The Keeper

by Jillian Liota

  When I spot him, sitting on the bleachers front and center, a paper bag covered bottle clutched in his hand, the same war wages in my brain as every other time that I’ve seen my dad wasted in public.

  I want to go to him and help him out of the stands and into a car so that I can drive him straight to a rehab facility. But I also want to slap him, and kick him, and scream at him for how he has failed me and hurt me in so many different ways.

  I do none of those things, though, as I jog behind my teammates to the locker room. I’m drinking water, leaning up against a wall, still mentally checked out, when I realize everyone is looking at me.

  Wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, I scan the group, unsure what I missed.

  “What?”

  “Are you going to join us? Or are you going to continue to stare off into the distance like you don’t give a shit about this game?” Gina’s voice cuts through the group and my eyes whip in her direction, where she stands next to Mack.

  “Gina, language.” Mack’s response is firm and controlled. “Rachel, your head is obviously not in the game today. I’m pulling you out. Erin, you’ll GK for the second half.”

  My head drops, my eyes stinging. I’ve never been pulled mid-game. I’ve had to sit out before. Injuries happen. But I’ve never fucked up and been benched. I hear Mack give a few encouraging words to the team, then everyone is walking out of the locker room, but I sit briefly on a bench, staring at my cleats.

  “Looks like the golden girl isn’t so shiny and perfect today,” I hear from above me. I know the voice is Gina’s. No one else can pull off that particular brand of bitchy as well as her. I hear her laugh before she follows everyone else out.

  After taking a few deep breaths, I stand and head back to the field, trailing about fifty feet behind everyone else. Getting benched doesn’t mean I get to sulk in the locker room.

  When I arrive on the sidelines, I take a seat and try to get my head in the game. I’m still a part of this team, even if my worth on the field has been minimal today. I still have to focus and show support.

  But within just a few minutes, it starts.

  My shoulders tense instinctively when I hear the first jumbled shout from the bleachers just fifteen feet behind us. It isn’t incredibly loud, and I don’t think anyone on the sidelines hears it, as I only catch clips of it myself.

  “… fuckin’ piece of shit…”

  “… can’t even finish a game…”

  I keep my head straight forward, refusing to acknowledge him, and when a few minutes pass without another word, my muscles unclench and I begin to rotate my neck in an attempt to relax.

  But my relief is short-lived, as it isn’t long before it starts again. This time, I can feel the other players’ reactions. I know they hear the words being shouted in our direction. I see many of them turn their heads and look into the stands, trying to find the person responsible. I just pray they don’t know that the jumbled and sometimes incoherent shards of glass are aimed at me.

  “… absolutely worthless…”

  “… come out here and you’re not even playing? Couldn’t keep your shit together…”

  “… loser dyke.”

  All of the blood in my body rushes to my face and I flush in embarrassment as the horrible words continue. I feel like I’m climbing through a barbed wire fence. If I focus on something else, I might be able to push through and get to the other side, but the marks left behind won’t fade quickly, gouging holes until I’m bleeding secrets for everyone to see.

  I stare blankly at the field where the game continues, and will the tears that brim at my eyes to keep from spilling over. But when I hear the slurred shout of my name, and I hear several gasps next to me, I feel them slip free and trail down my cheeks.

  I remain seated and staring blankly at the field, refusing to catch the eyes of any of my teammates. I don’t need to see their faces awash in pity. So I glare at the ball and allow the rest of the world to blur away until all I see is the small white and black orb moving rapidly between feet.

  When the whistle blows, I hear my teammates shouting with glee, but I don’t even look in their direction. I walk straight off of the field and into the locker room shower. I rinse off so quickly that I’m fully clothed in my tracksuit just as the rest of the team enters the room. I feel eyes on me as I press past them, but I walk quickly from the room and down the hall towards the front. Hopefully I can get on the bus early and stay there until the men’s game is over.

  Unfortunately, the buses aren’t in sight, so I take a seat on a planter box and stare into nothing.

