Damaged Goods, page 7
A few minutes ago, he had loved her. But he had never said the words. She couldn’t hang him with his words.
“It’s not about whether I love you, Em. Don’t you get it? If I miss my shot at a football scholarship, my future is toast. Do you wanna be in love with a total loser? Without football, that’s what I’ll become. A total loser.”
“I love you, Bren,” she yelled, “but you’re frightening me.”
“What’s important right now is Cassie. Please, stop distracting me!”
Emily buried her face in her hands, her sobs growing louder. As they pulled into his driveway, she clutched his forearm. “I’m scared to ask, Bren, but are we the ones who hit Cassie?”
“No!” Brendan said. “She was too far away from our car for me to hit her.”
Emily nodded and bit her lip. “Good,” she replied. “I couldn’t live with myself if we did.”
Brendan leaned the car hard into the next corner. “Neither could I.”
Cassie
Fall of Senior Year 1975
Brendan was my savior. Every day while I was in the hospital, he’d ride his bike to visit me after football practice. He’d sit at the foot of my bed and talk to me for hours about what was happening at Nehoiden High—who picked up whom, who was in trouble, and how his football season was going. Hearing voices other than the doctors and nurses was good for me. I asked him why he was talking about everyone except Emily.
“She went to a Catholic boarding school for girls in some boondocks town in northern New Hampshire. Can you believe it? Never even said goodbye to me.”
“A Catholic girls’ boarding school?” I muttered. “What could Emily possibly do there, sleep with the priests?” I felt totally crushed. She had been my best friend since junior high. We shared each other’s secrets. How could she leave without visiting me even once in the hospital, or just letting me know she was going away? I sank a little deeper into my pillow and closed my eyes.
“She was a distraction anyway,” Bren said. “I was going to break up with her regardless. I have to put a college football scholarship first. I need a career where I can make some money, not end up as a lowly laborer like Dad, Grandpa, and every other O’Shay man since we got off the boat from Ireland.” He paused. “And seeing you here has made me realize that life is too short to screw around. Me and Emily were just screwing around. But she was getting serious. She even said she loved me and wanted me to say I loved her back. Can you believe that?”
“Do you?” I mumbled.
“How am I supposed to know?” he asked. “I don’t know what love feels like!”
I opened my eyes and saw him gazing at the wall. He was in love, I thought, but he was on a mission, and nothing would stand between him and his goal. Nothing.
* * *
On the morning of my release in mid-September, Nurse Nancy gently unwrapped the gauze from my head and removed my eye patch. No matter how much she warned me about what I would see when I looked in the mirror for the first time since the accident, and no matter how many times she assured me I would eventually heal, I wasn’t prepared for who and what stared back at me. Remnants of cinder ash from the parking lot had settled into my forehead. My cheekbone was lopsided and bruised. My once-perfect little nose was crooked along the bridge. My front teeth were broken, and the hair on the right side of my head had been shaved off. I looked like a ghoul from a horror movie. No boy would ever want to be with me. I wanted to crawl back into the hospital bed and stay there forever or maybe run away to wherever Emily was. Why did she leave me?
But my physical appearance was far from the worst part. My pounding headache wouldn’t let up. I didn’t have much confidence in my ability to manage the pain at home. Mom was super helpful for the first few weeks, assisting me to the front stoop, settling me in a lawn chair to watch the cars drive past our house on the main street through Nehoiden, and bringing me food and drinks when I asked for them. I also had a steady stream of friends visiting me after school, bringing small gifts like chokers and bracelets made of feathers, stone, and wood—things I wouldn’t be caught dead wearing, but they were thoughtful gestures. Bren was great too, always chatting with me after football practice, but he stayed silent about Emily. He asked me to attend a football game, but I wasn’t ready to leave the house.
On the last Saturday in September, the temperature dropped to the low forties, and the leaves were starting to turn. I sat on the front stoop with a blanket across my lap, waiting for Bren to ride his bike home from his football game so he could tell me how they did. It’s funny; I never cared much about his football team, but I looked forward to hearing his game stories. Around five in the afternoon, a yellow school bus stopped in front of our house. Fifty huge guys dressed in muddy football uniforms filed out and formed a massive semicircle in the front yard. Coach John was the last one off the bus. The line of players parted, and Coach John handed me an enormous bouquet of roses and baby’s breath, a get-well card, and the game ball signed by every player on the team.
“This game ball is for you, Cassie,” Coach John said. “We just ended the twenty-game winning streak of the number-one team in the state. Brendan ran for two touchdowns and earned the game ball, but he asked us to give it to you instead. We hope you feel better and return to school very soon.”
I was too stunned to cry, but when I looked around, half the players had tears streaming down their mud-splattered faces, including Bren.
