In Touch (Play On #1) (15 page)

Why the hell had he ended up here? As much as he tried, Padraig could not see any benefit in the future. Like how his ma always said there was a reason for everything.
What is for you won’t pass you by.
He had always been taught to take life in stride, to know that one day when he looked back on things, it would all make sense. But right now, his heart aching, his gut about ready to spill the contents on the pavement, he could see absolutely no fucking reason for him to be here.

He kept walking toward the water. From there he could find his way back. He had a few miles in front of him.

Padraig considered calling Del for a lift, but then squashed the idea. He didn’t feel like talking to anyone about anything right now, including Gillian. And the worst part was, he didn’t have the foggiest notion what his address was. Having glanced at it only briefly on the paperwork, he had relied on lifts from either Del or Gillian, and occasionally, one of the other lads after practice. Like it wasn’t important enough to remember because he had one foot out the door. He’d have to describe to the cab driver how to get there and hope he knew more than Padraig did. He had never felt so out of control in his life. Back home, it was comfortable, easy. With the exception of the last six months, things had been going grand.

The traffic swished by, and even the sight of the blue water didn’t soothe him. Too much commerce here, too much noise and interruption to the beauty. But it was more than that. His heart, now, was utterly broken. For everything he could have been. For all the regrets he had. He stood there, unmoving as the memories threatened to pound him into the ground.

Padraig blinked out of the reverie. There wasn’t one single cab in sight. The streets of Cork and Dublin were chockers full of taxis. Here, he rarely saw a handful at night. Did everyone drink and drive?

At the next gas station, he bought a takeaway coffee and asked for the name and number of a taxi service. After calling to book, he set himself outside on a curb, the farthest away from the door. As expected, people parked as close as possible to the door and left Padraig alone.

The day was already heating up, and it was yet nine in the morning. Exhaust from cars floated over to Padraig as they came and went from the servo. When he closed his eyes, he went into head spins. His stomach lurched, but he held it down. He blinked rapidly and focused on a sailboat on the horizon. When his stomach clenched again, Padraig ran to a weedy area along a fence. Bent over, his hands on his knees, he vomited coffee. His eyes watered and stung. Then he vomited again, heaving until only bile came out in spit.

If the Irish could see him now. In front of a gas station in a foreign land, no family and not one friend to call on, Padraig hit rock bottom. Oh, how the mighty had fallen, and he knew some fans would get sadistic pleasure out of a man brought to his knees. At least there were no cameras and no backlash of media. Sure, very few even knew he was here.

Straightening, he took a couple deep breaths before he made it back to his cement stoop on wobbly legs. Since he had vomited the contents of his stomach, the majority of the pill would have come up as well. He dug for the plastic container again, and with shaking hands, emptied another into his palm. Only ten left.

Gillian had blown until her lips were sore. When she took a peek at a mirror, a red oval ring had imprinted on her mouth like a mime. Without the white makeup. But the tears were real. Not the painted black drops, but tracks stained both sides of her face.

As much as she hated Padraig right now, she hated the situation more. How the hell did she get messed up with some druggie athlete? She should have kept her distance, helped professionally but remained objective about him and his treatment.

As soon as he shut the door behind him, she’d whipped out her trumpet and blasted some notes of an old marching tune that she knew by heart. With the windows open to the summer air, businesses down the block had then been subjected to an unpleasant, out-of-tune version of “When the Saints Go Marching In.” And it was a Sunday morning. Nice. Sure to get some client recommendations that way.

If the Blues weren’t good enough for him, then Gillian wasn’t. That’s what it came down to. And what jock thought band was cool?

Andrew. He had always teased her about playing the trumpet, but he had told her when he was a senior that he had always been secretly jealous. He had chosen sports, and she had gone with the arts. But then he had overdosed, found by their dad in the bathroom at the Blues cabin, the syringe still in his arm. The autopsy had listed steroids, pain meds, and heroin in his bloodstream. Her folks had been completely blind to any of it. They were a middle-class, hard-working, American family. Andrew had been raised in a caring, supportive environment. What had he been thinking?

With her trumpet across her lap, Gillian rested her head back against the couch. For the millionth time, she deliberated on why. But nothing was revealed to her. No matter what she tossed about, she could only come up with stupidity. Ignorance. He hadn’t a clue what he’d been doing, what risk he’d been taking. He was just a follower.

She surged to her feet, the trumpet clunking onto the floor.

After pulling her hair into a ponytail and chucking on flip-flops, she grabbed a small wrapped gift from the table and was out the door.

When she turned into her parents’ driveway, Gillian realized they were probably at church, not even home. Didn’t matter. She’d only come for the car.

She slid the cover off from front to back and thrilled in the reveal of the beautiful, classic car she and Andrew had restored from bare bones. It had been a piece of junk, the frame and floorboards completely rusted through, the body in decent shape but the steering wheel had been missing and the old black vinyl seats had split, pale yellow foam stuffing scattered throughout the car.

They had built her back up to her original glory, even repainting her the color she’d come off the line. Now, the chrome polished, the retro white-walled tires shiny, the horse emblem sitting proud on the hood, it was time to give her a spin.

