The Shortstop, page 20
Before he steps inside, he turns to his right. “Is that Quint’s house?”
Emotion immediately swells at the mere mention of his name. “Yeah.”
“Wow, there’s barely twenty feet between you.”
He turns toward me and quickly apologizes when he sees the look on my face. “Aw, I’m sorry, Annie. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“It’s nothing you said. Every time I look out my windows or leave the house, all I see are the ghosts from our past.” Wanting to stop the imagery that’s haunting my thoughts, I move aside to let him in. “Come in. My parents are out.” He follows me, looking around the room and stopping at a framed picture of my family with Quint’s.
Our parents had taken us to Niagara Falls. We’re all wearing those silly yellow slickers while standing in the mist of the falls. “How old were you?”
I quickly scan my brain, replying, “Um, thirteen.” Quint later confessed that trip was torturous for him due to his constant throbbing hard-on.
I lead Billy to sit at the kitchen table. He opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out.
“Is he okay?” I ask only one of the hundreds of questions that are swimming around in my head.
He scans my face hesitantly. “I wasn’t sure how to handle this. I’m still wondering if I’m doing the right thing. I decided you deserve to know. More importantly, you deserve happiness, Annie.”
My eyes prick with tears, and he hasn’t said anything yet. I’m so emotional lately. I’m not sure if it’s my facial expression causing him to frown or whatever it is he needs to say. He works a swallow, runs a hand through his hair, and grips the back of his neck.
“Please, Billy. Just tell me.”
“Quint called me this morning,” he says with a sigh. “He was very high.” The thought that he was on something has crossed my mind. It would explain his behavior, a part of me almost wishing it to be true. I’d have something to blame, something tangible to make sense of the past few months. And with help, he could come back to me.
“Annie, he rambled a lot, and he said some things that didn’t make any sense. When I finally got him to focus, he said…” He closes his eyes and shakes his head in disgust. “Fuck, I’m so angry at him. Before I tell you, I want you to know I’m here in your corner. You’re my friend, Annie. I’ll always have your back.”
“Billy, please.”
“Annie, he and Daphne slept together.”
My hand clutches my throat as I gasp for air. I shake my head in denial over and over, wishing it to be a lie. “No, no. He wouldn’t do that to me. He wouldn’t. No. It can’t be true.”
“He told me himself,” Billy responds with his voice barely above a whisper. He reaches for my hand and holds it. His fingers wrapped around mine do nothing to stop them from trembling. Everything is trembling, my lips, my chin, my heart inside my chest.
“He was high. He probably had no idea what he was saying.” I jerk my hand away. “You’re wrong. You’re just upset that you never had what we had.” Each word is laced with absolute hatred toward Billy. I hate him for telling me this, for making this up. “It’s a lie.” I violently push away from my chair to shove him with all my might. “Say it’s a lie. Tell me you misunderstood him!”
He allows me to channel my anger toward him. Shove after shove and insult after insult, Billy just becomes my punching bag, letting me get it all out. When my assaults weaken, and my sobs take over my words, he stands and wraps his arms around me. I bawl into his chest, my cries sounding foreign to my own ears. I’m not sure in all of my life I’ve ever made the sounds that are coming from deep within my chest.
“Shh,” he repeats over and over, soothingly stroking my hair. “I know. I’m here.”
“Why? Why would they do that to us?”
“I don’t know.”
It feels like my insides are being cut from my body piece-by-piece. I alternate between crying, screaming, and whimpering, my body struggling to figure out which of the three to settle on. Billy continues to hold me tightly. I feel claustrophobic and trapped. I quickly push away from his hold, backing up in jerky steps.
“No. No!”
“Annie. Let me help.”
“You can’t help me!”
My friend stands openmouthed, baffled as to what to do. He knows I’m right. He can’t help me. No one can. “You can’t help me,” I rasp out hoarsely. My throat feels like it’s on fire. “No one can help me,” I say before crumpling to the ground. Billy sits beside me, forcing me to lean against him. Hours pass, and neither of us says a word. The only sounds come from the clock ticking on the wall, an occasional sniffle, and my ragged breathing.