* * *
When I finally returned to school in early October, six weeks after the accident, it wasn’t a moment too soon. Mom was tired of waiting on me, and the stream of visits from friends had dried up. I met with the head of the experiential learning program, Teacher Dave, on a brisk Monday morning. I liked him, which was unusual for me when it came to teachers. He was a cool guy, not one of those loser teachers who tried too hard to befriend students. And he was quite a hunk—big blue eyes, a full head of shaggy brown hair with bangs swept off his furrowed forehead, and a neat brown beard. He reminded me of Kris Kristofferson in Alice Doesn’t Live Here Anymore. I guessed he was in his late twenties, maybe ten years older than me, but the wrinkles made him seem older and wiser. He said he’d help me catch up on my schoolwork and arrange a work-study job at the Nehoiden Animal Clinic based on a personal essay I’d written for English class the year before about my love for animals. He said it moved him.
Funny, I scribbled that essay in one draft the night before it was due. It was a soapy story about when Bren and I were nine. With our combined life savings of thirteen dollars, we bought a black-and-white guinea pig named Ginny. We carried her home in a shoebox and kept her under my bed for five years before she passed away. I loved Ginny.
Teacher Dave drove me to my first day at Nehoiden Animal Clinic, where Dr. Johnson, the owner, greeted me by having me clean the cages and wash the floors. Eventually he let me watch him examine the animals. I loved the job, except when owners who had lost interest in their healthy pets chose to euthanize them. Dr. Johnson said it was best for the pet in the big picture, but I didn’t believe that.
By the end of the term, I researched and wrote a paper arguing that Massachusetts should pass a law to prevent pet euthanasia for reasons other than terminal illness. Dave gave me an “Outstanding” grade on my paper (we didn’t get a letter or number grade in the experiential learning program), wrote me an encouraging note, and asked to see me in his office. When I arrived, he sat close to me on his couch. For a brief moment, I thought he might try to kiss me.
“Where do you want to attend college next year?” he inquired.
“That’s not in the cards,” I replied.
“You’ve been dealt a new hand,” he said. “My college roommate is the dean of the animal science program at UMass Amherst.”
“We can’t afford college tuition,” I said. “My dad works as a butcher at a grocery store.”
“Scholarship money is available,” he said.
The following week, Dave drove me home from school in his blue Ford Pinto and came inside to meet my parents. Mom crossed her arms over her belly while Dad shoved his hands into his pockets, leaning against the wall as Dave took off the long white scarf braided around his neck, unbuttoned his navy-blue peacoat, tucked his black leather gloves into his coat pocket, and placed his palms on his long, thin thighs.
“You a Navy man?” Dad asked.
“Ah, the peacoat,” Dave said. “It’s in style.”
“I served four years on an aircraft carrier in the Pacific,” Dad said. “Korean War.”
“I received a college deferment from the Vietnam draft,” Dave said.
Dad gave a nod.
“Cassie’s an up-and-coming student,” Dave said.
“We get her report cards,” Mom said. “We know where she stands.”
“Indeed, she didn’t perform well in the regular curriculum,” Dave said, “but she’s flourishing in the experiential learning program. She has enormous potential. College potential.”
Dad pulled a pack of Camels from his shirt pocket and tapped it against the back of his hand. Then he leaned over, cupping his hands around the end to light it as if shielding the flame from the wind sweeping across an aircraft carrier’s deck. Dad took a hard drag, exhaling a smoke cloud that drifted up to the ceiling.
“Cassie’s always had potential,” Mom said.
I’d never heard her say that before.
“I’m encouraging her to apply to the animal science program at UMass,” said Dave.
“We don’t have that kind of money,” Mom replied.
Dad glared at her as if she’d just said he wasn’t a man.
“There are scholarships available,” Dave said. “I’ve also talked to Dr. Johnson, the animal clinic owner, about Cassie’s situation, and he’s agreed to cover any financial shortfall.”
“‘Cassie’s situation’? I don’t appreciate your words, sir. We’re not a charity case,” Dad said, flicking his ashes into his hand and rubbing them into the thigh of his pants.
“It’s not charity, Mr. O’Shay,” Dave said. “Cassie will have to work at the clinic for two years after graduation. That’s the arrangement the veterinarian is offering.”
Dad inhaled the smoke deeply into his lungs and held it. Finally, he exhaled, speaking like a fire-breathing dragon. “We’ll think it over,” he said.
I walked Dave to his car, apologizing for what my parents had put him through. “I’ve had dozens of conversations like this one when I taught in Boston. Parents want the best for their kids. Eventually, they come around.”
“Mine won’t,” I said, “but thanks again for trying.”
Mom and Dad were waiting for me when I came back inside the house.
“I think he’s a little light in the loafers,” Dad said. Mom nodded.
“Dad, please, he’s just trying to help me. Not many teachers have tried to help me.”
“You haven’t given them much reason to,” Mom said. “Forget this ridiculous college idea. You’re meant to work.”
“Mom’s right, Cassie,” Dad said. “What’s college gonna do for you?”
“What about Brendan?” I asked, struggling to hold back the tears welling in my eyes. “He wants to go to college too.”
“Only if he gets a football scholarship,” Dad said. “Otherwise, he’ll be a working stiff like the rest of us.”
I dashed to my room, where I could cry in private, and tore the UMass application into a thousand tiny pieces.
