“Yeah,” she replies softy.
Desperate to do something to spark up her mood, I decide to give her something I know she’s been wanting for a very long time. I motion for her to lean in. “I’ll say this one time and one time only. There will be no further mention of it.” I pause to make sure she’s reeled in. “Had you stayed in school, you would have been valedictorian instead of me.”
Smiling, she rolls her eyes. “Everyone knows that, but it’s nice to finally hear you admit it.” She wraps her arms around me and lays her head on my chest. “I needed that. Thank you.”
We spend the rest of the cruise talking about her parents. When we get off the boat, she seems lighter. While I didn’t get to propose, I think our talk helped her. In fact, I think the whole trip has been good for her. Sometimes you don’t get what you want, but you get what you need.
We come home the day after New Year’s, the ring still in my pocket.
Chapter Fifty
Arianna
I’ve always had a hard time getting excited about the New Year. Everyone else makes resolutions and sees the start of the year as a chance to get a fresh start, but I’ve always felt as if a dark cloud hangs over January. My clean slate doesn’t come until after the anniversary of my mother’s death. Now with fresh pain of losing Daddy, instead of a dark cloud, I feel as if I’m entering a black hole.
This year will most certainly test my resolve. With the playoffs around the corner, Chase will spend the post-season essentially living at the stadium. We’ll be lucky to exchange a few texts a day, let alone see each other. Charlie and Spencer are going on a three-week trip to Southeast Asia. Pat and Katie are going to meet them in Shanghai, come back for Chase’s game, then fly back to meet Charlie and Spencer in Tokyo. So I’m on my own for the first time in months.
Like clockwork, the parole petitions from Jaime’s lawyer come in the first week in January. She was sentenced in March, and all petitions must be submitted ninety-days before her annual review meeting. She’ll call me on the anniversary of my mother’s death to make another plea. Same shit, different year. I could file harassment charges, but that would probably give her the attention she craves.
My therapist keeps harping on me that with this month full of potential triggers and limited support, I need to stay busy. At times like this, I wish I’d chosen a project or new career direction, but I’m still not entirely sure what I want to do, and this would be a terrible time to start something. I’ve promised Chase once his season is over, we’ll spend a month together. Maybe we’ll travel. Maybe we’ll just stay here. He doesn’t care as long as it’s just us with no distractions. It’s hard to argue with that.
My PR team has been begging me to get back into the social circuit, remind people that I’m still alive. Charity dinners, political fundraisers, fashion shows. It’s been a long time since these sorts of events filled my evenings, and I haven’t missed them. But as my publicist reminds me, unless I plan on living under a rock for the rest of my life, socializing is part of the package. Doing the dance, rubbing elbows, kissing ass, and allowing mine to be kissed in return. I want to attend superficial events about as much as I want to stick a thumbtack in my eye, but according to my therapist, being around people is the most effective way to ward off depression. Fighting darkness is easier to do in a Valentino cocktail dress than wallowing in my sweats.
The upside to parties fraught with mind-numbing chitchat is that at the end of the day, my brain is far too drained by the monotony to think about anything heavy. They aren’t all awful though. I reconnect with a number of people I haven’t spoken to since before Daddy died. Everyone offers their condolences about Daddy and their well wishes for my future with Chase.
After the Niners have a first-round bye, Katie, Pat, and I watch them decimate the Packers in the second round of the playoffs. It’s such a blowout that in the fourth quarter, the coach lets Brock take a few snaps. He throws an interception, giving the Packers their first touchdown of the game. But even with that snafu, the Niners win.
The anniversary of Daddy’s death falls on a Friday. Even with a crucial game on Sunday, Chase takes the day to spend some time with me. We leave before dawn and fly on a private plane to the small airport outside of Dillon, Texas, to visit my parents’ graves. In my head, I know he’s gone, but my heart’s taking a while to catch up, as if there’s a part clinging to the hope he’ll come back one day. Sitting at his grave, tracing the etched letters on the stone, makes the finality of it all sink in.
