Rafe

by Sawyer Bennett

  Rafe’s mouth shuts, but he still regards me with regret written all over his face. I can’t stand it.

  I move past him and make my way back into Brenda and Jim’s house. I’m going to have my cup of tea like I would on any other occasion while visiting. Then I’m going to ignore this man who still manages to provoke me and stretch all my emotions to the extreme.

  Chapter 5

  Rafe

  I step out onto the ice, joining my team for pre-game warmup to the screams of fans and blaring rock music. I returned home to Raleigh a week ago, and much has happened since. I’ve assimilated well with the Cold Fury, and I’m getting ready to play in my third game for my new team. It’s the fifth game of this playoff round, and I’m confident that we can seal the deal tonight.

  Each round of the Cup playoffs is seven games, and the first team to win four takes the round. The Cold Fury earned home-ice advantage, so the first two games—which we won—were in Raleigh. The next two games were in Toronto, my first to play with the team, and we split those, losing a heartbreaker in overtime the night before last. Tonight, we’re back on home ice, and we’re up three games to one. We’re determined and fired up for victory. Sometimes, you could just feel it in your bones.

  I’m on a little bit of a high tonight. Got a call from one of my former teammates, Aaron Wylde, this afternoon. He called to check in on me. I’ve received dozens of calls, texts, and emails from many of my Vengeance teammates, but Wylde has reached out the most. He went through something similar off the ice, so more than anyone else, he understands the myriad emotions I’m feeling. I’m really grateful for his concern, and he’s been a great source of valuable advice on how to process everything.

  The one thing he can’t help me with are the feelings I have regarding Calliope. Wylde’s never had a serious relationship...never been in love. He has no interest in settling down, and thus can’t comprehend how I’ve gone years carrying a torch for one woman. Not that any of my former teammates really know that. I never told any of them about Calliope and how I left her behind. I never divulged that she was my one true love, and the different women they saw me date over the years were nothing compared to her.

  As I skate around the ice, letting my legs acclimate, my eyes scan the arena—the section between the upper and lower decks where I know my parents will be—and I try to discern if Calliope is with them. I left a ticket for her, leaving it up to my mom to pass on the invitation to tonight’s game, but I have no clue if she accepted. We haven’t exactly been on speaking terms since I stepped on her toes when her douche of an ex-boyfriend showed up. That was six days ago, and for almost four of those days, I was in Toronto playing the two road games. I have no clue what she’s feeling, or if we’re even back on speaking terms.

  My mom has freely shared information about her—though not because I asked. Only because hospice came out to my parents’ house while I was in Toronto and got things set up for Dad, and apparently, Calliope was there to help them navigate the overwhelming amount of information they received.

  Mom said they met with their hospice nurse for almost three hours to go over everything. They learned things that no family member should ever have to know, including the physical changes that will happen to Dad as he starts to die. Mom promised she’d go over everything with me when I returned to Raleigh, and the thought of it made me want to vomit.

  I’ve been back one day, and she hasn’t brought it up. Neither have I. I want to get through tonight’s game, hopefully seal up this round with a win. Then I can put some energy into it since we’ll have a few days off until the next round starts.

  I look back up at the section where I think my dad will be. It’s a seating area available to people in wheelchairs, and part of the hospice package included a shiny new wheelchair. I’m not sure whether or not he’s going to use it, but when I left for the arena today, he was adamantly opposed to it.

  Granted...he seemed to be having a really good day. Woke up with energy and actually ate a decent breakfast. According to my mom, who got the information from the hospice nurse, he will have good days and bad days, and it will be unpredictable. She said it can cause a lot of anxiety for us because the good days will inevitably lead to false hope. My mom told me today that we need to be grateful for every good moment he has, knowing that there are far more bad ones to come in the future. It was plain talk, but I appreciated it.

  When I left for the arena, Mom was pushing for him to use the wheelchair, her argument being that he could be worn out by the time the game was over. My dad told her he was feeling pretty damn good and didn’t want to have the assistance unless he had to.