Brendan
Winter of Senior Year 1975–76
Brendan received a flurry of recruiting form letters from college coaches, but they were meaningless scraps of paper unless the coach called to follow up. Coaches were not calling, and he felt hopeless, until one December night, in his bedroom, he heard the phone ringing and ringing on the kitchen wall. His mom finally answered it.
“Hello. Sorry for letting the phone ring so long, but I’m washing the dishes. Who am I speaking to?” Mom said. “Hold on, I’ll get him.
“Brendan,” Mom hollered down the hallway. “A coach from Pinto College is on the phone.”
Brendan hurried to the kitchen and took the phone from her.
“Hi, Brendan. This is Coach Smith from Painter College. Let your mom know to remember the name, be-cause that’s where she’ll be watching you play football for the next four years.”
“Yes, sir.” Brendan nodded as though the coach could see him.
The coach spoke for five minutes about how Brendan would be an ideal addition to their football program.
“This all sounds great, sir, and I’m happy you called me, but where’s Painter?”
“Nestled at the foot of the Green Mountains, in God’s country, a place where the life of the mind flourishes.”
Brendan didn’t know where the Green Mountains were or what it meant to have a life of the mind, but he knew enough not to ask.
“I invite you to spend a Saturday night here, tour our academic and athletic facilities, and meet some of our players.”
This time he had to ask. “Excuse me, sir, but where are the Green Mountains?”
“Haha. I appreciate a kid with a sense of humor. In Vermont, naturally.”
“I’d love to visit, sir, but Vermont is pretty far from Boston. I hoped to stay closer to home, maybe at Tufts or Amherst.”
“Are those schools recruiting you?” Coach Smith asked. Brendan sensed urgency in the coach’s voice. “You’ll have a better experience at Painter; I can guarantee that. Come here with your parents this weekend; I’ll show you around and answer your questions. I’ll give you the name of a good hotel.”
“Dad works on weekends and needs his car,” Brendan said. “But I can thumb up there, sir, if you’re truly interested in me.”
“Hitchhike?” Coach Smith said. “We don’t want you doing that, especially in the snow. They say it’s going to snow up here this weekend.”
“I hitchhike all the time,” Brendan said, “but I usually don’t go that far away.”
“I tell you what. I’ve watched enough of your game films to know you’ll be a star at Painter. Your high school coach says you’re the hardest hitter he’s ever coached, and we could use that kind of toughness on our team. He also mentioned that you’re a good kid and a solid student. So here’s the deal: I’ll send you an admission application, and you can return it directly to me. I’ll walk it over to the director of admissions—a good friend of mine—to let him know you’re one of my top recruits, boosting your chances of acceptance. But you must promise me you’ll come to Painter College if you get in—and I truly believe you will. Deal?”
Brendan covered the phone’s mouthpiece and ensured his dad was out of earshot. “Thank you, sir,” he whispered. “But my family doesn’t have the money to send me to college, so I’m not sure I can make the deal.”
“We take pride in making college affordable for everyone, no matter their economic situation. We provide financial grants and offer work-study programs for students in need. If we can make it financially feasible for your family, do we have a deal, Brendan?”
“Deal, sir,” Brendan said. “Thanks.”
Brendan hung up and let the call sink in. Everything had happened so quickly. Had he just committed to a school he’d never heard of? And had he given the coach the wrong impression that Tufts and Amherst were recruiting him? They were merely examples of schools closer to home.
“What did that coach say?” his mom asked, wiping her hands on a dish towel.
“He’s recruiting me to play football,” Brendan said.
“Will he pay your way?” she said.
“Said he would,” Brendan said.
“Good,” she said, “’cause that’s the only way you can go.”
“Don’t you think I know that, Mom?”
“Just making sure,” she said.
Cassie
Winter 1975–76
I didn’t understand how Emily could allow her father to send her away. She had been looking forward to partying during our senior year, and she was definitely in love with Bren. I was so surprised when I received her Christmas card. It was one of those “12 Days of Christmas” cards where you open a tiny door, revealing two turtle doves or three French hens. Behind the door for five golden rings, I found a neatly folded piece of writing paper tucked inside. I pulled it out and read it.
Dear Cassie:
I have to keep this brief. I miss you so much. I hope you’ve recovered from your accident. I hate Dad and Mom for sending me to this horrid place. It’s worse than you can imagine. I’ll share more someday if I survive. PLEASE, DON’T TELL BREN I wrote to you. I don’t want to interfere with his journey. Love you.
Emily
The letter blew me away. Why did she have to be so cautious? It sounded like she was in jail. I should’ve told Bren, but I couldn’t betray my best friend. And I wanted to protect Bren from himself. He’d probably hitchhike to see her and help her escape. He could be righteous that way. That’s why I never mentioned that horrible night with Larry or my DES. Even though Larry could have beaten Bren up, Bren would have fought him regardless. There was no point in bringing up the DES; he couldn’t do anything to solve that problem. I think we’re better off keeping our secrets. It’s easier for everyone.
Brendan
Painter College Early Fall 1976
On the first morning of preseason football camp, Coach Smith shook Brendan’s hand. “Brandon O’Shaw, right?”
“It’s Brendan O’Shay, sir. It’s nice to meet you face-to-face, sir,” Brendan said.
