A Storied Life

by Leigh Kramer

  “Nice view,” Reagan commented.

  “This is my home away from home.” A smile teased my lips. This was exactly what I needed.

  He eyed me funny. “You're the first female artist I've met who is also a die-hard baseball fan.”

  “Oh, I'm not an artist.” His words pressed on a bruise. I tamped down the panic welling within me, along with irritation over the idea that artists couldn't appreciate sports.

  “You appreciate art, don't you? That makes you an artist on some level. Art and baseball don't seem like they go hand in hand,” he countered.

  I hadn’t expected this kind of sexist bullshit from him. Words rushed out hot and fierce.

  “Any more than art and football? Or is it more acceptable because you're a guy?”

  “Easy there, Liv! I know plenty of women enjoy sports. I was trying to compliment you but I guess it came out wrong.”

  “Oh.” This unsettled me. He'd called me Liv and he'd complimented me. I didn't know how to respond. “Thanks?”

  “You're welcome.”

  We sat in silence for a few minutes while I searched for a way to recover. I wanted to keep this evening light and breezy.

  “I'm sorry,” I finally offered. “I don't know why I’m being defensive. It's been a crazy day and I'm still reeling. But that's no excuse to give you a hard time at your first ballgame.”

  “You don't need to apologize. I know there's a lot on your mind. And this might not be the right time to tell you this,” Reagan paused for effect. “But this isn't my first baseball game.”

  I huffed out a laugh and my stomach unclenched at this unexpected news. I'd been worried he was about to tell me he wouldn't be showing at the gallery.

  “It's not?” I looked at him in disbelief. “But last night, you said—”

  “I said we were more of a football house, not that I'd never been to a game. You were so adamant about the White Sox being superior that I didn't want to let you down. I went to college in Boston so I took in a few Red Sox games while I was there. Do you forgive me?” His blue eyes pleaded. I was helpless against them even in a trivial conversation.

  “At least it wasn't a Yankees game,” I begrudgingly conceded and he laughed. “No more baseball lies, got it?”

  We shook hands in agreement and then settled back to watch the players warm up. Reagan flagged down beer and hotdog vendors for us, paying for both despite my protest.

  I told him about the Frasiers’ longstanding tradition of White Sox games. At a game, all animosity dropped away as we cheered for our boys. It didn't matter that I hadn't lived up to their expectations, we were a united front when it came to baseball. Outside the stadium, everyone reverted to our respective dysfunctions but here in the stands, we loved each other.

  Dad took me to my first game as a baby. Children were included in all the home openers and then brought to more games as we grew older and could understand the game. After Pop died, we toasted in his memory during the 7th inning stretch on opening day.

  Once I started talking about my family and baseball, I couldn't stop. I shared about my grandparents' season ticket holder status, something Gram continued even after Pop died. He taught her to love the team. She told me once baseball was a constant that helped her feel close to Pop after he was gone.

  I looked out on the field. It was after seven now and the game would soon start. My shoulder almost brushed his, magnetically drawn to close the small space between us. I was overly aware of the man beside me, the charge between us growing stronger. At least on my part.

  Reagan, and my response to him, mystified me. The more time we spent together, the less I could convince myself we would only be friends, but it didn't matter; I had no business considering a relationship right now.

  A video montage began to roll, then seamlessly segued into AC/DC's “Thunderstruck.” I leaped to my feet and began clapping in time as the starting line-up ran out. Ah, the promise all players held before the start of a game. Fans shone with hope that this game would lead to a win.

  Most of our section clapped along to the song. The music inspired even the most timid of fans into the spirit of the game, even if the lyrics had little in common with baseball. Reagan stood next to me, taking it all in.

  “Reagan.” As the music died away, I laid my hand on his forearm to get his attention, impressed by the contained strength. He looked down at me, expectant.

