Firebird (The Firebird Trilogy #1)

by Jennifer Loring

  “They love you. They want to keep you around as long as they can.”

  “But when does it get to be my decision? I’m the one throwing up all the time and lying here while all my friends are doing normal stuff. It’s like when you’ve played a really hard game, and your whole body hurts, and you just want to sleep. I’m ready to go to sleep. I know it’s time to let go, even if they don’t.”

  “Have you tried talking to them about it?”

  “My mom cries every time she looks at me. My dad…I don’t know. He keeps his distance. Can’t deal with it, I guess. He’s worried about losing the house too. It sucks, you know? They can’t pay the bills, and I’m gonna die anyway. My mom had to quit her job to take care of me. No one is listening.”

  “I am. Not much I can do, but getting it off your chest might help a little.”

  Josh grinned. “The only person I can talk to is, like, my idol and he’s sitting in my room. Weirdest, best day ever. You’re not like they say.”

  “Well that’s a relief.” He smiled.

  “You wanna play a game?” Josh nodded toward the TV, to which the Xbox’s latest iteration was hooked up. “Got the newest NHL game.”

  “You’re on.”

  “I call Gladiators.”

  “Okay, fine. I’ll take the Earthquakes. See what I look like this year.”

  “I have last year’s too. The one with you on the cover. Can you sign that too, before you go?”

  “You got it.”

  After a few rounds, all of which Josh won, Alex ordered two large pizzas, one with Josh’s favorite toppings and one for the rest of his family. Josh ate a few bites, but his voice had been growing weaker, his movements slower. He leaned over the window side of the bed and threw up into a sick bucket.

  “Sorry,” he whispered and drew an arm over his mouth. Late-afternoon sunlight slanted through the window. His eyelids fluttered as though struggling to stay open.

  “It’s okay,” Alex said. “You can go to sleep.”

  “But you won’t be here when I wake up.”

  He gave the boy a gentle hug. His body was so tiny, so fragile. Cold. “When I’m off crutches, I’ll come back. I promise.”

  “This has been so awesome.”

  “I had a great time hanging out with you. Keep in touch, okay? I’ll leave you my email address.”

  “Wow. Thanks, Sasha.”

  “Thank you. Get some sleep.”

  He closed the door behind him and hopped into the kitchen, where Josh’s mother was loading the dishwasher. Paperwork hid half the counter from view. Invoices, mostly. He could see the large red Past Due stamp on some of them. “Can I do anything to help?”

  She whirled around, a hand over her heart. “Oh. I’m sorry.”

  “I didn’t mean to startle you. Josh is asleep.”

  “No. I couldn’t ask you to do any more than you have. I peeked in for a second, and I haven’t seen him so happy in months. Thank you so much.”

  “He’s a great kid. I wish I could do more. Actually…” He put on his coat and readjusted his crutches. He had to take some of the burden from her slumping shoulders before she collapsed under the weight. “I’m going to send you a check. I can only imagine the medical expenses, and I want to help.” His had been bad enough, though the NHL’s insurance plan covered much of it and paying the rest posed no problem. He’d heard the horror stories of people losing everything over a catastrophic illness.

  She pressed a hand to her mouth. Tears filled her eyes. “I couldn’t—ˮ

  “You can. I insist.”

  “Thank you, Mister—Sasha. This means so much to all of us.” She squeezed his hand. The tears fell.

  “It’s the least I can do. I left my email address in his room. If anything changes, please let me know.”

  “Absolutely. Thank you again. Have a safe trip home.”

  “Thanks. Take care of yourself, Mrs. Flynn.”

  Buffalo had not yet received notice of spring’s arrival nearly two weeks ago. Snowflakes were swirling, dancing on currents of cold air and fluttering onto drifts yet two feet high. He listened in the suburban stillness for a whisper that would tell him which way to go. He would wait for her there, forever if he must, because he had nothing else.

