots, explained how to inject them, and then counted his money.
Benji still made some noise about sending me in for x-rays, even after I tossed a few good pitches on the mound but I weaseled out of it. Normally Benji didn’t let his players have that kind of clout but since the division title was riding on my arm being solid for the rest of the season the team manager was desperate to believe there was nothing wrong. I knew that feeling well.
I had three days until I needed to travel back to Phoenix. Four days until I would stroll up to the mound in front of the entire nation. That game would cement my status as the ace pitcher of the National League. I would need to put on the best show of my life. My contract was on the line at the end of the season. I had to aim for one of those ridiculous eight figure deals that made everyone gasp. Anya’s medical bills would be crushing. Plus she had a family that would need help. For the next few days and however long it took after that I needed to be single-minded, utterly focused on nothing but the game.
No juice, no bullshit, no women.
Not even Claudia.
The air kind of went out of my chest when that thought crossed my mind. Claudia and I had finally reached a place where we had a chance at something real, something that lasted beyond a few rounds of incredible fucking. And now I would have to ask her to wait on me, even if it was just for a little while. How could I get that message across without seeming like I was backing off? Impulsively I called her.
“East,” she breathed, sounding relieved. “I’m sorry about the game. I was going to call but I didn’t want to risk rubbing salt in the wound.”
“You wouldn’t have,” I said shortly.
She paused. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fantastic. Why?”
“It’s just…I heard things. About how you might be hurt.”
“I’m not hurt. Everything’s great.”
She didn’t say anything for a minute. “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing. I told you that.”
“Why are you being so cold?”
I shut my eyes. ‘Cold’ was the last thing I wanted to be with her. This was Claudia. My Claudia. I’d always thought of her as mine, always figured that maybe one day she really would be.
“I’m not, baby. Just got so much shit running around my head with the game coming up and all.”
“Oh,” she softened. “I can’t even imagine the pressure.”
“It’s not a big deal. I just need to stay focused on the game and nothing else.”
She was silent. I thought about the words that had just come out of my mouth. They were all wrong.
“I get it,” she said quietly.
No you don’t! And that’s my fucking fault because I can’t say how much I want you, need you, that I might even love you.
“Look,” I sighed, “after the All Star Game-“
“Right,” she interrupted, but she was already mad and I didn’t blame her one damn bit. She thought I was being the classic self-centered sports star prick. “It’s fine, Easton. We’ll get together some other time.”
“It’s not arthritis,” I blurted.
“What?”
“Anya doesn’t have arthritis. I don’t know if they told you that or if it’s just what you figured, but it’s not true.”
“I don’t understand what you’re talking about. What does Anya have to do with any of this?”
I lowered my head, reluctantly tumbling into the past. “You remember my mother, Claudia? You remember how she lingered for years in a wheelchair and then died in her sleep because her body finally forgot how to breathe?”
Claudia was smart. She figured out what I was saying without me having to say it.
“Oh Jesus,” she said and I heard the grief in her voice. “Anya?”
“Yes.”
“And you?”
“No. There’s an even chance that children will be born with the gene.” I swallowed. “Anya drew the shit end of the stick.”
Claudia gasped painfully. “Allie?” she asked and it sounded like she had started to cry. Claudia, who never cried, was crying.
I would cry too, if I could. I closed my eyes.
“I don’t know,” I whispered.
Claudia was still reeling. “For the love of god, all these years, why didn’t Jack tell me? Why didn’t you tell me?”
She had questions and I had no answers. I’d gone so long without talking about the important things that now I didn’t know how.
“I gotta go, Claudia. I’m sorry. I’ll call you when the game is over.”
My voice sounded pitiless, inhuman. Being human hurt too much. She was still crying when I ended the call. Then I sank to the floor and felt something break inside of me. The great, wracking sobs that emerged shook me so hard I couldn’t breathe. I thought they would never end. But they did. After all, everything ended at some point. Everything.
PART FOUR: MAY 2015
~~~~~~~~~~
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CLAUDIA
It was possible to wrap up your life in five days. I’d done it and I hadn’t even planned to. But then Easton had called on Saturday night to let me know that Anya was in the hospital again.
“They’re keeping her overnight,” he said tiredly. “Her oxygen levels were low.”
“Is Jack with her?”
“Jack’s always with her. You know him. Staff’s already learned there’s no point forcing visiting hours where he’s concerned. Allie’s staying with Rocco and Sheryl.”
“Good, good,” I answered mechanically. “Easton? You’ll call me if anything changes?”
“I will, Claudia. Good night.”
I stared at the phone in my hand, wishing it could teleport me to Long Island. This was the third time in as many months that Anya had been taken to the hospital. A bout with pneumonia in February had left her weak and unable to even use her wheelchair any longer. When she’d spent two weeks in intensive care I’d flown there to offer what insufficient comfort I had to give. And I’d be there again soon. I already had a plane ticket booked for Rocco’s wedding next month. But it wasn’t enough. Not nearly enough.
Jack turned out to be a better man than I ever gave him credit for. He stayed beside his wife, lovingly cared for their daughter, and never cried where anyone could see. But he was sinking. He had to be.
I jumped up from the couch and started pacing the room. Two years ago Easton and I had a very different phone conversation when he’d revealed the truth behind Anya’s badly disguised limp. I’d been incredulous, unable to believe it was true. It was too horrible. I didn’t understand how they could have carried on with their lives all that time and never breathed a word to me about it.
Now I understood.
There was never any stopping it. That’s why. Anya and Jack were just trying to be happy until they couldn’t.
Now my father had a dying wife and a little girl to take care of while here I sat in an Ikea-decorated apartment on the other side of the country, completely useless. That was the moment I made up my mind.
Five days to quit my job, sell my furniture, pack up my Honda and leave the landlord a sizeable check to cover my broken lease. I said terse goodbyes to the handful of friends I had in Phoenix. Brynna had long ago given up
on her shitty marriage and on Arizona and moved back to Minnesota. I did not let anyone else know my plans. If I told Rocco or Getty or even Easton they would tell Jack. Jack might tell me not to come and I wasn’t going to accept that. He needed me. He just probably didn’t realize it.
As I drove through the dull expanse of western Texas I restlessly began to search for something on the satellite radio that would keep me awake until there was something more interesting to look at than brown, flat farmland. Deafening crowd cheers burst through the speakers and a raspy announcer howled about a grand slam. It was a baseball game. I left it on, not knowing or caring who the teams were. I stared out at the unending flat landscape and thought about Easton.
He was there now, in Lutztown, and living with Getty since Rocco had moved into a place with Sheryl. The last two years had been rough for Easton. He hadn’t even lasted one inning in that disastrous All Star Game. He’d walked off the mound holding his elbow, his face a mask of agony as it became apparent to everyone that the rumors had been true. The most promising young pitcher in Major League Baseball lost his battle right there in front of the country in heartbreaking fashion. He’d had surgery and then a season down in the minors, but his power was gone, his record terrible. And then last fall he moved back to Long Island, partly because his career was over and partly because his sister was getting worse. Jack gave him a job at the shop and the last few times I saw him it seemed like he’d exchanged a big piece of his cocky, proud spirit for a quiet, brooding one. My heart ached for him, in more ways than one. We talked occasionally; distant, stilted conversations, and Easton was often the one who called to update me about Anya. But the magic of our connection had been broken. We were something less than family and more than friends. We were each other’s reminders of ruined dreams, of what we’d lost and were still losing.
