Chapter 4 James
Good lord, was I like this? I’m beginning to think I’ve made a terrible mistake. Scratch that. I know I have made a terrible mistake.
My life is stressful enough as it is. These men. These … boys … are going to break me. And it’s not because they’re living out my dream. Not at all.
It’s because, as their coach described on day one. They’re morons.
“Pilates. You want us to do Pilates?” Judging by their sulky, slack jawed expressions, you’d think I’d asked them to skate on their faces while naked. Actually, they’d probably enjoy that.
“Pilates works every muscle in your body. Strengthens your core. Increases your pulmonary function … Lung capac—how you breathe,” I add, dumbing it down after they stare back at me blankly. “Think of what that could do for your game.”
“Screw our games, imagine sex!” They rise as one, cheering and high five-ing Evan Drummond as though he just scored a hat trick instead of making a lame-ass gag.
I should probably reprimand him. Try and gain some kind of control, but his observation seems to have garnered the team’s interest. Several players have even sat.
Yes it’s on the table or floor, not a chair, but it’s something.
“You can do all that with Pilates?” Evan doubles down. “I thought it was a girlie thing … like Zumba.”
“Zumba is killer,” inserts Larsson. “I went to a class with my sister and nearly died.” And now they’ve moved onto Zumba and hot girl outfits worn to Zumba.
For fuck’s sake.
Not for the first time today, I long for the century old equipment and musty carpets of the practice I began my physio training within.
I had a future there. Regular patients, predictable hours that left me time to indulge my secret hobby of writing Spider-Man/Hulk fan fiction.
But then I remember the scandal that saw it shut its doors after thirty years.
My ever compounding student loan my brother, and the day Faith and I moved back into our parents house to care for him, then promptly blink those memories away.
What an absolute clusterfuck of a day. Weary, bitter, hungry beyond belief, I unlock my dungeon door, plod my way towards the too-small sofa and flop myself onto the well worn cushion.
Clutching my chest, I wonder how I got here.
Not here as in a dank basement, but here metaphorically.
I’m too young to hoard so many regrets this close to my heart.
Too old to be doing so with my dad’s civil war reenactment costume hanging from the makeshift clothesline on my ceiling.
It can’t be healthy, living like this. So knotted up that I can’t sit straight.
Now that I think of it, I have been sweating a lot lately. Especially at night. Lots of chest pain too. I’ve been putting it down to a poor diet and indigestion, but maybe it’s more. Maybe I’m one bean burrito with extra jalapenos away from full blown heart disease.
Maybe I should call Doctor Lappin?
Shit, too late. Here comes the sweat.
Everything’s gone black.
Yup. I’m definitely dying.
I don’t think I’m going to make it.
A harsh meow makes my eyes pop to find Cleo sitting on the foot on my bed.
Oh. I can see. So, maybe not dead … yet.
As you might expect a half-deaf thirteen-year-old sphinx cat with diabetes and a traditionally female name would do, Cleo considers me with his usual utter contempt.
After a heady, uncomfortable stare off, I break—he wins and promptly decides against blessing me with any affection and proceeds to lick his ass.
Shame. I could have done with the cuddles today. Lucky I’ll get plenty from Dyl.
Speaking of which. Pushing off the couch, I climb the stairs, push the door that sticks open with my shoulder, and enter the kitchen.
“Manny? Dyl, are you here?”
When there’s no reply, I make my way into the lounge, rubbing self-comforting circles into my chest. Finding it empty, I circle back and head for the wine rack tucked beside the fridge. That’s when I spot a note on the counter.
Hi Faith & Jamie. We’ve had a rough afternoon, so we decided to go to the beach and chill for a bit. Should be back before dinner—we made a lasagna, it’s in the fridge. If we’re not back and you’re hungry, just pop it in the oven to reheat.
See you soon,
Manny & Dyl
“Manny, I could kiss you.” I drop the note and watch it float back and forth towards the bench.