  But he did not know the way, and the whisper did not come. With a leaden heart, he caught a cab to the airport and returned home alone.

  ***

  Dusk smothered the sky beyond his windows. Not bothering with his crutches, and clad in his underwear—Armani would approve—he hop-shuffled into the kitchen, phone in hand. He’d slept for twelve hours.

  He called Danny, who took his diagnosis as well as anyone might. Better, perhaps, because he was already thinking of ways to turn it into something positive. “If and when you’re ready to go public with this, maybe we can work on doing a PSA with NAMI and the NHL. Raise awareness, you know?”

  He did not know if, and certainly not when, he would be ready, nor should Stephanie find out in so impersonal and indirect a way. But he agreed on some nebulous future sixty-second spot that would crack him open for the world to pick apart once more and hung up.

  As the water heated for tea, he scrolled through his emails.GladiatorsFanJosh. He smiled and opened it.

  Sasha,

  Thank you again for everything you did yesterday. Unfortunately, Josh passed away this morning. He was at home and as comfortable as we could make him, and we’re going to bury him in the jersey like he would’ve wanted.

  Your kindness made my little boy’s dream come true. We are so grateful to you for giving him a final day filled with happiness instead of pain. Thank you again from the bottom of my heart. You’re an incredible young man, and I wish you all the blessings you deserve.

  Sara Flynn

  Alex laid the phone on the counter and stared across the room at the windows, the darkness beyond. One tear slipped down his cheek, then another. Maybe what he’d perceived as nothing was in fact everything all jumbled together. The same way the colors in the spectrum formed white when combined, as though they weren’t colors at all. Deceived into thinking he couldn’t feel them anymore when in fact he felt all of them at once and with a soul-destroying profundity. What a strange time for such a revelation. How odd a dying thirteen-year-old boy had to uncover it for him. He leaned against the counter, the pain spearing his chest, his stomach. He sucked in a breath, then dropped his head to his hands. He might not stop now. He could fill this room with tears. This city. This world.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Stephanie

  Another grueling day filling in on the pre- and postgame shows after working on a feature for the website. Stephanie switched off her Surface Pro, then collapsed onto the couch and checked her voice mail and personal email. Her mother had asked when she’d be back in California for a real visit. Probably not until June, after the Stanley Cup Final, if ever. LA was becoming her new Seattle. She’d never have to set foot in that house again, but part of her lamented the lost opportunity for Alex to have been there with her, to share with her the memories they had created in her room rather than the solitary reminiscence on her own. He could have distracted her from the pain bubbling like blood from a fresh wound. The rage. The way she had punched the walls when she saw an indentation in the plaster or a crack in the wood where her father had shoved her.

  She had sobbed in Matt’s arms for hours. Told everything to her keeper of secrets, confided her temptation to skip the funeral and escape back to Buffalo. She owed their father nothing else, and Matt didn’t argue.

  “Whatever is best for you,” he’d said. “I can take it from here.”

  She let him.

  The Realtor had assured her the house would sell in no time. After the agent’s cut, and splitting the rest with Matt, she’d have over three hundred thousand dollars coming to her. A nice little nest egg to supplement her IRA and many years to grow it further after she paid off her student loans. Debt free at twenty-six. Self-sufficient. S
he could buy her own damned car. A house, even, with a gourmet coffeemaker. She fucking hated tea.

  Channeling her inner badass, and because her father would have lost it if he were still alive, she braved a trip to the local tattoo studio with the highest Yelp rating and with a printout in hand sat down for her first tattoo. A flowing script across her right ribs, a quote by Hubert Selby, Jr.: ‘Because we choose to live the dream instead of choosing to live the life.’

  It hurt like hell, but it summed up the past ten years to perfection.

  Stephanie pulled up NHL.com and scanned the Top Headlines section, where ‘Aleksandr Volynsky Fulfills Dying Fan’s Dream’ leapt out at her. She ticked her fingernail against the left mouse button, mentally marking off all the reasons she should not read it. Then clicked and skimmed to the end.

