Shadowboxer

by Jessica L. Webb

  Chapter Eleven

  Jordan—Seventeen

  Seventeen and Jordan doesn’t care about warm time or cold time. Home is a place to land, sleep, and change clothes. It’s a burden and an embarrassment; her father in his chair watching TV or pacing the scruff of yard out back, her mother stretched and pulled taut. Sometimes she’s cooking when Jordan comes home, a mark of her sobriety. But it’s too late to play family. Jordan’s friends are waiting, boxing is waiting, life and light and the cute girl who just moved in down the block. All waiting. School drags, feeling like another burden. And she’s starting to get angry at the teachers who try to talk to her about her slipping marks, her absenteeism. They don’t know. Not one of them knows hunger and hurt like a stitch in your side.

  “You’ll stay tonight, Jordan? Just an hour. Please.”

  Jordan wished the warmth in her mom’s voice didn’t tug at her so much.

  “I’m not really interested in celebrating,” Jordan mumbled. Her dad has been sober for six months. The first time since Steven died.

  “An hour,” she pleads.

  Jordan hates that tone. Hates the strength and vulnerability it takes her mom to ask. Jordan hates so much these days.

  “Is Jake coming?” Jordan slouches into a kitchen chair. Her mom smiles, knowing Jordan is staying.

  “No, Kim is really sick this pregnancy.”

  Jordan is going to have another niece soon. She barely knows the first. Kim is protective of their young family.

  Dinner is quiet and strained, and Jordan can’t remember the last time they were all at the table together. Her dad concentrates on his food, though he perks up when Jordan, at her mom’s prompting, starts talking about boxing.

  “Shoulda been Steven,” her dad mumbles. “He would have been a great fighter.”

  Rage is a cold thing in her chest. She can’t leave it alone. She should.

  “Steven is dead.”

  Her dad slams his open hand on the table.

  “Alfred, stop it.” Jordan’s mom’s voice is mad but also trembles. “Jordan, enough. We’re meant to be celebrating.”

  “Celebrating what?” Jordan said. “That Dad can only say Steven’s name in the few hours he’s sober?”

  “He was the best of us,” her dad shouts.

  Jordan wants to cry, but the cold rage strangles tears. He’s right and she’s so angry.

  “And you couldn’t say that when he was alive.”

  Three years of boxing should have prepared her for the backhand, but her dad had never hit her before. Jordan wasn’t looking for it. The blow caught her on the side of her face, the force knocking her out of her chair onto the floor. Her mom was shrieking and Jordan held on to her face, dazed and aching. Her father sat so still at the table, the shock of his expression the first real emotion she’d seen on his face in years. Then he slowly stood and left the table.

  Only then did tears surface as Jordan’s cheek began to swell, heated blood rushing to the injury. She wiped angrily at her tears as her mom found an icepack and laid it gently against Jordan’s rapidly swelling eye. Heat and cold didn’t matter. Tears didn’t matter. Jordan wasn’t ever coming home again.

  * * *

  November was Greek for grey.

  It wasn’t true, but one of the dock men her dad worked with used to say it, and it stuck with Jordan. She pulled her toque down over her ears and buried her chin into the zipped collar of her jacket as the cold, damp wind rushed across the Dalhousie University campus. She had always liked this campus with its austere old brick buildings. The ivy that clung to their sides was now browning and half frozen, which was exactly how Jordan felt. She had an hour between classes, and she ducked her head against another blast of icy wind, headed for the warmth of the more modern glass and concrete building that threw its light across the open quad.

  Jordan shook back her hood as the moist heat of the student centre slammed against her cold cheeks, the smell of Subway buns and meatball sauce pervading every space. This wasn’t her favourite place to be on campus, but it was warm and she could almost always find a table near an outlet this time of night. It was never empty. Someone was always studying, sleeping, or hiding.

