The snap, p.22
The Snap, page 22
The sound of Lexi’s sniffle pulled me back. “It’s awful,” she was saying, “but since we knew, you know, it was going to happen one way or another at least we’d had some conversations. And I don’t know, maybe it’s better this way. I don’t think he would have handled the treatments very well.”
I blinked. “I’m sorry, Lexi—I don’t know what you mean.”
“He didn’t tell you. Of course he didn’t.” She shook her hands in the way only a spouse can, that mix of frustration and “isn’t that just like him”–ness, and for a moment Red was alive again for Lexi. “Well, there’s no point in keeping it secret now—Red was dying.”
My pulse skidded. How did he keep doing this? Even after he was gone, Red Guillory could still wrong-foot me. He could still take everything I thought I knew and shake it. I could almost see his knowing smirk.
“Prostate cancer,” Lexi went on. She dabbed at her undereye with the tips of her ring fingers. “His dad died from it when Red was a kid, so he has this genetic predisposition, and that selfish asshole still didn’t take it seriously. He thought he was above it, like the cancer wouldn’t dare. Which is, you know,” she barked out a caustic laugh, “not how it works.”
“I’m sorry,” I murmured. I looked around the living room at the family photos lining the walls, shots of Lexi and Red with their kids, now almost grown. What an arrogant ass Red was, to not have taken better care for them.
“He was going to have this big blood panel done the day after…it happened. I can’t get over that, you know? Like, this guy who fought me tooth and nail to go see a doctor was at least going to do this one thing, finally, and the night before…”
Red was killed when he was already dying, which meant nothing practically speaking because the killer wouldn’t have known, but cosmically, it felt…almost just now. Red wasn’t going to be allowed to slip away. He was taken, violently. The thought stirred up a confusing tangle of emotions as it flew by, like a dust cloud in the wake of an old pickup truck.
“I was like, ‘You are not drinking today, you are not taking anything today. One day. We need clean blood.’ We had this huge fight about it because he seriously needed that stuff, especially at night. You know.”
I nodded, because I did.
Lexi pressed perfectly manicured hands against her perfectly unlined face. “I told Asbel, I told Coach Nate, because I thought they could convince my stubborn ass of a husband, and then Red was pissed that I’d told them. And you know what Asbel said? He told me it wasn’t Red’s fault, the drinking, that I couldn’t understand. He said to be in that business, to, like, devote hours and hours to training and working out and drills takes an addictive personality, and that everyone in sports is an addict; the lucky ones just get addicted to the right thing. I mean, how fucked up is that?”
Asbel defended Red’s worst habits, and even after Red was dead he’d kept his secrets. There was a loyalty between them that I hadn’t understood and couldn’t touch.
“Anyway, Red and I had a huge fight, I said he was being stupid and selfish by not taking care of himself. I locked up and went upstairs to bed. And then in the morning…”
She found him.
“Later, from the toxicology, I learned he actually did it. He didn’t take a single thing all day, and I was so proud of him. You want to know the most insane thing, too? I was almost happy to hear he was attacked, because until then I thought it was my fault. I said he had to keep clean, which he clearly could not handle. It gave him the shakes, and he’d sweat like…” She trailed off, hands waving from her armpits down her trunk. “So if he lost his balance, if he fell, that was on me. But someone came into my home while my kids and I were sleeping and murdered my dying husband, and I’m happy about it because it means it wasn’t my fault.”
“Lexi…”
I don’t comfort people. I don’t know how, and I certainly wasn’t equipped to comfort this person over this particular loss. Lexi and I had barely spoken beyond normal pleasantries in the entire fifteen years I’d known her, and that distance seemed to let her open up, to unload on someone not really in her life but not out of it, who knew Red not through Lexi’s lens, but my own. I let her vent about his stubbornness and his bad habits—the ones you could mention in polite company, anyway—wondering why I’d really come here and what I hoped to get out of this. She was hurting. She was a widow. I was disgusting.
“So then,” she said, winding up a long story about Red’s medical history, “they sent him the results of the first test, which,” she held up her index finger, “I think must have been what made him understand that he couldn’t drink his way through it. They were all messed up or something. He knew he’d fucked up too, because he wouldn’t let me see it, and I was like, ‘Babe! It’s right there, I can see the envelope, Waverly Ave. Specialists Group. Or no, Group Specialists, I guess, it was abbreviated, but like, obviously that’s the medical center right across from University Hospital, so—”
“Sorry, Lexi,” I broke in. My exhausted mind was playing tricks on me. “What did you say? About the letter?”
“It was the results of the first one, I think, because—”
“No, sorry.” I swallowed. There was an inordinate amount of saliva in my mouth, I couldn’t keep up with it. “The group. Waverly Ave….”
“Specialists Group, or Group Specialists, I don’t know which. Inc. It definitely had ‘Inc.’ on the end.”
WAGS, Inc.?
What. The. Fuck.
