CHAPTER 22
Chris
Sitting on my parents’ couch, arm proudly and protectively draped over the back of Remy’s shoulders, I smile at his amusement over my nephews teaching Mom how to use her new smartphone.
She looks up over her bifocals at my nephews, who are groaning over her last question about the confounding technology in her hands, and then flashes Remy a look of exasperation like a cry for help.
He chuckles and reassures her it will be second nature to her in no time.
Last week, when I told her I was bringing someone home with me for Christmas and that someone happened to be a guy I was dating whom I’d known in college, there was the expected pause.
I had kind of hoped Alice would have dropped a few hints, so I wouldn’t even have to have the conversation, but I’m glad she didn’t.
I’m too old to have my older sister fight my battles.
Plus, Remy deserves a relationship with a man who will go to bat for him if necessary.
‘Well…what’s his name?’
Her excited reply when I told her the news will live in my memory forever.
I think I was expecting the worst because I’ve been primed to expect the worst for so long.
Her barely checked glee of a mother hoping her child would finally settle down with someone was a nice outcome instead.
She’s as wonderful as she’s always been, even if the first person I ever brought home ended up being a nice man rather than the nice woman she used to wish for me.
He baked a tray of seven-layer brownies and brought them with us, which pretty much won her approval the second we walked in the door.
I can’t say I blame her, but my nephews better not have eaten all of them.
I have plans for the leftovers coming home with us.
My boyfriend is a damn good cook. Seeing her and Remy in a moment of solidarity now warms my heart.
This feels like it could be the start of many more happy years of him at my side for family gatherings. Almost.
My father’s easy chair sits empty to my right, the Hawai’i Bowl playing on the living room television.
I saw him slip into his den earlier, which isn’t uncommon for him on game days, but we always watch whatever bowl is on in the living room on holidays.
I know I’m being avoided, and it’s pissing me off more and more with each minute that ticks by without him resurfacing.
He barely said a word at dinner, and certainly none to Remy. A hand squeezes my kneecap. I find Remy’s concerned face looking at me.
“You all right?”
“Yeah.” I give him a reassuring smile and a peck on the cheek, even though I’m pretty sure he knows I’m lying. Motioning to the door of my father’s den, I let out a sigh. “I’d better go get this over with. I’ll meet you upstairs after?”
“All right.”
He nods, trying to look encouraging. The fact that he looks worried I might be faced with something unpleasant compounds my aggravation with my father. How can anyone not see that this man deserves kindness or, at the very least, acknowledgement?
Hoisting myself off the couch, I pass by Alice, who’s sitting on her husband Dean’s lap with her head on his shoulder while he’s fast asleep in the recliner. She yawns, and I ruffle her hair. I get a half-hearted swat from her, but she smirks.
“Lightweights,” I tease.
“Food coma,” she mumbles, closing her eyes.
The door to Dad’s den looks equivalent to a gallows as I stare at the handle.
On the other side, adversity. Always. Except, I can’t be the pacifist son this time.
Pulling the lever, the door swings open, and the sound of the Hawai’i Bowl immediately touches my ears, dubbing over the echo of it out in the living room behind me.
His gray eyes flick to mine momentarily from where he’s sitting in his leather chair, legs crossed, and he nods, raising his bottle of beer before fixing his gaze back on his TV screen.
The sleeves of his red sweater are rolled up his forearms, exposing the memories of strength there on his weathered skin.
I used to be in awe of this room when I was younger.
I viewed it as a trophy room of my father’s life.
Staring at a poster on his wall of me in my NFL uniform, I remember how proud I was when my achievements made it into his beloved space.
Below the poster, framed pictures of me playing in college and high school sit in a row on a shelf.
I look determined and in the zone in them.
All I see in the NFL poster, however, is turmoil in my eyes.
For years after my accident, I thought maybe I hadn’t been grateful enough for my successes.
It was easier to appreciate them once I had regrets than to live them before I did, I suppose.
“It’s a miracle Conrad made it to the bowl,” Dad comments as a play recap is broadcast over the TV. “You would have had twice as many yards as him.”
Would have…
I know he’s just posturing, reliving the good old days by comparing my former abilities to the college player in the game who’s playing, but it hits the wrong way today.
I’m tired of being a ‘was’ instead of an ‘is.’ Sometimes it feels like I stopped being his son the second I crashed into that guardrail.
“What did you think of Remy?” I ask, still staring at that conflicted face in the poster.
“That’s a good program they started with that center at the college.”
I guess his ears were working at dinner when Mom, Dean, and Alice were asking Remy about his job. Ironically, though, the family member at the table with the most knowledge of sports injuries didn’t contribute an ounce of conversation. His response about Remy is no response.
I turn around, possibly hoping for another comment, but he’s still watching the game.
No father-son chitchat on his lips, just dull interest in his television that looks a lot like avoidance.
I take a few steps until I block his line of vision.
I’d given him the benefit of the doubt at dinner and while we opened gifts, thinking maybe he was just in a mood.
That’s what being around Remy does; it makes you optimistic.
I’m about out of optimism for the day now, though.
“Did you know he called to check on me after the accident? He was worried about me.”
“We all were,” he says matter-of-factly, adjusting the sleeve of his sweater.
My stomach twists into knots, seeing the ugly truth of being ignored.
“That wasn’t rhetorical. Did you know?”
His gaze flicks to mine, but no sooner it shifts to the line of windows overlooking the backyard. He gets up out of his chair, which only infuriates me more. Clearly, the game that was holding his attention isn’t all that interesting after all.
“That was a long time ago.”