  “So you’re sitting out here like a fucking loser by yourself, huh?” I hear from behind me maybe ten minutes later.

  My hands clench into fists and I continue to stare at the ground.

  “Why did you come today?”

  My question isn’t more than a whisper, but I know he hears me. He ambles around me, swaying slightly, and I wonder absently what happened to the drink in the paper bag, as he’s now clutching a black water bottle that is very likely housing Jack Daniels.

  “No one else comes to see you play. I figured, why not go see what Rachel is really wasting her life on. And fuck if it wasn’t an absolute waste of my time.” His words are a slurry mess. He leans in close and the smell of liquor overwhelms me. “Everything about you is a waste.”

  I stand quickly and try to side-step him, but my movements throw him off balance and he tumbles over to the ground, shouting out in pain. My natural instincts come out in full-force and I bend over to help him up, but he shrugs my hands off of him and rattles off a string of curses and insults loud enough for those passing to hear.

  Once he’s finally righted himself I rest my hand on his upper arm. “Are you sure you’re…”

  But my words are cut off when he grabs my wrist and twists, hard. I shout out a little in pain and bend at an awkward angle to release some of the pressure, then whip my other hand around and slap him hard in the face.

  He steps back in shock, releasing my wrist, but his eyes are murderous. I’ve never hit back before.

  “Hey!” I hear the shout from behind me, and my eyes close in defeat. I know that voice, and it is the last one I want to hear right now. “What the hell is going on?”

  I keep my eyes trained on the ground, unwilling to look at Mack or my dad. Neither man would be able to soothe or assuage the feelings of embarrassment roaring through my body.

  “Mind your own business, kid,” my dad slurs out. “Turn around and walk away.”

  “I don’t think so,” Mack responds. “I’m Rachel’s coach and whatever is going on here is a bit concerning, so if it’s all the same to you, I don’t plan on going anywhere.”

  His hand comes up and rests on my shoulder. I know it’s meant as a sign of support, but I know instinctively how my father will interpret the move. I very quickly step to the side a bit and twist my body so Mack’s hand falls away, but not before my eyes flicker up. My father’s face has maintained the same harshness, but it has now latched onto Mack’s small sign of affection. His eyes look from me, to Mack, and then back.

  “You worthless little shit,” he finally says. “You’re spreading it for your coach? Is that the only way you can get him to put your disgusting attempt at playing soccer on the field?”

  I ignore the comment, choosing instead to focus on the best thing to do moving forward, which is to get my dad out of here.

  “It’s time for you to go home, dad.” I say in the sternest voice I can muster.

  “Yes, Mr. Jameson, I think it is time for you to go home,” Mack’s voice pipes up from beside me. He sounds like ice, cold and brittle. “In fact, we will make sure you get there safely.” Mack suddenly takes my father by the neck and begins pushing him forward.

  “Get your hands off me you little…”

  “I wouldn’t finish that sentence, sir. Rachel and I will escort you home. Now. Any attempts to strug
gle out of this and I will call the police regarding your public intoxication and the assault I witnessed you commit against Ms. Jameson a few moments ago.” When my father says nothing, Mack pushes him forward again.

  I follow in silence, unsure what to do. Part of me is embarrassed that Mack is involved in this situation at all, that he’s seen my dad this way. But another part of me is flooded with relief that I don’t have to shoulder this one interaction on my own, that I have someone to help me.

  I feel less likely to crumble.

  We make it to Mack’s truck and he shoves my dad into the back seat. Once the door is closed, I look up at him and whisper, “You don’t have to do this.”

  Mack’s eyes roam over my face for a moment, but then he simply says, “Get in the truck, RJ,” before turning and walking around to the driver’s side.

  Chapter Seven

  Two and a half hours later, we’ve left my dad asleep on the couch in the living room of the house I grew up in, and Mack is driving me back to Glendale. Other than arguing about driving me home instead of returning to USD for the men’s game, we haven’t said anything to each other in the past two hours. And there is still another thirty minutes left until we make it back to town.