Did Red get a letter from someone posing as us? It wasn’t Carolyn, because we’d already closed that door. But whatever was in that envelope was serious enough to make Red stay sober for a night, and during that night, someone killed him. Someone tall. Someone strong. Not Asbel. Who? The same person who sent Bernie that note? But that meant they’d have to know about the WAGS and the other notes. Who did that leave?
I had to go—immediately. I struggled to my feet from the overly soft couch and grabbed my purse from the floor. “I should get back.” My voice didn’t sound like me. There was too much air in it.
“I still think it had to do with that shit he was always taking,” Lexi said as she walked me out. The hallway felt twice as long now, the ceilings twice as low. “The doctors said it wasn’t connected, but how could it not be? You load up on testosterone, your prostate gets fucked up.”
I stopped by the front door. “Testosterone?”
“Oh, Red’s been on a shitload of testosterone supplements ever since…God, since right after we were married. As soon as he finished playing and switched to coaching, it was like he couldn’t function without it.” She gave me a knowing look. “I mean, he could function just fine, believe me, it was never about that. I think it just killed him that he couldn’t play anymore. At the beginning some of those players were his age, it just ripped him apart. And then he chose this job where there were all these young, jacked players coming through, year after year. He couldn’t keep up. I think some testosterone is supposed to be fine, a lot of guys do that, but he was…I don’t want to say abusing it, but he was taking a lot. Pills. Subcutaneous placements. Patches. It was like he couldn’t get enough. And then, you know. Prostate cancer.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Poppy, thank you so much for coming,” said Lexi, surprising me by pulling me into a tight hug. She sniffled near my ear. “It means a lot. Red always liked you. I think he had a soft spot because you were both new during that first season—the undefeated one. God, he was under pressure.”
I put my hand on the doorknob. “We all were.” How stupid that must sound to her, an intern equating herself with the head coach. But Lexi wasn’t listening enough to take offense. She was lost in her memories of that long-ago season.
“He used to tell me how it was crushing him, the weight of this entire,” she flicked her fingers out from her thumb, “thing. By the time he made the Super Bowl he was just guzzling antacids. Honestly, the only other time I’d seen him like that was this fall. You know, the losing was hard for him. And the medical stuff. It takes a toll.”
I swallowed hard. “Take care, Lexi.”
I drove until I found a gas station and pulled into a spot. The winter sun was blinding, reflecting off the snow. It was frigid, around ten degrees, and I’d started shivering on the walk to my car and never stopped. My hands gripped the wheel.
I didn’t care why Red did what he did. I didn’t care if he was having a midlife crisis or hopped up on aggression juice or just felt entitled to anything and anyone around him. He took what he wanted without any thought for anyone else, and being sad about his knee didn’t make that okay.
I opened the group chat, where Annika’s message was still the most recent one.
Today was the first day since it happened that I had an appetite.
I closed the chat. It wasn’t all of us this time. It couldn’t be. Dayanna’s dating life, Nisha standing up to a jerk, Sarah passing on some stories—none of that was a dead body. None of it was a sexual assault cover-up. The only one on the same level was Annika, and she was going through enough right now. I needed to let her be.
Jeff called me again, and again I silenced it. Did he not watch the news? Could he not tell that I was busy right now with things a little more important than Mom’s fucking birthday cruise?
Someone had possibly sent Red a note from WAGS, Inc.
Someone had definitely killed Red.
Someone fed Bernie breadcrumbs about what happened that first year.
Was it three different people? Or two?
Or one.
My phone pinged, announcing a voicemail, and I gave a cry of frustration. “Jesus, Jeff,” I muttered, bringing the phone to my ear. What? What could possibly be so important?
His voice on the message was hard and cold.
Poppy, I know you’re way too busy to think about anyone other than yourself, but you might actually have to answer your phone once in a while. We need you home. Dad had a heart attack.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
NOW
Asbel was unimpressed when I called him as I drove over the state line from Pennsylvania into Ohio. Maybe he regretted his moments of candor earlier in the week, or maybe he’d snapped out of whatever it was that had made him introspective, but he was back to full form. “It’s a family emergency,” I repeated for what felt like the fifth time. “I have never once asked for unexpected time off, which should underline how important this is.”
“Is your dad dead? Because Red is dead. I need you here.”
“That’s not fair, Asbel.”
“And this isn’t playtime, Poppy. We’re in the middle of the season. That fucking puppy calendar shoot is today, and A.J. wants to know if you got his special dog? I don’t even want to know what that means. Oh, and—the police are using conference room three to interview my staff about the murder of our friend.”
“I’ll be back by Friday,” I said, gunning the accelerator. “Okay?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Fine, tomorrow. I’ll see you then.” I hung up and threw my cell phone against the passenger window.
* * *
*
I can’t stand when people say they don’t like hospitals. Oh, really? What’s your stance on beestings? No one likes hospitals, but when someone you love gets sucked into one, the last thing that matters is whether you hate the smell or are scared of the machines, or whatever other stupid issues people bring up in the face of much bigger problems.
Dad was on the far side of a shared room, and I ducked my head as I hurried past his roommate’s area. A young woman—I guessed his daughter—was propped up in one of those uncomfortable visitor’s chairs holding an open magazine without reading it, and we exchanged a look of mutual understanding at the mix of pain and privilege that is watching your parents age.