  The star left-winger spent an entire day with the thirteen-year-old, who suffered from a brain cancer known as medulloblastoma that had metastasized to other organs. The boy passed away the following morning. Volynsky, still recovering from a tragic injury last December that left his hockey career in doubt, has reportedly donated $50,000 to the family to assist with medical and other expenses.

  A selfie of Alex and the boy from the kid’s phone accompanied the story. The boy beaming despite his obvious illness. Alex’s big, bright smile in a face of distressing leanness.

  Down the internet rabbit hole she tumbled. On YouTube, she typed “Aleksandr Volynsky” into the search box, which produced dozens of videos. Game footage of his best plays and fights, interviews, and the occasional candid personal video, like the ones of him dancing at the Christmas party—Check out Volynsky’s off-ice moves!—and his drunken yet remarkable performance at the karaoke bar.

  She watched them all, the ones where he was just Alex, laughing and dancing and leaving the rest behind. So few of them. Hiding behind the image except when they were together. Her eyes smarted with tears. She typed his name into Google and clicked Images. Older photos from Buffalo, snapshots taken by his roommate on the road. Napping shirtless on the bed, lounging by the pool and talking on his phone. Shirtless again at a dive bar, drink in hand and dancing. Basking in the attention. Caught nude in cell phone locker room photos. Entire Pinterest boards had been devoted to him. Twenty-two or twenty-three in many of the photos, rejecting the responsibility of role model because he’d been barely more than a kid himself.

  She checked his Facebook page and Twitter feed, both of which he updated about once a week. Optimistic posts about his progress. The occasional selfie. He was still using crutches and wearing a walking boot.

  It was only eight p.m. in Seattle.

  He hadn’t changed his number when he’d left Buffalo. How sad it took something as trivial as a shared area code to feel close to him. They might as well live on different planets. Might as well have never been together at all.

  “You’ve reached Aleksandr Volynsky. Please leave a message. Spasiba.”

  She remembered what had happened after her last attempt at contact. And she hung up.

  ***

  Aleksandr

  On a whim, Alex bought a black baby grand Steinway. For ten years, he had engaged only in hockey-related activities, building the body that now served no practical purpose except for staying healthy. No hockey, so no need for the strength, stamina, and explosive speed his muscles provided. No Stephanie, so no one to touch him, to make him feel as if there were no other men in the world.

  Sometimes, perhaps because Dr. Reese had prompted him to dig up his buried pain, he pondered things he believed he’d put out of his mind. What their child might have been like had it survived. Dark hair and blue eyes. Beautiful like its mother. Smart, athletic. A dancer, a singer. Or one of those kids who went wrong somehow, no matter how much love it received. A disappointment like its father.

  He hired a music teacher who, pleased her new student possessed a robust, if rusty, foundation upon which to build, visited twice a week. He had to learn to play again using one foot on the pedals, at least until he healed. But the notes came, his fingers gliding over the keys the way his feet once did over the ice. He bought some blank sheet music and some notebooks and now and then jotted ideas. His own songs, all of his sorrow, his sickness, and his regrets. Each word and note restored some of his power over them. He showed them to Dr. Reese, who praised his efforts at self-discovery and encouraged him to keep going.

  Two new tattoos graced his arms. A half-sleeve firebird on his upper right, and on his inner left forearm a stylized depiction of Veles, the ancient Slavic god of magic and music, to cover the scar where he’d slashed himself. The artist had asked the inevitable question of the tattoo on his left shoulder: “What does that mean?”

  “You know how they say you should never get someone’s name tattooed on you?”

  “Gotcha,” she’d said with a knowing wink. But he couldn’t bear to cover it up.

  A few weeks later, the artist tattooed a Michelangelo quote across his left ribs in graceful script: ‘I saw the angel in the marble and carved until I set him free.’

  He had much work to do.

  ***

  “Aleksandr, are you ready to try some walking exercises? I’d like to get you used to it again.”