“Probably best if you don’t. We can’t afford to lose him.” Faith, looking as exhausted as I feel, shuffles rather than walks to my side, dropping her bag and keys on the floor then flopping her head onto my shoulder. “Please tell me this is going to get easier.”
The this she’s referring to is balancing work, and our new life as support providers for my big brother, Dylan. He’s on the spectrum too, but he’s non-verbal and has full-time, high support needs. Needs we are struggling to fill.
“I’d love to Faithy, but I don’t think I can.
” What I can do though, is grab two wine glasses, fill them a touch generously, and offer her one even though she’s going to turn her nose at the vintage.
Tears clinging to her lashes like dewdrops on a leaf, she accepts the offered glass, aerating the crimson liquid with a swirl as she picks up and reads the note I just dropped.
“How did Dad do this by himself, Jamie? There’s two of us, and we’re more than half his age.”
“Honestly, I have no idea. But it won’t always be like this, sweetheart.
” I say this for myself as much as Faith.
I wonder if she believes it as little as I do?
“Once the insurance is sorted, we’ll be able to get more help.
” There it goes. Another stabbing pain in my chest. Tightening of lungs to the point of uncomfortableness.
Gripping the bench to keep me upright, I count to ten, once, then twice, hoping it settles.
If I was alone, I would go lay down, pull a blanket over my head and stay there.
But I’m not and I can’t say anything to Faith, either.
She’ll just call me a hypochondriac. Which I am.
This time feels different, though.
This time could be it.
Of course, she notices the tensing of my body, wiping her tears away and sliding that Doctor mask back on.
“It’s not a heart attack, Jamie,” she says, with zero compassion, “You’re holding your breath, and since you’re a person and not a fish, you can’t breathe when you hold your breath. You know this.”
Fuck. My lips flop like a horse neighing as I exhale. “I didn’t even say anything.”
“No, but you were turning purple before my eyes, because again—not a fish.”
“Not a fish,” muttering to myself, I fold forward until my head crunches against the paper, noticing Cleo purring while cutting figure-eights between my legs.
All this talk of fish has him excited. Vibrations from his gentle hum are more soothing than my deep breathing, Faith’s half-assed there-there pats to my back and any fucking mantra my therapist could ever provide.
Like so many on the spectrum, anxiety, depression and I are well-acquainted.
Back in my teens, I would have periods of situational mutism, and yes, I call it situational not selective on purpose.
I never selected or chose to shut down. My brain just decided the situation called for it.
Anyway, I haven’t had an episode like that for a long time, but every day that passes since Dad died, I feel myself inching closer.
Guess that’s what happens when your life erodes before your eyes.
Those damn hockey boys will probably be the ones to get me there.
Faith keeps nattering until she’s satisfied my hyperventilation is over, and after slipping an apron over her neatly pressed shirt and pencil skirt, we get to work on dinner.
Wordlessly shifting around each other, she heads to the fridge and takes out the lasagna and some salad ingredients, while I switch on the oven then start chopping.
“You know what, Jamie? You need to get laid.”
Before I slice one off, my brain orders my fingers to drop the knife. “Who are you and what have you done with my prudish, demi-sexual sister?”
“Oh,” she scoffs, taking another swill. “Don’t be mistaken. My beliefs surrounding humanities over reliance on intercourse remain unchanged. I’m simply repeating what I hear from the masses. Anytime someone has a problem, sex is the universal first suggestion. Especially by men.”
“Men like your Brady?”
Faith’s at my side, so I don’t see the slice of tomato coming for me.
I feel it though. Sliding down my neck, it nestles in the collar of my white polo.
That’s going to stain. “One, he is not my Brady, and two, no, he wouldn’t say anything of the sort.
He’s a gentleman. Unlike that boyfriend of his. ”
“Boyfriend? He has a boyfriend?” Reaching around, I pull the tomato from my shirt and fling it into the sink. “Are you sure we’re talking about the same Brady?”
“We are, and he does. They, as in Brady and Troye, have a girlfriend too. David Harris’ daughter Quinn. They live together in Back Bay. It was quite the scandal.”