I vaguely remember being lifted as soft words being spoken drift around me. Stuck between a conscious and semiconscious state, I pray that a dreamless sleep takes me. That way I can escape the hell I’m trying so desperately to claw my way out of.
“Annie.”
The tone of her voice clearly tells me all I need to know. The only thing missing is the condescending tsk at the end of my name. My piteous behavior has my mother bewildered, and she doesn’t know how to handle me. She stands in the doorway of my room, watching in horror as I shred my wedding dress with a pair of scissors. No one can fault me for acting like a deranged jilted bride…because I am. No one can fault me for behaving so childishly. I’ve always been mature for my age. I was long overdue for a meltdown. People have them every goddamn day for less dramatic events. My meltdown was epic as far as meltdowns went. It’s lasted one week.
I haven’t been to class in a week. I haven’t left this room for a week.
My dad’s way of handling what’s happening to his daughter is borderline comical. The car that I impulsively bought and that he hated has now become his unsuspecting protégé. There are car washes, oil changes, detailing, every day he chooses a different method to hide his angst. I’m his baby girl, his only child. The man he treated like a son has ripped open my chest and ripped out my heart. That same man’s parents are his best friends. I almost feel sorry for my dad. He’s too kind, too caring to be forced to deal with any of this. So is my mom, his parents, me, Billy…fuck, none of us deserved this.
Wordlessly, I stand in the middle of the white organza and silk that I reduced to a pile of fabric strips. Piece by piece, I gingerly place them into a trash bag. I woke up this morning with a newfound determination. This was my first item on today’s to-do list. This dress has been mocking me all week. Item number two will be even more difficult, but I have to get it over with.
Once every last piece of that dress is hidden, I tie the bag and carry it out of my room. My mom follows behind. “Sweetie, let me make you something to eat. You’re getting so thin.”
“Not now, Mom.”
“Do you want to come with me to get my hair done? I’ll treat you to a manicure/pedicure.”
“No, thank you.”
All the way through the house and into the garage, she keeps asking questions and offering bribes to try to distract me. With a hard smack, I hit the garage door opener and watch it slowly creep up.
“Where are you going? The beach?”
“No. I’ll be back soon.”
Surprisingly, she doesn’t follow. She’s been following me around like a puppy all week. I pull in a huge breath and head right for their door. They tried to talk to me and console me, just like the rest of them. I don’t hate them. None of this was their fault.
Just before I reach their front door, it opens.
“Annie, sweetheart.” She looks awful. This is shredding her. She and my mom are the same age, yet she looks like she’s aged ten years these past few months.
“Can I come in?” With tears shimmering in her eyes, she waves me in. I came knowing Mr. Lawson wasn’t home. I can’t handle them both at once. It’s too much. She leads me to the couch and pats the cushion beside her. My instinct is to choose a chair farther away. I don’t like being touched lately. I don’t want her to feel bad if I were to grimace from her touch.
Predictably, she takes my hand in hers and I fight the urge to flinch. “Darling, I’m so worried about you. How are you holding up?”
“Not well. I don’t want to lie to you.”
“I spoke to your mother earlier. Is there anything we can do?”
I nod, “Yes, as a matter of fact, there is.” I dig into my pocket and remove my engagement ring.
“No, sweetheart. Please don’t.”
“I’m sorry. I need to. Can you please give it back to him when you see him?”
Tears well up in her eyes. She stares at the ring in my palm, but she doesn’t move to accept it. “Can I hold it here for you?”
“No. I need you to return it to him. Please?”
She reluctantly nods while holding out her hand. I place the ring in it, pulling away quickly as if it will burst into flames. As much as my wedding dress mocked me, this ring has been tormenting me since the day I saw him lying in his hospital room after surgery. I may have been in denial that day and every day since, but the signs were there. I refused to see them, or believe them. I’ve been such an idiot.