  “I told you I'm a big fan, but until someone goes to a game with me, they don't realize what that means. Please don't judge me.” I had no self-control when it came to baseball. It was liberating to take out my angst on an umpire or player who can't even hear me. When they played well, my joy knew no bounds. However, this could be embarrassing for a non-fan.

  “This is the other side of you,” he noted as we waited for the first pitch.

  I trained my eyes on the field, unsure of where he was headed with this line of thought.

  “This is where you feel carefree and relaxed. Even if it comes with a side of rabid fandom. I won't judge you. Much.” He said with a wink.

  It was a relief to fall back into a pattern of banter. The game began and I forgot about Gram, DNRs, Uncle Marcus, and whether the gallery exhibit would open on time. The men on the field were my only focus. Though if I were honest, the man sitting next to me proved equally distracting.

  Reagan appeared equally engaged in the game. He cheered the base hits and provided colorful feedback for the umpires. I gave him points for creativity but I still took home the prize in terms of passion and self-righteous indignation over bad calls.

  Having gone to games primarily with family and female friends up to this point, I hadn't realized how much touching occurred. High fives, tapping arms or shoulders to get attention, even hugs after home runs. Each time we connected, my body hummed.

  I couldn't delude myself with the veils of professionalism and friendship any longer. I liked Reagan. Therein lay the dilemma.

  I didn't know what to do with my hands, not when they were drawn to him. He could probably read the thoughts scrambling my mind. I smoothed my jersey and picked invisible lint from my dress pants. Face forward, I concentrated on the game and hoped my expressive face wouldn't betray me whenever I responded to his commentary.

  The Twins were trailing by three runs in the 6th inning. The Sox no longer required my dedicated focus. But what to talk about? An idea sprouted. I would tell Reagan about the morning's events. Surely discussing death and hospice would keep my distraction in check.

  I tried to keep my voice low so as not to distract fellow spectators, while staying loud enough so that Reagan could hear me over the roar. I told him of the hospice nurse and all that would be required of me. I shared Gram's response to signing the DNR. I described how my family had reacted when Gram selected me.

  First, Suzy had been on the receiving end of my verbal processing, now Reagan. And I still hadn't contacted my closest friends to even tell them of Gram's diagnosis. I was a coward. The moment I heard sadness in their voices, I would break. Instead, I played it safe with my assistant and a man I barely knew.

  Even though everything screamed in me to keep this surface level with Reagan, I couldn't stop myself from sharing more. Maybe my subconscious plan was to scare him off; there would be no chance of anything other than a professional relationship then. The game receded in the background, dwarfed by the unburdening of my heart. I'd never ignored a game before, no matter how many serious conversations had been held in these seats.

  I talked and watched players run in the periphery of my eye. But mostly I looked at Reagan listening to me. Not many men paid attention like this. He listened and also appeared to understand.

  He didn't once interject with a personal story or try to minimize my struggle. He didn't even appear annoyed we were no longer paying attention to the game.

  I could only conclude Reagan was not normal. In this moment, I was deeply grateful for that fact.

  I wanted to know why he responded
with compassion and patience to my rambling tale. But selfishly, I wanted someone to focus on me for a while. I could return the favor at a later date.

  I concluded with Gram's choice to see her hospice nurse by herself for the first visit. “I would have made it work, but this lets me sleep at the gallery if I need to. I mean, just to be sure the exhibit is ready in time. Geez, I need to shut up now.”

  Reagan chuckled and reassured me that I hadn't monopolized the conversation.

  Everyone stood for the 7th inning stretch. People swayed to and fro as “Take Me Out to the Ballgame” played. Reagan put his arm around my shoulders and hugged me to him.

  “You're going to be fine,” he said into my ear, sending shivers down my spine. I glanced up at him and nodded. I didn't trust myself to speak.

  The rest of our time together reverted to lighthearted topics. The change of pace helped us pay more attention to the game.

  The Sox won, as I'd predicted. My smile stretched wide. I sang along to “Sweet Home Chicago” with an extra skip in my step as we filed out of the stadium. Temporarily free of worry, a White Sox win was the best antidote a woman could have.