I’m desperate, no, gagging, for more gossip, unfortunately Faith holds a similar contempt towards spilling tea as she does fornication. I have to tread carefully.
“A queer, poly-relationship blooming in one of the highest realms of toxic masculinity. That’s highly … irregular.”
“Normally I would agree, but change is inevitable, Jamie. Even in the world of hockey. Maybe queer acceptance has improved since you fell out of love with the game.”
Fell out of love with the game? Hockey was the first, and only thing I have ever loved. Being part of a team. Having actual friends. Working out together. Goalie hugs. I didn’t fall out of love with hockey. The world just forced us apart.
None of this torture is displayed though. All is swallowed down in order to maintain the unaffected facade. “Within this team, maybe. But that’s a huge, massive, maybe.”
Faith slides open the cutlery drawer, knives and forks rattling. “It’s been years. Are you ready to tell me the real reason you quit?”
Damn that sibling intuition.
Of the myriad of excuses pulled from my ass, none have ever convinced Faith. The truth, I quit so Dad could pay for Dyl’s therapy, and your college is one she will never hear. Not if I can help it. “Nope.”
“Jamie–”
“Honey, we’re home!” Perfect timing.
Echoing down the hall, and saving my day is Manny’s cheerful, yet tired voice and Dylan’s clomping footprints. Check his orthotics, I remind myself. His gait sounds off.
As his voice predicted, Manny looks exhausted. Smiling, but exhausted. “Sorry we’re so late. The traffic was a nightmare. We had a great time at the beach though. Didn’t we Dyl? He even had a little splash in the water.”
Faith and I exchange concerned glances. Dylan having fun in the water is great, but he and stagnant traffic don’t mix, and when his lanky frame appears in the kitchen, there’s no need to ask how he coped.
His face is blotchy and red, bottom lip bleeding.
As is the tender skin just beneath the cuticles of his right hand, his favorite place to gnaw when heightened.
I wince as his raw looking fingers grip Dad’s chair.
It’s been three months since we lost Dad, but Dyl still walks straight to it, pointing between it and the back door, like he does each morning and night.
Each time as heartbreaking as the last. Faith’s bottom lip trembles, so even though she is far and above his favorite sibling, I take the question.
“No. Dad’s not outside, Dyl. He’s in heaven, remember?”
We all wait, eyes flitting. The way he handles the daily reminder that Dad’s gone varies. Swollen, dark circles beneath his eyes tell the tale of a tough day, so tonight’s reaction will depend on if he is on the right or wrong side of over-tired.
With a desolate little grunt, he rocks on heels and toes then nods, repeating the noise over and over. He’s stimming, processing, and when he sits at his spot and begins to shred the paper we always leave there for him, we know he’s accepting.
Sighing in relief, Manny turns to me and Faith, “We’ve brought half the sand on the beach home, so he’ll need a good scrub down. I tried to wash his legs and feet, at that faucet near the parking lot, but he wasn’t having it.”
“I don’t blame him,” I huff. “Those taps are disgusting.”
“They are,” Manny laughs, but soon sombers. “I’d love to stay and help you out, but Louisa has her first dance class. I can’t—”
“Manny, it’s fine.” Faith smiles as warmly as she can, and nods towards the door. “You’re amazing, and you’ve done more than enough. Go see your little girl dance, and make sure you take some photos. I want to see her in that tutu.”
“I will, Faith. See you tomorrow at eight guys.” He waves over his shoulder, before calling out to Dylan, “Bye Dyl.”
And, that’s why I love Manny. We all know there’s a ninety percent chance that Dyl won’t acknowledge his departure, yet he always acknowledges Dylan’s presence.
Always. Even when he’s worked almost an hour over his shift end time. So many support staff over the years have been the opposite, taking Dylan’s lack of interaction as a sign of disengagement, when that’s not the case at all. He’s just moved on to the next phase of his routine.
I wish there were a million more Manny’s in the world. I wish I was more like him. Dylan deserves no less.