The only two people on earth who had the power to crush me have chosen to exercise that power. I will never speak to Daphne again. I don’t care if she was drunk or high or distraught. There isn’t a reason on earth short of being in a coma that excuses her actions.
Mrs. Lawson’s bottom lip trembles when she says, “This is killing me. You should have been my daughter-in-law by now. You would have just been getting back from your honey…”
“Stop. Please.” I stiffly lean in to give her a quick hug. “I’m sorry, but I have to go.” The air in this house is stifling. I feel like I’m suffocating. I need to get out of here. I feel like he’s going to come barreling around the corner any minute and smile once he lays his eyes on me. Or that he’ll call me from his bedroom, causing me to anxiously run up the stairs to see him.
This may very well be the last time I enter this house. The memories practically seep from the walls like sludge in those possessed houses in horror flicks. And just like the stupid main character who has no clue the psycho murderer will absolutely hack her up in pieces, I run out the front door, pretending once outside I’ll be safe and never be harmed again.
I have one thing left to do. Item number three, pack my bags and move into my new apartment.
Chapter Twenty-seven
Quint
The normal definition of regret isn’t profound enough. There should be an entry in the dictionary for motherfucking-regret. The kind of regret that controls every breath you take as well as every thought in your mind. Where every minute of every day is consumed with thoughts of why?
My regret list runs long, but mostly I regret what I did to Annie. I barely remembered a thing that occurred after my phone call to Billy. I do remember hanging up, throwing the phone across the room, and attempting to numb myself as quickly as possible. When my parents found me, I was incoherent. Days had passed since my call to Billy, and I spent the entire time high or sleeping. I dreamed of her often. In one dream, I chased Annie down a pink sand beach, pinned her beneath me, and made love to her as the gentle surf lapped at our entwined bodies. I could feel her lips on mine. I could swear my cock was buried inside her warmth.
They cruelly yanked me back to reality with their yells and sobs. I watched through hooded eyes as my mom placed Annie’s ring in the palm of my hand. I remember staring at it confused and disoriented, wondering why it was in my hand and not on her finger.
My head hurt like a motherfucker. They claimed it was from the drugs and alcohol I consumed. I believe it was due to the toxic thoughts that flooded my mind. I remember my mom crying hysterically. I remember my dad frantically reaching out to Lance for help. I remember vomiting profusely over and over until I felt hollow inside. I remember sitting in the back of their car wishing I were dead.
So now, I am back at the same rehab facility. I’ve been here for two weeks. I haven’t had a pill or a drink in two weeks. I no longer have anywhere to run or hide. Coming off those pills was so much fucking fun. All their paperwork now labels me as Quint Lawson, the drug addict… How the fuck did I end up here?
Today, Lance promises to kick my ass in every way possible. Today I start a new, rigorous physical therapy program. I deserve every mind-numbing stab of pain that’s unleashing havoc on every part of my body, mind, and soul. I deserve the mental anguish that’s plagued me every day since that night. I deserve everything I got, including the annoying ass that stands at the foot of my bed gifting me with insult after insult. I’m clean now. I’m coherent, which gives him a green light to verbally abuse me.
“We wasted two fucking weeks on your recovery. Was it worth it? Did you accomplish what you wanted?” His rant goes on and on. “Your self-sabotage bullshit is getting old. I couldn’t give a flying fuck how long it takes you to walk across a goddamn room. I get paid well. But I do have more important things to do than to waste my fucking time on you.” He levels me with his murderous glare, arms folded, eyebrows raised expectantly. I defiantly stare back. “You have nothing to say?”
What does he expect me to say? There’s only one thing I need to say, and only one person I need to say it to. But it’s too late for that. She’s not here, and she’s not coming back. There isn’t any way she’d ever come back. I’m sure he knows that fact firsthand. They speak often. He let that little tidbit slip the minute I was signed over to his care. He promptly congratulated me on my epic fuck-up and for losing the best thing that ever happened in my life…and he wasn’t referring to playing for the Yankees. “Well, since she’s single now, I think I’ll go for it,” he said matter-of-factly.