  My personal opinion was that Dad should make the decision, but I didn’t voice it. But I did tell my mom that she should just let him go without it. I promised her that if he ran into trouble after the game and didn’t have the strength to walk out, I would get help. That seemed to put her at ease enough and because I can’t seem to locate them in the wheelchair area where they would be if he brought it, I assume they’re in the ticketed seats. I don’t know what those seats are just yet since I don’t have access to annual passes because I’m so new to the team, and their tickets were handled through will-call.

  It’s enough to know that they’re here to watch me. I’ll take any games my dad can make it to and cherish it more than I ever did in the past.

  Even more than that first professional game I played when I signed with Calgary. My parents both flew there to watch me play. I’d splurged and bought them first-class airline tickets and put them up in a luxury hotel, proud of the money I was making. I had a limo bring them to the game, and I was on cloud nine stepping out onto that ice, knowing they were there to watch me.

  Knowing my dad was there, taking the time from his busy work schedule to come and see his son play.

  That moment seems almost dull in comparison to right now, knowing that this could potentially be the last game my dad watches me play live.

  I’m going to make it count. I’m pumped and ready to go. In fact, this feeling...the adrenaline and surge of pure joy for the game is the only thing that makes the deep despair in the pit of my stomach that never quite goes away even bearable. It’s hard to let a few minutes go by without thinking about the fact that my dad will soon be gone, and my relationship with him is on borrowed time.

  Hockey is the only thing keeping me sane right now.

  * * * *

  I can still feel my teammates patting me on the helmet after I scored the game-winner tonight, and the taps of their sticks against my calves. The win is a rush that doesn’t die down easily, and I finally feel completely in sync with my new team.

  Zack invited me out for some beers tonight, but I declined, not hiding the truth.

  “Going home to spend time with my dad,” I told him. “He had a good day today, and I want to take advantage of it.”

  Of course he understood, and I knew this by the way he clasped my shoulder with a solemn nod.

  Now, though, when I pull into my parents’ driveway, the adrenaline high from winning the game and thus the playoff round for my team, starts to fizzle.

  There is nothing inside to be excited about. There is no joy. No solace, security, or hopefulness.

  Nothing but a dying man.

  With a sigh, I get out of my car. It was delivered a few days ago, along with all of my furniture and belongings. I placed all of it in storage, having no intention of getting my own place just yet.

  For the immediate future, I want to spend my time at my parents’ home—my childhood home—so I can be as close to my dad as possible. After the hockey season wraps up, there’s no telling if I’ll stay with the Cold Fury or get traded elsewhere. My deal was only for the remainder of the season, and while I’m playing well so far, that doesn’t really mean anything.

  Trudging up the sidewalk with my gear bag over my shoulder, I’m both reticent and eager to walk in. I hate looking at all of the medical equipment now taking up the entire livi
ng room except for the recliner, loveseat, and TV, but I’m looking forward to spending the rest of the evening with my dad. Time is way too precious.

  I unlock the door with my key and push it open slowly. The hinges are well oiled and don’t make a sound. It’s important to be quiet, as my dad’s bedroom is now the living room, and he may be sleeping.

  Dropping my bag in the foyer, I creep up the carpeted half-flight of stairs and peek around the banister. My dad’s actually in his recliner watching the news. I move fully into his line of vision, and he startles slightly, not having heard me come in.

  His face morphs and a wide smile breaks out. “There’s the hottest new star for the Cold Fury.”

  “You were able to come, then?” I ask.

  My dad nods with a lopsided grin. “Even walked myself. Didn’t need that damn wheelchair.”

  “Awesome.” My return smile doesn’t feel as forced as it’s been. I think I’m learning to relish his good days. I point toward the kitchen. “Hey...I’m going to grab a beer. Want anything?”