  Jordan plugged in her laptop and got out her textbooks. She might be able to get ahead of next week’s reading if she focused. Jordan was finding her groove, highlighting passages in her text and taking notes for her upcoming assignment when Madi texted and broke her concentration. It was a check-in text, really all Jordan had been receiving since Madi had yelled at her in the community kitchen about being a superhero.

  Jordan texted back immediately, hoping today they’d finally get past this odd disconnection. The polite dance of communicating but not. Madi always checked in but she also dropped the conversation as quickly as possible. Jordan didn’t understand. She figured all she could do was keep being available for the next battle in their war of constancy.

  Distracted from her reading, Jordan surveyed the wide open space of the student centre. A few people were waiting for subs, most people sitting by themselves with their earbuds in, staring at a device. It wasn’t what Jordan had imagined when she started university. Everything was so ordinary, even the fact that she was almost twice the age of some of the students here. Jordan had fought the feeling of being a fraud in this establishment of higher learning a long time ago.

  A familiar face caught Jordan’s eye as she was about to turn back to her reading. Helena sat on the other side of the student centre, a book in one hand and a takeout coffee in the other. Jordan hesitated for a moment, wondering if Helena wanted time on her own. But selfishly, Jordan knew Helena was one of the people who could help her with the Madi conundrum. Maybe she could seek some reassurance her current wait and watch plan with Madi was the best way to go.

  Jordan gathered her things and dumped them into her backpack before weaving her way through tables and chairs to the other side of the hall.

  “Helena?”

  Helena looked up, startled.

  “Oh, Jordan. Hi.”

  “I scared you, I’m sorry.”

  “No, not at all. I…” Helena cleared her throat and gave a small smile. “I get easily absorbed when I’m reading.”

  Jordan laughed quietly, trying to put Helena at ease. “I understand. Are you taking a class here?”

  “Not exactly, no. I started auditing courses a few years ago. I guess it became something of a habit.”

  Jordan had heard of people auditing courses, sitting in and participating but without getting any credit or working toward a degree. Jordan had to wonder where Helena found the time. She never seemed to stop working.

  “A habit of learning,” Jordan said. “I wish the kids would pick that up.”

  Helena smiled, as if the mention of the kids re-established why she and Jordan were speaking. Then she pushed the chair out beside her and gestured for Jordan to sit. “Please. Join me. I’m being rude.”

  Jordan sat. “Thanks. What courses are you auditing?”

  Helena looked down at the takeout cup clutched in her hands and began pulling at the cardboard sleeve that covered it.

  “A psychology course. Neuroscience of Addictions.”

  Jordan sat back and whistled. “Awesome. I’d love to take that, but I’m all out of electives. You thinking of getting the mental health and addictions certificate? I hear it’s a great post-grad program.”

  Instead of sharing the connection Jordan felt like they were establishing, Helena seemed to be shrinking from Jordan’s enthusiasm. Her shoulders became more hunched, and she leaned back in her chair, eyes focused on her hands as they ripped and shredded the cardboard.

  “Sorry,” Jordan said. “I’ve been a student too long, I guess. I start to get a little nerdy about course selection.”

  Helena met her eyes briefly and gave her a thin smile. Jordan wished she’d just left Helena alone. She shifted to grab her backpack, ready to make her apologies and leave.

  “Stay, please,” Helena
said. She looked contrite, with a sheen of desperation. Jordan wondered how many friends she had. Helena Cavio seemed like the consummate loner. “There are a few reasons I audit courses instead of registering and pursuing a degree. It just never seems like the right time to go back to school.”

  Jordan read between the lines. As hard as Helena would fight for Ministry funding to support programs and services and their clients, discussing personal finances was clearly another matter entirely. She considered asking if Helena knew about the payment scale options, bursaries, and provincial government grants, all of which helped Jordan pay for her master’s degree. But Jordan also wanted to allow Helena a way to exit this conversation with dignity.

  “I actually wanted to ask you some advice,” Jordan said. “It’s why I came over when I saw you here.”

  “Okay,” Helena said hesitantly.