I found him dozing. He had the white gown with little blue flowers, the too-thin scratchy blanket, the fuzzy socks with grips on the bottom. That bed shrank him. It took my giant of a father and brought him right back down to the size of a normal person, and of everything that had happened over the past month—the death of our coach, the trauma of the notes, and my earth-shattering revelations about Red—it was that that finally made me cry.
“Hey, kiddo.” His voice was weak and scratchy.
I wiped my eyes quickly. “Hey Dad.”
“Pretty stupid, huh?”
“So stupid.”
I pulled a chair next to the bed, cringing at the scream of its legs against the rubberized floor. Although his roommate couldn’t see me, I mouthed sorry at the curtain. “You know you scared the shit out of me.”
He chuckled, which made him wheeze. “It wasn’t great for me either. It’s okay, though, babe. I’m good.”
“You look good.” I was trying for a joking tone, but my voice broke and then so did I. Dad reached out his hand. With an IV strapped to the back and a line tethering it to a pole, it looked like it belonged to some other, weaker man, but he cupped it at the back of my head and I closed my eyes at its familiarity, its tenderness. My dad. He was still my dad.
I wished I was still young enough for my dad to make things okay. How long had it been since I could really come to him, since I could tell him—truthfully—what was wrong and have him fix it? Not since that first season. Not since, I now realized, what Red did. Maybe a part of me knew that my dad would see the stain of it on me. He would know something was wrong even where I didn’t, and we would have to talk about it, and I would have to face it. I would have to leave. It was better to bury it, to keep going, to pretend that I was the one who’d had agency in the situation. Red didn’t assault me—I led him on. Because otherwise, the enormity of it would knock me to my knees.
Dad clapped his hands together, a sound no louder than fluff coming off a dandelion. “The upside is, your mom and I can come to some of your games next season. Got a good source for tickets?”
I picked at the blanket. “You’re free on weekends now, huh?”
“It’s okay, babe. I’m okay with it.”
I wasn’t—not even close. It was so cruelly, viciously unfair. There were all these bad people in the world. They were allowed to just crumple people up in their hands, drop them to the floor, and keep moving, and here was a good and decent man who had only ever wanted to help, and he couldn’t do it anymore. The unfairness of it made me want to spit. How could his heart keep him from coaching when without it his heart would break?
Even that short conversation had worn Dad out, and so I made up an excuse about needing the bathroom because as long as I was there he would keep pretending to be stronger than he was.
I was halfway through the door when I collided with someone walking in. “Oof! Mom?”
“Oh, Poppy. You came.” My mother wrapped me in a hug that squeezed the air out of me, and after several beats I realized I was effectively holding her up.
“Let’s not go back in there just yet,” I said, shuffling her into the hallway. “Come on—we’ll get coffee.”
It was midafternoon, and so the hospital café was mostly empty. A few tired-looking people in blue scrubs or white nursing smocks pushed their trays along the steel rails, and I had the strange sensation of being back at the stadium cafeteria.
My mother perched at the edge of her chair, eyes bright and alert. She was wearing a delicate silk blouse under a cashmere cardigan, and it irked me that she would bother to dress up at a time like this.
“I’m so glad you came,” she said again, reaching across the table to grab my hand. I forced myself to let her.
“Why does everyone in this family act like I don’t care? I come home when I can. I can’t help it that the big holidays are during my season.”
“I know that, we understand.”
“Jeff doesn’t.”
“I’m just happy to see you.”
“That’s a strange thing to say, given why we’re here.”
“Poppy, why are you so angry with me?”
The question came flying out so fast that I wondered how long she’d been holding it behind her teeth. Years? A decade? I pulled my hand away. I take my coffee with almond milk and collagen powder, but I picked up two Sweet ’N Low packets from the tray and took my time emptying them one by one into my cup. “I’m not angry with you.”
“Then why don’t you call me? Why don’t you tell me things? I don’t know anything about your life, I barely know you.”
“This isn’t the time for this.”
“There’s never been a time for this—”
“It’s because you don’t like me.” The answer surprised us both. “Not the way I am. You wanted me to be something different, something more like you, I guess, and I just felt that all the time. I know you don’t like my job. I know you don’t like my choices, but I do. I’m happy.”
Am I? In all the times I’d run through this little speech in my mind, it had never, ever occurred to me that it was anything less than true.
We sat in silence, watching people in scrubs move in and out of the cafeteria. At a nearby table, a man sat by himself with his head in his hands. “How can you think,” my mother said finally, “that I don’t like you? You are my sunshine.”
She used to sing me that when I was little, a throwaway song I hadn’t thought about in years. But now, watching her face, I realized it wasn’t a throwaway to her, and that the nickname “Sunshine” wasn’t what I’d thought either. It wasn’t her tongue-in-cheek way of reminding me to smile once in a while, it wasn’t her forcing her aspirations for a perfect daughter on me. It was from that song. You’ll never know, dear…