  “I’ll take one, too,” my dad replies, lowering the leg support of the recliner so he can sit more upright.

  For a moment, I wonder if he’s even allowed to have a beer. He’s on some medications, but regrettably, I don’t know what they’re for. Part of me feels I should question him, but another part of me doesn’t want to offend him either.

  In the end, I figure my dad knows what’s best for him. His mental faculties are still all in check, and if a dying man wants a beer, he gets a beer.

  I nab two ice-cold bottles from the fridge, my mom having thoughtfully stocked a six-pack of my favorite brew. Skirting around the hospital bed in the middle of the room, I hand my dad a bottle before collapsing back onto the loveseat, directly opposite his recliner.

  He holds up his bottle. “Cheers, and congrats on an awesome game.”

  I lift my beer up in acknowledgment. “Thanks. I’m really glad you were able to come.”

  Dad’s expression turns thoughtful, his mouth turning slightly downward. “I missed way too many games while you were growing up.”

  I don’t know how to respond because there’s no mistaking the apologetic tone in his words. Does he want some type of absolution?

  “Nah,” I drawl with a wave of my hand.

  “Missed so many,” he replies sadly, his eyes locking with mine. “You see, son, when you’re faced with death, you reflect on your life, and all of the regrets start pushing their way to the surface. I just need you to know...it’s a big regret of mine. One of my biggest, I guess you’d say. That I didn’t spend enough time with you as a dad should with his son. I always put work first, and well...if I could change that, I would. But I can’t, so the next best thing is to tell you I’m sorry for it.”

  “Dad,” I say, but my voice cracks. I don’t want to have this conversation, not because it’s difficult for me to handle, but because I don’t want his last days—precious hours and minutes—to be made up of him feeling bad about his choices.

  He holds up a hand, indicating that he wants me to listen. “The hospice nurse spent a lot of time with us, kind of educating us on how it’s going to happen. There’s no telling how fast it’s going to come...the end. I don’t want to leave anything unsaid. So, over the next few days...weeks...whatever I have left, I might want to talk about some of these things. It’s important to me.”

  I swallow hard past the lump of emotion clogging my throat and manage to croak, “Yeah...of course, Dad.”

  And thus, I learn a lesson. You hear it all the time. Many people say it, but really...it’s never impacted me much.

  Don’t take a single moment for granted.

  The regret my dad is wallowing in, and without any time to rectify it, is heartbreaking to watch. The least I can do for him is listen when he wants to unburden himself.

  Chapter 6

  Calliope

  I’m exhausted, having pulled a double shift to cover a co-worker struck with the stomach bug. I’m a big believer in stepping up to help out with things like that because well...karma is out there floating around, and I don’t want to offend her.

  The hot shower I just took didn’t refresh me but instead made me feel drowsy. My bed is calling, and I should listen.

  Instead, I pull on a pair of worn jeans, a T-shirt, and a pair of sandals. I give my hair a quick, rough dry and, because there’s a chance that Rafe will be there, I put on some mascara and lip gloss.

  Yes, I’m going over to his parents’ house because I want to check in on Brenda and Jim. I want to see how hospice got everything set up and make sure they’re adjusting. The fact that I’m putting on lip gloss and mascara because Rafe will probably be there is like a pebble stuck in my shoe. It’s annoying as hell that I even care what he thinks about my looks because I’m absolutely not interested in him in that way.

  Not really.

  I mean...I appreciated his intervention with Grant the other day, even though I was equally annoyed that he thought it was his place to step in. And I have to admit to being swayed by sympathy a tremendous amount. Knowing what he’s getting ready to go through with his dad makes my anger toward him seem silly. We broke up a long time ago, and while I hated everything about that experience, it did help me become the woman I am today.

  I’m independent, strong, and when a man doesn’t treat me right—hello, Grant—I cut that shit out of my life because I know I’m better than that. I deserve more than the way Rafe dumped me or the way Grant treated me—as if I was a lesser, second-rate person merely because of my gender.