  I turned to Reagan as we exited the gate.

  “So, what's your verdict? Aside from my emotional basket case-self distracting you from the game,” I tacked on. Don't let me down, self-deprecation.

  Reagan stopped me in my tracks and looked down into my eyes.

  “You would have distracted me no matter what you talked to me about,” he said slow and easy.

  I could interpret that sentence any number of ways. My heart thudded as I stared at him in wonder.

  “That being said,” he continued. “It was no Red Sox game, but it'll do.”

  With that, I laughed and slugged him in the arm. “I should turn you over to the drunkest fans for that kind of slander.”

  Instead I linked my arm through his and tugged him toward the sidewalk to head home. Tiredness crept through my bones and I wanted the comfort of my bed. His hand reached up to where mine was perched and grasped it. Our hands swung between us as we crossed the intersection with departing fans. The warmth of his hand wreaked havoc on my inner teenager.

  Maybe the interest wasn't one-sided. But I didn't have time or energy for another person. Who in their right mind would want to date someone with a complicated situation like mine?

  Reagan refused to let me drop him off at the Red Line. He walked me to the Green Line, telling me he'd simply transfer at the next stop. It was useless to argue against his gentlemanly behavior. I didn't want to let go of his hand anyway.

  Would this lead to a goodnight kiss? I hoped so, no matter what complications ensued. It had been too long since I'd had a normal relationship. Regardless, I didn't think there was any way to predict Reagan's next move.

  As the train neared Roosevelt station, Reagan kissed my cheek and then whispered in to my ear.

  “You're an adorable basket case.”

  My ear buzzed from the sensation. I tried to process these words as he strode out the opening doors, tossing back his gratitude for a fun night.

  I responded in kind. In theory. I had no idea what words left my mouth.

  My hand touched my cheek where he’d kissed me. No mention of when or if we'd see each other again. I deflated against the seat. The train propelled forward. I stared out the window as the buildings and city lights blurred into a kaleidoscope. Hope had risen in spite of my low expectations for this evening. Instead of letting myself be lulled by the train's movement, my mind scurried through explanations and excuses.

  I knew then that Reagan would break my heart and I would let him.

  Chapter Seven

  Rain pattered outside, gentle, rhythmic. The bedroom, gray lit by clouds, bathed me in peace. I curled into a ball, awake despite my exhaustion. Sunday mornings had their own cadence; I didn't worry about the gallery or an agenda, I let myself be.

  This Sunday, however, the unsettled nature of the week caught up with me. The clock beckoned an hour far earlier than I usually woke. Sleep had been fitful once it came thanks to my subconscious working overtime. I debated whether to stay in bed longer, on the off-chance rest would come.

  I loved rainy days. That would be the silver lining to my insomnia. I padded out of bed and headed to the kitchen. Tea was in order before anything else. I turned on the burner for the tea kettle, then wandered into the living room to make sense of life.

  Hazy swirls clouded my mind, a consequence of too little sleep and a wayward routine. The kettle whistled a few minutes later and I returned for my morning treat. A dollop of cream and sugar later, I grabbed an oversized cardigan and settled myself on the apartment balcony. The rain was light. Too soon to know whether it would last all day or not. My apartment didn’t have much of a view but I found cityscapes to be soothing, even if this particular cityscape only featured neighboring brownstone buildings.

  The warm mug in my hands counteracted the chill in the early morning air. I sipped my tea and allowed my mind to wander in tandem with the rain.

  The exhibit Friday night had been a success, like the others. The featured artists received great feedback and quite a few sales. The intervening months until the next exhibit would garner more opportunities for them all. Their success translated to mine.

  The bustle of the gallery and words of praise proved a fulfilling end to a difficult week. I mixed and mingled with the Oak Park's finest and talked about art and beauty until I was practically asleep on my feet. If I hadn't dealt with the minor hiccups that accompany every show behind the scenes, it would have been a perfect evening.