  “It’s Madi. She’s going through…” Jordan hesitated then shook her head. “No, we’re going through a rough patch. Ups and downs. I feel like she’s retreating from me, and I can’t figure out if this is just the natural progression of Madi transitioning from youth to adult and I should just let her go. I’m worried. What if I’m creating or nurturing this dependency? What if I’m making it more about me than I am about her?”

  Jordan laid out all her deepest fears. She wanted to do what was best for Madi, and she needed to know that was what drove her every decision.

  “I have always believed if you are reflective enough to ask the question, you have very nearly answered it,” Helena said.

  Jordan wanted to believe it, she really did.

  “So, you think if I’m aware of needing to allow Madi to grow and move on, then likely my actions are already following that path?”

  “I believe so, yes.”

  Jordan sat back in her chair, considering Helena’s words. Wondering if it was enough. She sighed. “I guess I’ll just have to keep finding ways to remind her I’m here without tying her to me. Thanks, Helena.”

  “Madi is very protective of you as well, you know.”

  “Protective?”

  “Yes. She worries about you. The break-in the other night? She was very angry about it when she came to group the next day.”

  Jordan tried to catch up with the information. Madi had only texted once to ask if everything was okay before dropping it. “I didn’t know. I don’t want to worry her.”

  Helena shrugged and picked up her coat, obviously ready to head out. “It’s part of being Madi’s foundation, I think. She needs that.”

  Jordan stayed seated as Helena pulled on her pea coat and buttoned it up.

  “I needed that as a kid,” Jordan said, wondering if it was okay to reveal this. “I was lucky to find it in a few people.”

  Helena picked up her book and her coffee cup. “I needed it, too.”

  But you didn’t have it. Jordan let the words stay unspoken. It confirmed what Jordan had always suspected.

  A man approached the table, and Helena smiled and gestured that she’d just be a moment. He was middle-aged, and Jordan didn’t recognize him. He wore nondescript clothes and was a little rough around the edges. He seemed content to wait for Helena as she finished up her conversation.

  “It was nice talking to you tonight, Helena.”

  Before Helena could respond, Jordan’s phone chimed and a text alert popped up with a picture.

  “Speak of the devil,” Jordan muttered, pulling up the picture. Helena wound her scarf around her neck, eyes darting to the man waiting for her but also looking mildly curious. Jordan laughed at the picture of Madi and Ali with whipped cream mustaches, sticking out their tongues. She turned to show it to Helena. “I think Madi’s doing okay. Maybe the lesson here is that I should worry less.”

  Helena had gone still, staring at the picture. Jordan had thought it would reassure Helena the way it had reassured her. Madi was okay. Maybe going through some ups and downs, but she was okay. Helena looked angry, though.

  “An eight-dollar Starbucks is not what Madi needs in any scenario.” Helena’s voice had gone almost cold. “She would do better with you as her mentor, in my opinion. Realistic, hardworking. You know Madi, Jordan. You were Madi. Never forget that.”

  Helena turned and left, the man trailing behind her.

  * * *

  Jordan ducked, and the right hook whistled by her ear in a rush of air. Sean grunted as his glove landed squarely in the space Jordan had created between her head and shoulder. He’d overextended, just a little too confident in landing that punch. She made him pay, taking the opening to his ribs in a three-punch combination that would have won her the bout if they’d been fighting for real. But they weren’t, and Sean pushed Jordan off before she could do any more damage, swearing around his mouthguard.

  Jordan grinned and stepped back before signaling the end to their match. She was covered in sweat, her muscles were loose, and her energy was high. She didn’t get to spar very often with someone who had fought at her level, but occasionally her schedule lined up with Sean’s.

  Sean spst out his mouthguard in his corner and began undoing his gloves with his teeth.

  “Good fight, boss,” Sean said, shaking his hands out of the sparring gloves. “I was sure I had you in that last clinch.”

  “You were wrong, Murphy boy,” Jordan said.

  Sean grunted and toweled off the sweat around his head and neck. It really had been a good fight.

  “I’m working on a fight weekend in the spring,” he said. “Mind if I email you what I’ve got so far?”

