Chapter 14
CHIPPY
Chippy: irritated with the other team, potentially on the brink of fighting.
Graham
Note to self: do not ever get another fricking concussion.
They told me that most of the pain would probably go away after a week. After that, I’d experience intermittent pain whenever I overdid it. And by “it” they meant everything you use either your brain or your eyes to do.
But the pain wasn’t even the worst part. My clouded thinking was just freaky. Honestly, it felt like being drunk all the time. My reaction time was sluggish, and I couldn’t always process what people said to me. It frustrated the crap out of me.
And while I’m on a roll here, I’d add that the doctor warned me that I’d feel emotional.
Sure, dude, I thought. Whatever. But an hour later, when I couldn’t find the words to explain the Roman History syllabus to my mother, I honestly wanted to smash something.
And after I got done feeling enraged, I felt really guilty about getting mad.
So guilty that I felt like crying. And I haven’t cried for half a decade.
Good times.
My mother had been endlessly patient with me all day.
Spending an hour at the doctor’s office meant that I’d missed my two morning classes.
But after lunch, I made it to the history class.
Actually, we made it to history class. Mom was going to have to help me with everything for a while, including note taking.
After that, I napped like a toddler while my mother watched. Then Mom read me a couple of chapters of my psychology textbook. When I’d paged through the book to find where I’d left off, the words had seemed to swim on the page.
I could tell you that it didn’t freak me out, but I’d be lying.
For dinner, Mom and I went out for sushi. By the time eight o’clock came around, I was headachy and exhausted. My mother went back to her hotel, and I told her I was going to go to bed early.
Instead, I left a message for Rikker. Then I put on a Clapton playlist and lay down on my bed to wait for him. But even the desk lamp seemed too bright. So I got up to turn it off. When I lay back down in the dark, I listened to every footstep on the stair, hoping it would be him.
“Hey, G,” a voice whispered in the dark. A pair of slightly roughened hands skimmed my face. Then there were kisses dropped on my forehead. Two strong arms pulled me close. I wanted to hug him back, but I was too sleepy. The best I could do was to lean in close and breathe him in.
Rikker.
“I missed you today,” he purred. “And yesterday, too.” He stopped speaking for a moment, then. I think he was listening for a reaction from me. But a head-injured, half-asleep man is no good at returning affection.
“Actually,” he continued as if we were having a real conversation, “you’re all I can think about.”
Those words ought to have been comforting, but there was an edge in his voice that made me nervous.
“See, I know that you and I don’t talk to each other at practice,” he said. “And sometimes that whole setup gets to me. Okay, a lot of the time. But it was weird for me today. You weren’t there at all, and I didn’t like it. I kept thinking of things I wanted to remember to tell you.”
Rikker shifted further onto the bed, fitting me against him.
“So, let’s see,” he said. “Bridger McCaulley came back, but only for the post-season. He’s a little rusty, but I think it’s going to be okay. He has pretty good footspeed. Actually, I think his feet are faster than his hands. If you were awake you could tell me if you think I’m right.”
I pressed my achy head a little closer to his chest, to tell him I agreed. But I don’t think he caught my meaning.
“Big-D was an ass. But I guess I don’t need to tell you that. And apparently Pepé broke up with his Canadian girlfriend again, so Bella was all over that. Also, she packed all your gear into a hockey bag. I think it ended up in Coach’s office…”
Rikker trailed off. Maybe he was finishing the conversation inside his own head. But his hand made slow circles on my back, and it felt great.
“This concussion thing sucks,” he said finally. “And I’ve been all depressed about it. I don’t like it that you’re hurting, and I don’t like it that I’m not allowed to help you.”
You’re helping me right now, I wanted to say.
“I’ve been thinking things through,” he said. “See, just like I know you can’t help being gay, I also know that you can’t help being twisted up over it. I never blamed you for that, G. I get it.”
That was nice of him to say. But his sad tone made my heart stutter with fear.
“I just don’t know what to do with it, though,” he whispered. “I keep spinning my wheels, trying to come up with a solution.”