  Even Reagan made an appearance for an hour. I hoped this meant his completed contract would soon be in my possession. We'd waved at each other across the room but our paths never seemed to cross, although I remained aware of where he stood in the room relative to me. His presence drew me like a beacon, but it was probably better we hadn't spoken. I didn’t have time to wonder about whether there was something more between us. I should keep telling myself that.

  I'd made it through another week. Sunday was my one completely free day and I contemplated how I should spend it. An unusual urge to darken the doorsteps of a church crossed my mind. I had not considered God since Gram's diagnosis. Oh, for the days when my faith was simple and sure. I could use some borrowed certainty.

  Mom expected me at her house for our family lunch at noon. Once a month she gathered us back into her fold. Going to church would win brownie points, as Mom would inevitably ask. She'd worried about the state of my soul since high school, and every choice I made strengthened her concern. After all, I was the family's so-called wild child.

  As with many of our discussions, I gave up on reassuring my mother about my faith long ago. Mom preferred to believe what she wanted and she'd never understood outside the box thinking. I couldn't explain my penchant for finding God anywhere but church, nor my relentless doubts. This, of course, reinforced her case.

  I didn’t like capitulating to her expectations but sometimes I needed all the help I could get. As Gram’s news had certainly made the rounds through the family by now and my brothers would be at lunch, I definitely needed the help.

  I thought about where to go. A friend of a friend had started a church in a local warehouse, and it had drawn unexpected interest from several in my circle. No one was more surprised than me when I found myself back in a hallowed space a few years back. It was different and yet not different enough. I was glad for my friends but I felt no desire to return.

  It wasn’t the church’s fault. The moment Aunt Elaine told me Dad died, I’d whispered “oh my God” in supplication and disbelief. There’d been only silence. No matter how much I longed to hear from God back then, his silence endured and my faith was chipped away until only tattered pieces remained. God became a distant uncle. Not unlike Uncle Marcus, come to think of it. I could not find God in church but sometimes I glimpsed him in other people or song lyrics or on a hike. Or I could at least remembe
r a time when I believed he cared.

  Frasiers went to church every Sunday and I’d dutifully gone throughout the rest of high school. I shed that edict the moment I went away to college. My friends’ church distinguished itself from the legalism of my childhood church but it was not different enough. I still chose not to go and didn’t worry much about the eternal implications. My mother did not understand one bit.

  A small piece of me wanted to remember how safe I used to feel in church. Life made more sense those days. I was more innocent and untested by its trials.

  The lack of sleep from the past few nights was taking its toll. I barely took in my surroundings as I continued to drink tea. My eyes were heavy but my mind worked overtime. There'd be no more rest until I fell into bed tonight.

  I'd checked in with Gram by phone after the hospice nurse visited for the first time Friday morning. Her voice bubbled with laughter as she described him. He had earned the Ella May Frasier stamp of approval. Her update flooded me with relief. I'd meet Justin on Tuesday for his next visit, along with the social worker. Knowing this piece of Gram's care was in place enabled me to check off the next item on my list.

  I'd finally picked up the phone and informed my closest friends of Gram's diagnosis in between frantic exhibit preparations. I still worried but I felt free to share. Emails and messages of love and support bolstered my hope that I could see Gram through.

  I no longer had to hold this news in, but I did not want to discuss it endlessly either.

  Yesterday I'd swept through the gallery early in the morning, then caught up by phone with various friends who'd materialized with offers of coffee dates and retail therapy. I put them off for now, touched by their gestures but not ready to commit to crying in public.

  They would keep checking in until they saw me in person. Perhaps waving at a few friends from across the sanctuary would buy me some time. It would appease the ones I saw and be my proof to anyone else that I wasn’t avoiding them entirely.

  I decided to go to the early service. Fewer people, less chance of being caught with tears in my eyes. I finished my tea, then hurried to get ready.