  Jordan took a long drink from her water bottle before she answered. “Sure, I’d love to see it. Make sure you put in the costs for what we’d need to buy or rent.”

  “On it, boss,” Sean said.

  Jordan shoved his shoulder good-naturedly. “Get out, next match is coming up.”

  Sean glanced at the two fighters waiting to enter the ring. They couldn’t, not until Jordan and Sean tapped out. House rules. “We’ve got enough refs tonight if you want to take off. Study or whatever.”

  Jordan considered the offer as she and Sean jumped off the mat. She’d wanted to be here tonight, to stay connected to this part of her gym. But now that her fight was done, Jordan wanted to be somewhere else.

  “Thanks, man. Text me if you need anything.”

  “I always do, boss.”

  Which meant he never did. Sean was capable. Jordan reminded herself to lean on others. It still wasn’t something she did well.

  In the shower, Jordan acknowledged her agitation. Something was under her skin, a thought or worry that irritated her. She absent-mindedly ran a hand over the tattoo on her arm, the picture of her past. She wondered how past predicted future. Stories told and retold. As she pulled on jeans and an extra sweater for warmth, Jordan considered her thoughts like scars, like scabs. Memories that coursed through her veins and rose to the surface like blooms of a rash. The evidence of something deeper.

  Outside, Jordan turned on her car and let the engine warm itself against the cold night air. She tucked her hands under her thighs for warmth and listened to the blasting air vent and the faint backdrop of heavy bass from the gym. She stared blankly up at her apartment. The window had been fixed, a three-hundred-dollar repair she had not been expecting. Jordan had made sure Ali wasn’t around for that. She wasn’t sure how she would have handled it if Ali had offered to pay.

  The engine warm but her fingers nowhere close, Jordan put her car in gear and eased out of the parking lot. She knew where she was headed. Terminal Road was long, brightly lit, and nearly empty. The parking lots and industrial buildings were shut down for the day. A cruise ship, huge and white and overlit, gleamed against the dark backdrop of the harbour. It was a beacon Jordan felt no need to follow. It didn’t fit with the picture of the port in her head. A map of childhood, a horizon that remained fixed and unchanging.

  Jordan realized that was what she was seeking. The unchanged. But was it a point in time she was wishing for? A per
son, maybe. Or a feeling? Rightness, contentment, safety. That was what she itched to find. Jordan shook her head as she parked illegally in the corner of an industrial parking lot, halfway between the public seaport and the working port. She slammed her door and tucked her hands inside her coat pockets, pulling her hood up against the wind coming off the water. The salt air was heavy. She tasted it, thick and cold against the back of her throat. She swallowed its familiarity and walked to the edge of the light, looking for the spots of darkness she could hide in and order her disordered thoughts.

  After going around the concrete barriers meant to keep her out, Jordan sat with her back against a port piling, looking out at the container berths and the dark, invisible sea beyond. Cranes reached far up into the inky blackness of the sky, the clanging and banging of their cargo muffled and oddly dispersed by the water and distance. Jordan was soothed and agitated by the sight all at once.

  This had once been her future. It was certainly her past. How to reconcile the two? Her head was firmly convinced it was past, but how could she convince her heart? She struggled constantly to stay one step ahead of the whispering in her head that she was only one wrong decision, one mistake to tripping back into the scared, angry child she had been. Even worse, someone would call her out as an imposter any second. One mistake. One slip. One person to see beneath the surface, and her façade would crack. All her gains would vanish.

  Jordan blanked her thoughts. The tightness in her chest was a warning. She paid attention to it, breathing in and out until the muscles in her shoulders and chest eased. She didn’t need to spin this out. Jordan didn’t need to give the negativity any more space. It would never be anchored in fact, and Jordan needed to remember that.

  Pressing her hands against her eyes, Jordan tripped her thoughts back. Her life was a constant flux of contentment and disappointment. Failure and success. Warmth and cold. But maybe she could create a patchwork, stitching and binding the pieces together until they held tight.