After an hour or so, we return to the plane. I curl up in Chase’s lap for the duration of the flight. Few words are exchanged. At this point, we’ve talked about Daddy and the void we both feel so often I feel as though we’re like an overplayed song on the radio. We don’t need to rehash it again. All I need to get through this day is the warmth of Chase’s arms around me and the faith that he’ll always be there for me.
He drops me off at Daddy’s house before returning to the field. I know it’s torturous, but I want to spend the night here. Around midnight, Chase slips into my bed, reminding me of the time all those years ago when he held me all night on the anniversary of my mother’s death. The sadness of the day has left us both feeling a little lost. We make love until dawn, seeking that connection to keep us grounded and finding solace and comfort in each other.
Sunday, I meet Pat and Katie at the field for the NFC Championship. This game isn’t a cakewalk. The Saints came to San Francisco ready to play. It becomes a battle of the defenses with neither offense able to put together a drive. I’m sure fans at home are bored by the scoreless game, but in the stadium, tension is high, and everyone is on edge for each play. By the second half, both defenses are losing steam. Chase scores a touchdown at the beginning of the third, which is quickly followed by two Saints touchdowns. With thirty seconds left on the clock, Chase runs a quarterback sneak and runs in for the touchdown. Instead of playing it safe by kicking the extra point and taking the game into overtime, the Niners go for the two-point conversion. When Chase hits the wide receiver right between the numbers to win the game, the stadium erupts.
Screaming, Katie, Pat, and I jump up and down. The Niners are going back to the Super Bowl! Everyone in the box immediately starts discussing plans for New Orleans, and the smiles fade from our faces.
I can’t believe none of us thought about it earlier. Maybe we did and just chose to ignore it. If the Niners lost, it wouldn’t have been an issue. But they won, and now we all have to face returning to New Orleans. I haven’t been back since my mother was killed in the Super Dome. Pat and Katie had been just a few feet away when it happened.
Katie squeezes my hand. “I always swore I’d never go back there.”
I give her a shy smile. “You have to. Your son’s in the Super Bowl.”
“It feels like it was yesterday. I can still hear the echo of Aiden screaming in my mind. I don’t know how I’ll focus on the game.” Katie’s shoulders shudder as though she’s haunted by the memory.
I place my hands over hers. “This time you’ll hear a hundred thousand fans screaming for your son.”
Katie looks down, clearly conflicted.
“Hey,” I say, getting her attention. “My mother would be furious with you if you missed this. That woman already took so much from you. Don’t let her take this too.”
She looks at me. “Are you going to go?”
I shake my head. “I don’t think so. It’ll already be a story because of Chase’s connection to my mom. If I go, the story will take on a life of its own. Plus, think of all the similarities. The same two teams playing in New Orleans on the fifteen-year anniversary to the day? The press’ll be itching to turn this into something more than it is.”
“I understand why you would be hesitant,” Pat says as he stands. “But I hope you change your mind.” He offers me his hand. “You ready to go congratulate the team?”
We try to get on the field to see Chase, but it’s pandemonium. He texts and tell
s us to head back to his parents’ house, that he’ll be right behind us. On the way out, I’m stopped by a reporter I know well. Wanting to help her out by giving her an exclusive with the quarterback’s girlfriend, I tell Pat and Katie to go ahead and that I’ll meet them at the limo. I give her a few sound bites, then I head for the door.
As I leave the stadium, I see the line of limos about fifty yards away. Pat waves at me, showing me which one is ours. Suddenly, I’m swarmed by reporters. Keeping my head down, I keep moving toward the limo while they scream at me. “Are you going to the Super Bowl, Arianna?” “Will you go see your mother’s killer?” “How will it feel to be back at the scene of your mother’s murder?” “Will you meet Chase on the field?” “How will it feel to stand in the same place where your mother bled to death?” “Are you worried history might repeat itself? We’ve heard Chase’s ex-fiancée is mentally unstable. Do you think she’ll try to come after you?”