  His twenty-sixth birthday was next week. The idea he might walk again wouldn’t be such a bad thing to celebrate. “Okay.”

  “Excellent. I’m going to stand over here. Give me your crutches. Now start to put weight on your right foot—carefully, slowly. That’s it. I know you’re afraid to, but this is what all those other exercises were for. You’re stronger than you think.”

  Alex eased onto his foot. The tendons responded with a jolt of pain that subsided into a dull ache. He had not regained feeling in his first two toes after the third surgery. He put his left foot out first, arms outstretched to catch himself if he fell, then took a second, stumbling step with his right.

  “Lift it, Aleksandr. Don’t drag it. You can do it.”

  “I don’t think I can.” He gritted his teeth. “They told you I can’t feel my toes, right?”

  “That’ll affect your balance, but the more you work at it, the sooner you’ll get used to it.”

  You get used to it. He might as well have lost two of his fucking toes. He lurched forward. “Give me the crutches.”

  “Do you want to walk again or not?”

  What did it matter? He’d never play hockey again. And Stephanie was long gone. “Fine.”

  The therapist backed up another step. “As slowly as you need to go. Five steps toward me. You got this, Aleksandr. Don’t let that voice in your head say you can’t do it. Focus on a goal.”

  Kicking Shawn Nichols’s teeth in. Did that count?

  He shambled toward the therapist like a zombie fresh from the grave. Left foot. Lift the goddamned right foot. Balance on the ball of it. Don’t try to put weight on the toes or you’ll tip right over. Jesus. It was a wonder kids ever learned to walk.

  “And lift. There you go. I know it hurts. We’ll ice it as soon as we’re done.”

  Every time he set his foot back down, pain lanced through him, calf to ankle, the scar a sneering reminder it controlled him.

  Fuck you. He had to do this but for himself. He took a confident step forward. Then his ankle twisted, and he pitched halfway to the mat, into the therapist’s arms.

  “Sukin syn!” He grasped his throbbing foot. Silence prevailed over the entire room, and everyone was staring at him.

  “It’s okay, Aleksandr. It happens.” The therapist eased him onto a table and laid an ice pack over the joint. “You’re still a little weak. Make sure you’re wearing the brace. And hey, you took five steps.” He smiled and held up his hand for a high five. “You did it. You walked.”

  I did. Alex managed a faint smile as the therapist wrapped the brace around his ankle.

  ***

  Stephanie

  Regardless of how far wild-card Buffalo advanced, Stephanie could count on remaining busy well into June,
until the Stanley Cup Champion had been decided. And while she appreciated the distraction of near-constant work, the time had long since come to think of her new city as home. Start making friends, furnish her condo as though she intended to stay, indulge in some hobbies. Leave the past where it belonged and embrace the future that was hers to create. No one could tell her what to do. No demands on her time except those she deemed worthwhile. No one depending on her for their happiness.

  Stephanie settled into her leather executive chair and pulled up her personal email. A strange message with an attachment had arrived that morning, the subject line reading“Please Open.” She’d written it off as spam and probably a virus until she beheld the sender’s address. It didn’t rule out a hacked account, but just in case, she preferred to avoid an emotional reaction in the office. Three and a half months and twenty-five hundred miles had dulled the sharpest edges, but the wounds themselves might never heal.

  She double-clicked the message.

  Hi Stephanie,

  I hope Buffalo is treating you well. If you’re seeing someone, please feel free to delete this.

  I’m sorry for the way our last phone call went. There’s something I need to tell you—a lot of things, someday, but for now, I wanted to show you what I’ve been doing and let you know recovery is going OK. Hope you enjoy it.

  Alex

  P.S. You don’t have to write back if you don’t want to.

  She blew out a long breath and double-clicked the attached video. Alex was sitting at a piano in his living room. His cheekbones were more prominent, his face pinched. Scruff darkened his jaw, and his black hair tumbled over his forehead.