  I can feel the tension and frustration rolling off of Mack in waves. His hands are clutching and releasing the steering wheel with such force, I’m surprised he hasn’t been able to crack all of his knuckles.

  When my phone begins to ring, I lunge for it, desperate for anything to alleviate myself from the dark silence dripping from Mack’s truck.

  “Hey Jer,” I say, my voice tight. I was trying to sound light-hearted, but alas.

  “Hey Rach! How was the game?” Jeremy’s warm voice wraps around me through the phone, making me feel safe.

  “It was fine.”

  Silence comes from the other end of the line and I know what’s coming next.

  “What did he do?”

  I let out a sigh.

  “I’ll tell you about it later, okay? I’m almost home and I’ll call you when I get back.”

  “Wait, you’re almost home?”

  “Yeah, Ma… uhm… Coach McIntosh is driving me back.”

  Silence again.

  “Put him on the phone.”

  “What? No. Look, we’re almost back and I’ll just…”

  “Rachel, put Mack on the phone.”

  I look over at Mack, expecting his eyes to be facing forward. But I find him watching me, his eyes soft as they go back and forth between me and the road.

  I extend the phone towards him.

  “It’s Jeremy. He wants to talk to you.”

  Mack takes the phone and puts it to his ear.

  “Hey man, I’m driving so make it quick. Don’t wanna get a ticket.”

  I can’t hear what Jeremy is saying, but I can hear murmurs through the phone that make it clear his tone is far from happy.

  “I’ll let RJ fill you in, but it wasn’t pretty. I didn’t feel comfortable making her wait around and then putting her back on the bus with everyone. I already had my car, so I figured I’d just take her home.”

  More murmuring from Jeremy. I wish so much I could know what he’s saying.

  “Yeah, sounds good. See you in a bit.”

  Mack hands my phone back to me and I put it back to my ear.

  “Hey.”

  “Look, I don’t know what happened or what’s going on, but I’m leaving practice and I’m on my way to you. With traffic, I should be there about twenty minutes after you get back.”

  “Jer, you don’t have to come over. I can just call you and…”

  “Not now, Rachel. I’ll see you in a little under an hour.” And he hangs up.

  When I pull the phone away and look at the screen, I can feel the tears building in my eyes again, partly from the conversation and partly from frustration that my emotions have been so haywire over the past week or so.

  Jeremy sounded angry. The rational part of me is aware that he’s mad at our dad and not me, but I’m upset with his reaction. I have enough on my mind and don’t need Jeremy’s emotions mixing in.

  “So,” Mack says, clearing his throat, “it seems like you and your dad have a complicated relationship.”

  I can feel his eyes on me. I can feel the desire coursing through him to understand what he saw. But I can’t bring myself to return his gaze or give him the information he wants, so I keep my eyes out the window.

  “Yeah. I guess complicated could be a word used to describe it.”

  “Has he… I mean… it looked like he was getting a little bit physical with you. Is that something that… or, uhm… does that happen a lot?” His words are a jumbled mess as he tries to tactfully ask if I’m used to being tossed around.

  Unfortunately for him, there isn’t really a tactful way to ask.

  I’m unsure how much I want to share, so instead of answering right away, I lift my feet to rest on the seat and hug my legs, tucking myself into my knees. In a split second I realize I am literally curling myself into a ball in embarrassment. Or maybe sorrow.

  Sharing this part of my past isn’t something I do. Jeremy knows some of it because he was there growing up. But the true heart of it, the actual physical and verbal abuse I’ve lived through and what it did to me… just the idea of sharing makes my stomach twist. I don’t want anyone to know how terrible it was. I don’t want Mack to know what my father thinks of me or the ways he practically tortured me for years. Or about what happened before I finally left.

  I let out a sigh and keep my eyes averted. Lying isn’t an option, but that doesn’t mean I have to be an open book.