The louder they scream, the more frenzied they get. As mob mentality kicks in, it becomes harder and harder for me to move forward. They shove their cameras in my face, trying to get their money shots. As though I’m caught in a violent undertow, I’m shoved from all sides. It’s hard to keep my balance. Suddenly, the reporters become even more aggressive. In their efforts to shove each other out of the way, I’m knocked forward. Stumbling to catch my balance, I tumble forward, twisting my knee on the curb and banging my head on the sidewalk in the process. The reporters swarm, all trying to get a picture of me bleeding in the gutter.
A police siren wails. “Break it up,” comes over a loudspeaker as a group of police officers separate the group. One of the officers pushes through the crowd, shouting for the reporters to get back. I’m thankful for the help, but I can’t help but wonder where he was two minutes ago.
“Damn vultures,” he says as he helps me to my feet.
I try to put weight on my left leg, and I go back down.
“Whoa there. Let’s keep you off your feet. ” He guides me to sit on the curb. Looking over his shoulder at the officer in the squad car, he shouts, “We need a bus.”
“I forgot what it’s like to move in your circles. Unless you play for the Yankees, baseball players never have to deal with this,” Pat says once he gets past the disbanding crowd. “I’m so sorry I left you. I should have insisted we walk together.”
I try to stand, but my leg huts too much. Pat sees me start to go down and reaches out to catch me. He helps me ease down to the curb. “The home team just won the second NFC Championship in a row. You’d think that would be the story,” I joke as I try to block out the pain.
“What hurts?” he asks, his voice full of concern.
“My bad knee, probably the ACL. The cops called an ambulance, but in the post-game traffic, they’re probably in gridlock.” Trying to assess how bad it is, I try to bend my leg, but blinding pain shoots through my knee.
Pat pulls out his cell phone and makes a call, explaining what’s happened to whomever is on the other end. He ends the call then slides the phone back in his pocket. “The Niners use the same team doctor we do. I just told him the situation, and he’s coming out with the stretcher. He said don’t try to move it.”
The police push the onlookers back to the road as the stretcher comes out of the stadium. The trainers wheel me back into the training room. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Chase talking to a reporter.
He does a double take. “Arianna?” He jogs to catch up with the stretcher. When he reaches me, he looks me over. “What happened?”
“Paparazzi attack. While they were shoving each other to get the best pic of my reaction to returning to New Orleans, I got caught up in their stampede,” I reply. “I think my knee’s blown out again.”
Clenching his fist around the arm rail, his face turns red with fury.
I put my hand over his. “It’s over. Getting upset won’t do anything but create more buzz. They’re like sharks. If they know there’s blood in the water, they’ll swarm. We just have to let this blow over.”
Dr. Irons, the team doctor, examines my leg, trying to bend and rotate it with little luck. The slightest movement makes me bite my lip so hard I’m amazed I don’t draw blood.
“We’re going to have to cut these off,” he says. “Your knee’s already too swollen, and I’m afraid we could make the injury worse if we try to shimmy them off. Skinny jeans are good for compression, but there’s no way to get them off in one piece.”
“I’ll try to remember that next time,” I mutter as he gets the trauma shears.
Chase looks around at the crowd of players and staff in the room. “Everyone out.”
Dr. Irons moves my leg slightly, and I shudder in pain. “Modesty is the least of my concerns right now,” I say through gritted teeth.
“Yeah, well that’s what you have me for. No free shows.” He glowers at the player getting iced down on the table beside me. Chase points at him. “Turn the other way.”
The doctor cuts through my favorite pair of jeans then takes a few x-rays of my knee. “You need an MRI in the morning, but I’m sure you figured that out already. At a minimum, we have some cartilage damage, but I think you have another tear. You can wait and fly to see Andrews in Florida for the surgery, or I can squeeze you in late in the afternoon tomorrow. The sooner someone gets in there, the better.”
Irons is good. He worked on my father’s shoulder a few years ago. As much as I love Dr. Andrews, flying to Florida just doesn’t make sense.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” I reply.