  Mostly, though, I’m softening to Rafe—potentially being a friend to me again—because we are getting ready to share a loss together. I love his dad, not as much as he does and in a different way, but the Simmonses are part of my family unit. I’ve been involved heavily in Jim’s most recent medical issues, they’ve turned to me for explanation and comfort, and I intend to be there for them going forward. In my heart, I want to offer the same to Rafe because I can’t bear to think of the pain he’ll be facing and thus...I have to put aside the bitter feelings I’ve clearly been harboring all these years.

  So I leave my apartment and make the short drive to the Simmonses’ house. Because I want to be there for all of them through this, and it has nothing to do with karma. It has to do with love.

  I pull into my parents’ short driveway, unconcerned with blocking them in or out. They went on a short trip to Wilmington for the weekend. Both of them have semi-retired, and they love taking weekend trips to the coast. I’m thinking they’ll want to fully retire there before long.

  I make a mental note to grab today’s mail for them before I leave and head into the Simmonses’ house. As usual, I give just a short knock to announce my presence, but I walk right in.

  “It’s me,” I call out, not overly loud but enough to drift up the stairs.

  “Come on up,” Brenda responds. I can tell from the direction of her voice and the slight echo that she’s in the kitchen. They have a big skylight over the sink area and over the years, I’ve come to recognize the way voices carry from that part of the house.

  I come around the banister, my gaze going to the hospital bed in the middle of the living room. Jim is in it, and I’m struck by how small he seems all of a sudden. I know he went to the hockey game last night to watch Rafe play, and Brenda was so happy with how well he did. He insisted on walking, declining the use of the wheelchair that had been supplied by hospice.

  But now I can see him sleeping deeply, undisturbed by my entrance into his home. He makes a slight snoring sound, and his chest rises and falls deeply.

  I look away and move into the kitchen. Brenda’s at the sink, rinsing out a cup. Her gaze lands on me, and I see the worry there.

  He was good yesterday, and now today...

  “This is typical,” I remind her, answering the question in her eyes. She knows he’s going to have good and bad days. The hospice nurse was very clear about that and soon, the bad wil
l outnumber the good. “Take the good days and treasure them.”

  Her eyes mist up, and she nods.

  “Where’s Rafe?” I ask her. Since they clinched this round of the playoffs, he has the next four days off, and I just assumed he’d be by his dad’s side.

  Brenda’s gaze shifts to peer out the window over the sink that overlooks the back yard. “He’s out there, weeding.”

  I move over to the sliding glass doors on the other side of the small kitchen table and look out past the deck. Sure enough, Rafe is on his hands and knees in one of Brenda’s flowerbeds, now only sporting daffodils that lost their blooms a few weeks ago. I imagine Brenda hasn’t been in much of a gardening mood since they got Jim’s diagnosis.

  I study Rafe.

  We’ve been apart for eight years, and yet I clearly recognize the frustration and anger in his posture. The way his upper back is hunched, shoulders dipped and frozen in place. His plucking at the weeds is stiff and mechanical.

  “He’s been out there since his dad fell asleep a few hours ago,” she says, her voice tinged with sadness. “He sat by that hospital bed for a full hour, waiting for him to wake back up. I can tell he’s having a hard time processing all this.”

  My heart cramps a bit. “He’s had such huge upheaval in his life,” I murmur to Brenda. “Finding out about Jim, moving to a new team. I’m surprised he’s not pulling your good plants out.”

  Brenda chuckles. “Me, too.”

  I turn to her, struck by the worry on her face for her son. She has enough on her plate without having to shoulder concern for Rafe, too.

  “I have an idea,” I say, unsure how wise this will be, but committed all the same.

  Without another word, I open the sliding glass door and step out onto the sunny deck. It’s elevated and several steps down. The slapping of my sandals against the weathered wood catches Rafe’s attention, and his neck twists to take me in.