His admission caused my blood to chill before erupting into a full boil.
He’s absolutely right. I’ve accomplished what I wanted to. I cut Annie from my life and gave her an opportunity to find happiness. Without any distractions, I should be able to focus on my goal of a miserable and lonely existence. Having nothing else but time to think, I planned out what I needed to do to survive. Besides walking, I need to play nice-nice so I can get out of here. It’s easier to be miserable in my own place. I’ve made a contract with myself. If I cooperate and do what they ask, they’ll release me. I can then reward myself with weed once I get home. I’m no longer interested in the hard stuff, not after the hell of detox I’ve had to endure. Pot needs to be my method of choice. One phone call to Augie, and I’ll be set.
Lance continues to stare at me, waiting. At my silence, he shakes his head in disgust. “Fine. Keep ignoring me and everything around you.” He moves over to the door and barks, “Move it. Get your ass in therapy. Wheelchair stays here.” With that, Lance walks out, leaving me to fend for myself.
My entire body shakes when I attempt to get out of bed. My muscle tone has suffered tremendously. I have so much work to do before I can live a normal life. The mountain before me should be enough to distract me. But with every shaky step I take toward the physical therapy room, with every drop of sweat that falls from my exertions, I know distraction of any kind is going to be impossible while sober. Except for the pills, nothing was able to distract me enough from the pain in my chest. Equating it to losing a limb, I feel a phantom heart beating even though it’s nothing more than a lump of stone.
While I was strung out on pain meds, my physical therapy team, surgeon, and team physicians had a sit-down. Topic of discussion was the probability of my return to the Yankees. An MRI revealed scar tissue forming around my kneecap. I can now add arthrofibrosis to my list of ailments. Another surgery is required, and it needs to be soon. The longer they wait, the more other complications can occur, such as early signs of arthritis. Even with a proactive surgery, I may still need a total knee replacement at the ripe old age of twenty-three. Which means I’m facing three or four new knees in my lifetime. That’s if I live that long. Long story short, my return to professional baseball is still slim to none.
With a nurse by my side, I hobble my way toward today’s form of hell. Every day I’m faced with torment, anguish, pain, suffering—insert any other synonym here.
“It sure took you long enough,” Lance says from the chair he leisurely occupies in the corner.
By now, sweat is pouring off my face and we haven’t even started yet. My callused hands ache from the grip I need to maintain on my crutches. Through gritted teeth I respond, “My apologies, boss.”
“Ready to be tortured?”
“More than I have been?” my brain responds, but my mouth stays shut.
“Quint, eat. Thanksgiving has always been your favorite holiday, except for maybe your birthday,” my mom reminds me with a smile. “Remember, Blake? He would mark up the kitchen calendar, counting down for weeks.”
Dad nods solemnly, but he doesn’t respond otherwise. My dad is a man of few words these days. I can’t be sure if it’s my situation or me that’s causing his silence. My dream and his dream have always been one in the same. Where my baseball career took up most of his time, he’s now inundated with my medical insurance, salary stipulations, and disability paperwork. He looks miserable, almost as miserable as me. He left his teaching job to be my manager, which just piles more guilt onto my shoulders.
Mom and Dad came loaded up with Thanksgiving dinner. They brought enough to share with the lucky nurses who got stuck working today. That’s my mom, always thinking of others. Most of our Thanksgivings were spent with Annie and her parents. Before our meal began, our moms would spend the morning at the local food kitchen serving dozens of meals to those in need. Sometimes Annie and I would help. A memory of a young Annie sporting an apron, a hairnet, and a big, toothless smile comes to the forefront of my mind. A smile almost slips onto my scowling face before I can control it. Distractedly, I push the food around on my plate, having suddenly lost my appetite.
The air in my room becomes thick with the familiar tension between us. I reach for the remote, needing something to fill this dead, awkward atmosphere. The local news pops on, recapping highlights of the parade. In a daze, I stare at the screen but I’m having a hard time focusing on any commentary. Clip after clip, segment after segment I sit and stare blankly at the box on the wall.