My eyes, which were still slammed shut, began to burn. I tried to concentrate on the warmth of his body in all the places it touched me — under my cheek, against my shoulder. I knew there would come a day when I didn’t have him anymore. Pretty soon he’d get sick of my bullshit and leave me.
Not yet, I begged him silently. My throat began to burn, too. I don’t want to be lonely again.
The silence beat loudly in my ears, echoing with all the words I could not make myself say.
“Maybe we’ll be okay, you know?” he whispered eventually.
“Maybe things will get a little easier for us. You should visit me this summer in Vermont. If you made it a long visit, we could work for this apple orchard near Gran’s house.
They do blueberries and peaches before the apples are ripe.
The pay isn’t bad, and you get to be outside all day.
We could go to guerrilla night again, or maybe clubbing in Montreal. ”
The sudden change in topic was a little confusing to me, but I liked the sound of this.
“…But if you can only get away for a weekend, or something, I think we should go camping instead. That could be awesome. How does sex beside a campfire sound? Wait… the mosquitoes could be a problem. Maybe sex in a tent, then.” Rikker chuckled to himself.
“Anyway, that’s going to be my happy thought, until you’re better.
If your mom is around all the time, I’m not going to get to see you.
I know she wouldn’t mind me coming by, but I’d mind.
I don’t think I can be in this room with you and have to watch what I say all the time.
I don’t mind tricking a bunch of homophobic athletes, but I don’t want to lie to your mom, G. She’s always been good to me.”
The silence stretched for a moment, and I could almost hear him struggling with his thoughts.
“Ugh. Okay,” he continued. “Happy thoughts. Vermont. Drive-in movies. Dancing to bad music with you. As Gran would say, this too shall pass. Although I find myself saying that a lot lately.” He hugged me even tighter.
“I’m going to go now, G. So sleep tight.
Call me if you can tomorrow. Wait. I can’t believe I just reminded a sleeping person to call me.
How ‘bout I call you? Yeah? It’s a plan. ”
I found enough muscle control to grin against his shirt.
He set me back down on the pillow. Then I received a single kiss on the lips. It was soft and sweet, and I did my best to return it.
Then I felt him pull away. His footsteps retreated quietly across my room. A crack of painful hallway light infiltrated my dark cave, and then he was gone.
The next seven days went by very slowly. The Beaumont dean helped Mom rent a discounted hotel room at the college conference center. “I’m not going home until I know you don’t need help,” she said.
Unfortunately, I really did need help. And I hated that.
The all-over headaches began to ease up, becoming intermittent instead of constant. But I still got an odd pain across my brow line, as if someone had pulled a cord that cinched my face too tightly. It came on whenever I focused my eyes on a book for longer than ten minutes.
So Mom did most of the reading. We sat in my room — me on the bed, and her in the desk chair — and she read chapter after chapter to me of developmental psychology and Roman history. She also attended my classes, taking notes for me.
Until you’ve dragged your mom to three lectures a day, you haven’t lived.
By dinnertime, we were always exhausted and rather tired of each other.
But we ate together anyway, sometimes putting in a little more reading time after dinner.
And then she’d retreat to her hotel room, and I’d lie on my bed doing nothing.
I couldn’t even surf the web, because staring at the screen made my head hurt.
So I listened to playlist after playlist, tossing a tennis ball over my head and catching it again.
Meanwhile, my hockey team was busy trying to set new records for post-season victories.
They beat Providence in the semis, advancing to the conference championship.
Rikker had long practices every night. A few times he stopped by afterwards, but I was pretty much useless by nine o’clock.
And usually grumpy. Which made him sort of grumpy too.
It sucked. All of it.
Coach called me to ask me if I wanted to ride the bus to Colgate with the team. “This is your game too, kid. I’d make room for you at the hotel.”
“Wow, Coach,” I said, feeling a little choked up. “That is such a nice offer.” I searched for a reason to say no, though. “I have a doctor’s appointment on Friday, and my mom is real eager to see what they say. And she’s been so much help to me that I’d feel bad about blowing it off.”
“Let me know how that goes, okay? Shoot me an email.”
“I’ll be watching the game on TV, Coach. Can’t wait.”
“Hang in there, kid.”