  “It’s not really something I talk about.”

  He’s silent for the remainder of the drive.

  As we pull up in front of my apartment, I’m already preparing my bag, ensuring I can be up and out of the car as quickly as possible. I mumble a quick ‘thanks for the ride’ and hop out as soon as we come to a stop.

  I know luck isn’t on my side when I hear his door close and the sound of footsteps behind me walking up the path to my door. My one mistake was not keeping my keys easily accessible, and I have to drop my bag to the ground to dig around for them at the door. When I finally stand back up, keys in hand, my eyes lock with Mack’s.

  “Did you need something?” I ask in an attempt to push him back to his car without any more conversation. “Because I’m really tired and just want to relax.”

  His eyes search my face, and I see the moment his decision is made.

  “Yes, I do need something. I need us to talk about what happened today. Because what I saw? Shouldn’t be something you don’t talk about, RJ.” He lets out a rush of air, scratching the back of his head before bringing his hand forward to rub his face in that way he does when he’s nervous. “If you don’t talk about the things you’re ashamed of, you’ll never get past them.”

  My head jerks back in response to his statement.

  “Ashamed?” He nods, but stays silent. “You think I’m ashamed? Of what exactly?”

  Mack shrugs.

  “I don’t know. But whether you deserve to feel ashamed or not, it’s important to talk about it. Otherwise, that shame becomes your whole world.”

  I stare silently at him. Yes, we are absolutely talking about me. But we are also talking about him. Him and his past and the accident and the fallout. The paralysis of the woman driving the other car. The crash and burn, both literally and figuratively, of his career and the future he had likely envisioned for himself.

  “Like it became your whole world?”

  My question is soft, but I know he hears it. His eyes are sad as he slowly picks through whatever he has of those memories, shifting and sorting, trying to determine what to share and what to keep to himself.

  “I ruined several lives because of a foolish mistake. And I held it in and didn’t talk about it for years, until the weight of my shame became like a vice
gripping me so tightly I was afraid my chest would be crushed.”

  “But it wasn’t your fault.”

  He exhales and crosses his arms over his chest.

  “Look, RJ. I was drunk, and so was my friend. Yes, he crashed the car. Yes, there was ice on the road. No, we weren’t the only people going too fast, which is one of the factors in the pile-up. But ultimately, we both played a part in what happened to Cherise.” He swallows hard, appearing to choke on his words before forcing himself to continue. “She will never walk again. She will live in a chair for the rest of her life. If I hadn’t made a few poor choices that led to me and Darren getting in that car, she would get to do those things.”

  The silence between us is heavy as he leans sideways against my door, playing with the black band on his right wrist. But before I can step in and say anything, he continues.

  “I let my shame consume me until there was hardly any ‘me’ left. When my sister finally talked me into seeing someone, it was like tearing my insides out. Because if a bone heals incorrectly, you have to re-break it to set it right. And talking about what happened was almost more painful than experiencing it.”

  He pauses and runs his hands across his face.

  “But I was finally able to sort myself out, forgive myself and make amends for what I did. Everyone talks about ‘moving on’ from things, as if you can forget and start over. I don’t believe that anymore. Now, I focus on moving forward, accepting the choices I’ve made and the consequences that came from them, and doing my best to live the kind of life I’m proud of.”

  I stare at him, overwhelmed with emotion and understanding about his past. But I’m not sure what his story has to do with me.

  “I know you’re probably wondering what this has to do with you,” he says, voicing my unspoken question. “RJ, whether or not you are to blame for whatever you’ve been through… and let me be clear that I am entirely certain you are not, not, not at fault… that doesn’t mean you aren’t experiencing your own form of shame. Wondering what other people will think of you if they know your secrets. Unsure about diving back into the source of that brick wall you’re carrying. Talking about it, and I’m not saying you have to talk to me, but talking about it can help you move forward and not stay rooted in the past.”