He points at me. “Don’t eat after midnight, and get some rest.”
An hour and two shots later, I’m in an immobilizer and a pair of Niners sleep pants someone found me in the team store as I crutch my way to the parking lot. Since my car is a stick, Pat has driven it back to their house. I’ll stay with Chase.
We figure out very quickly that staying at his house is a mistake. His house is not only three stories, but on the first floor, there are steps down to the living room, two steps up to the kitchen, and three steps up to the hall to the bathroom. It’s a nightmare.
We fight back and forth about it but decide that starting tomorrow, it’ll be best if I go home. Pat and Katie are supposed to meet Charlie and Spencer in Japan, and I don’t want them to cancel their trip for me. My condo is completely stair-free, and if I need anything during the day, George the doorman can help me out. If I were to stay at Chase’s, I’d have to deal with all the steps and be entirely on my own. Chase will be spending every waking moment at the field preparing for the Super Bowl.
The next morning, Katie and Pat take me for the MRI. I have a brand-new tear and two grade-three cartilage lesions. The tear is minor, thankfully, and we don’t have to worry about a new tendon graft. Since the procedure won’t be complicated, Dr. Irons can work me in later that afternoon. A few hours later, I’m under the knife.
Pat and Katie try to get me to go to their house, but I insist I’m perfectly fine on my own. I’ve done this twice before, so I know the drill. There’s no sense in them skipping their trip to watch me watch TV and read. I dig my heels in and insist they go on their trip.
For the first day or so, I sleep most of the time, but at my first opportunity, I flush the pain pills. While I don’t think they would become a problem, if there aren’t any pills to abuse, it’s a moot point. I’m still in a lot of pain, but I can deal with it. Ibuprofen keeps it manageable.
I’ve never been much of a TV person. I have hundreds of channels, but somehow there’s nothing on. I’m kicking myself for telling Chase we didn’t need the Smart TV when we were furnishing my condo. “What do we need a Smart TV for? We never watch it!” I’d argued. Apparently we need it to watch Netflix instead of talk shows and bad reality TV.
As I flip through the channels, I can’t help but notice the Savannah Stevens documentaries are starting. I’ve never understood how after all this time, people are still fascinated by it, but according to the statistics, Savannah
Stevens day is one of the History Channel’s highest ratings days. I suppose it’s the love story. Love at first sight turns to everlasting love with a lifetime of rainbows and unicorns until a psychopath destroys it all.
It was gruesome, which always seems to fascinate people. All of America watched Jaime slice my mother’s throat. Rather than helping my mother, the cameraman just kept filming, capturing the light as it drained from her eyes, focusing on the blood pouring from her throat. The camera panned out to catch the look of pure anguish on Daddy’s face, as if he were dying right along with her. When later criticized, the cameraman claimed he was preserving history, documenting a monumental moment for posterity and future analysis. It always amazes me that you can’t say “shit” on TV but you can film a woman nearly getting her head severed because it’s “history.”
As much as I think his excuse is pure bullshit, he’s not entirely wrong. My mother’s murder spurred stalker legislation reform, sparked conversations about news verses sensationalism, and propelled a deep investigation into mental health policy. From a pop culture and sociological perspective, it was a defining moment. For me, I lost my mother. A fact that always seems lost in the shuffle. To me, she isn’t a crime to be solved, a case to be studied, or a piece of entertainment. She’s just my mom.
I don’t know what possesses me—maybe it’s boredom, maybe the pain in my knee prevents me from thinking straight, maybe it’s those damn letters that keep coming—but for some reason, I leave the History Channel on. The oxygen is sucked out of the room when I see a small me chasing after my mother on a tennis court. I must have been two or three. Barbara Walters’ voice narrates, talking about Savannah as a doting mother and loving wife. The clip changes to one of Daddy, Mom, and I in the grass, Daddy teaching me how to throw a football. Tears fill my eyes as I watch snippet after snippet of us as a family. Most of these I’ve never seen. We look so happy.
Love To Hate You Page 44