Another non-answer. Unbelievable. I’ve never disrespected my father in my life, never even stood up to him at times when I thought he was being too critical and pushing me during my training. I can’t let this go, though.
“Because I think you did.”
I stare at his stiff back. His unflinching silence. The image of the once proud, indestructible, and all-knowing man I thought him to be—my hero—crumbles. All I see is a gatekeeper, a tired old puppet master who held my strings. And I fucking let him.
“Did you see our messages and put it together?” I laugh for some reason, but it’s not amused laughter.
I can hear him sigh a defeated sound from where I’m standing.
That tells me everything I needed to know but didn’t want to believe.
I’m shaking, my heartbeat pounding in my ears.
Remy and I can go to a hotel or drive back to San Antonio after this.
I’ll just apologize to Mom, and Remy, bless him, will understand.
I need to get this out. The gloves are off.
“Is that why you didn’t tell me? Was it not in line with Vince Mightener’s dream for his football protégé?
Because it really would have helped if I’d known he’d called, if I’d known someone out there who didn’t care about me because of a fucking game was happy because they knew I’d lived. I might have—”
My voice cracks over the possibilities and how the last decade and a half could have gone so differently.
Swiping my hand over my face, I can feel it trembling.
I take a breath to calm my nerves and get control of my voice.
I just spewed all my dirty deeds to an entire auditorium the other day. Dad is just one man. I can do this.
“I’ll never forget what you and Mom have done for me, but you’ve been pulling my strings and making deals for me since I was a kid. And I trusted you. I thought you knew best. That if I did everything you said I should, life was going to be great.”
I throw my hands up, unable to contain my sarcasm, but my audience is still a statue.
In the grand scheme of things, I know that I might have been too immature to make a go of anything with Remy back then.
I might have screwed it all up, even if I’d felt I had the chance.
But damn it, it sure would have been nice to know I’d had one.
“I know I messed up, and I’ve paid for that, but…
you didn’t have the right to do that. I’m not always confident because being too confident leads to bad decisions.
I’m not going to be a coach or in some hall of fame, and I’m gay.
” I have to pause to take a breath, the vibrations coursing through me threatening to make my knees buckle.
“But you know what? Life is pretty great, even when your own father can’t look at you at the dinner table. ”
Dad’s head lowers, and I hate myself for sounding so treacherous, but I don’t regret the context.
I wait, my heartbeat still thumping in my ears.
If I stand here any longer, though, the tears in my eyes might end up spilling over, and I’m not about to ruin Remy’s Christmas by making him see me like that.
“You’ve got nothing to say? For once, the great Vince Mightener has nothing to say?”
Scoffing, I shake my head after yet another beat of silence. Spinning on my heel, I march to the door of a room I’d now like to take a wrecking ball to.
“Chris…”
It comes out calm, not with commanding retribution for my tirade, but it hits like a punch to my back after he stayed quiet for so long. I stop, telling myself I do only because he didn’t say ‘Champ.’
“I thought I knew what was best for you.” His gravely voice is subdued, but I roll my eyes at the pathetic excuse he’s offering, grateful he can’t see my face.
“I have this son who shines brighter than I ever did in every single way, and I…wanted to show him off to the whole world however I could. I still do. It doesn’t mean I was right. ”
I find myself turning around without even thinking about it.
I’m too confused over what sounded like a vote of confidence that, for once, wasn’t laced with a dozen reasons for how I’m failing to live up to his expectations.
It’s also the closest thing Vince Mightener has ever come to saying he was wrong about anything.
His chest inflates on a ragged breath. Pursing his lips, he looks like words are barbed wire, and if he spits them out, he’ll bleed. There’s nothing proud about him at the moment, such a stark contrast from the image I’ve had of him my entire life.
“I’ve been trying to think of how to say that for weeks.
Years, maybe.” His free hand fidgets with the label on his beer bottle, and he sighs.
Angling his chin, he motions in the general direction of the living room.
“And then you bring home someone who makes it look so simple; it was like a splash of cold water to the face. That’s why it was too hard to look at you.
Somebody’d already given you what I should have a long time ago. ”
He finally looks right at me, his gray eyes holding a well of remorse. And I swear he just tried to smile because it felt like the equivalent of a hug.
Something hot and wet hits my cheek. Swiping at it, I’m still shaking but for different reasons now.
Maybe it’s merely seconds, but it seems like an eternity that we stand, facing each other, neither of us saying a word.
He shifts in place, but keeps holding my gaze.
The expression on his face is clearer than any words could ever be—he’s wondering if he can be forgiven for a lifetime of pushing me.
“Merry Christmas.” I nod. It’s the only thing I can think to say that sounds like, ‘All right then.’
“Merry Christmas.”
I leave, so neither of us has to endure any more emotional turmoil for the evening.
I’m grateful that Remy’s not in the living room when I come out.
Neither is Mom. The boys are playing a Nintendo game while Alice and Dean are now snoring in the recliner.
No one needs to be any wiser about my heart-to-heart with Dad.
I assume he’ll appreciate that as much as I do.
I head upstairs to my old room, swiping at my face in the hopes that any sign of tears will be gone before I have to face Remy. Except, he’s not in the room where we dropped our bags earlier. One guess says he’s with Mom somewhere, so at least I know he’s in good hands.
Slipping into the attached bathroom, I close the door behind me and turn on the shower.
I strip out of my clothes and step under the hot spray, letting it rain down on my face.
In less than a minute, my skin is pleasantly numb from the scalding water.
It melts away the tension and the last of the adrenaline rush I had from confronting Dad.
I watch the suds swirl down the drain, imagining they’re taking with them the years of animosity I’ve carried.
My limbs are heavy, but I feel clean and rejuvenated, body and soul.