The only upgrades Andrew and she had agreed on were proper over-the-shoulder seatbelts and a new radio with speakers. Gillian turned up the Alpine loud, and only when she was on her way out of town did she roll down the window. The old way, with a silver handle and black knob. The car purred, eating up the road faster than she had imagined.

She passed the turn-off to the cabin and kept going, rural northern Michigan quilted beyond her windscreen. She blasted Andrew’s favorite music—AC/DC. He hadn’t cared that it was old-school. He had loved it. She pulled along the side of the road and reached over to roll his window down. That was better. Almost as if he were there with her.

She stomped on the gas pedal and spun out, gravel from the side of the road spitting up rocks under the carriage. Probably should have thought that one through, new paint job and all. At the next intersection, she pulled a U-turn and headed back into town. She wasn’t ready to see Padraig yet, if ever. But Junipers on a sunny summer morning was what she needed. Plus, she had a little something to drop off to Charlie.

When she arrived, Matt let her in, dressed in a ratty pair of shorts, no shirt, then promptly returned to the couch where he’d been watching a morning show on TV. He looked none too pleased to be interrupted so early on a Sunday. Gillian stepped on a nude Barbie doll as she walked through the living room to the kitchen.

“Barbies for you or Charlie?”

Junette looked over her shoulder when Gillian stepped through. “Charlie. We don’t discriminate in this house. He loves them.” She poured a cup of coffee from the percolator and set it on the far corner of the counter for her. “Help yourself to milk and sugar.”

Charlie was in his highchair, half of his breakfast of toast and jam around his mouth. The other half he was smearing around his tray, making red circle designs around his little squares of toast.

Charlie squealed in delight when Gillian placed the wrapped present on his tray. There was only a small rubber star that glowed when he pressed it, but he’d be thrilled with the unwrapping more than anything. “This is for you, cutie-pie.”

Junette raised her eyebrows at Gillian, asking with the same simple gesture what Gillian asked herself every day.
What’s going on?
She didn’t press but continued to load bottles into a sterilizer tray for the microwave. Food and dishes were stacked on the counter and in the sink. Junipers looked more haggard than usual, her natural glossy blond hair tied in a ratty bun, her nightgown wrinkled, her one blue slipper missing the heel. When Gillian pointed at the ragged footwear with her mug, Junette stated, “The dog.”

Laundry sat in a basket in front of the dryer, some clothes still hanging out the front like a multi-colored tongue, as if someone stopped in the middle of extracting the clean clothes and just left them.

And here she thought her life was hard. So caught up in her own self-misery, she hadn’t even volunteered to help Matt and Junette. They could probably use a night out for the both of them. She was the best friend from Hell.

“Can I babysit for you guys tomorrow night?” The microwave dinged. “You know, so you and Matt can go grab something to eat together, or see a movie, or something.”

Junette had turned so she stood in the middle of the kitchen, her hands on her hips. “Are you serious?” But then Junette raised her arms in the air. “Yes! Do you hear that, Matt?” she yelled loudly to the other room. “We’re going on a date tomorrow night. Yee-hah and fuck yeah and all that shit.”

No response from Matt but Junette walked over and gave Gillian a hug. “Thank you.”

“I should have offered before.”

“That’s okay, you’re offering now.”

“Hey, I want you to see something.” Gillian grabbed Juniper’s hand and led her through the living room to the door.

As they passed behind the couch, Junette directed at Matt, “Watch Charlie.” Matt only grunted and turned up the volume.

They hadn’t even closed the door when Junette gushed, “You’ve got her running!”

“Yep.”

Junette continued down the steps. “Oh Gill, she looks fantastic.”

“You want to go for a ride?”

Junette gave her a look like, are you kidding me? “Hell, yes.”

“Do you want to get showered or changed or anything? I’ll wait out here. I don’t think Matt is in a very good mood.”

Junette already had her hand on the door. “He’s never in a good mood lately. And I’m going like this. No one’s going to see me. He can watch Charlie for a few minutes. He’s perfectly capable.”

Gillian hopped in the driver’s side. “I’ve already taken her for a spin this morning to make sure she won’t die on us.” She set the car in reverse and backed out of the driveway. “What do you think about us stopping on the way back to pick up some champagne and orange juice?”

Junette smiled at her, and years fell away from her tired face. “To celebrate? Of course! You sure on the bubbly?”

“I’ll just have a little. I’m driving and it’s the thought that counts.” Gillian grabbed Juniper’s hand and gave it a squeeze. “Plus, I have some news to catch you up on.”

“Oh, yeah? Give me every little detail.”

“I will, but it has to wait for the mimosas.” Gillian stalled to increase the suspense. “I met a guy. No, not a guy. I’ve fallen for a jock. Everything about him. His anger. His smile. His kisses.”

There were pages of physicians listed in the Traverse City phone book. And they all seemed to be divided into the type of medicine they practiced. All he needed was a GP, a General Practitioner who wouldn’t ask too many questions and would give him a prescription for the OxyContin, maybe a larger dosage and preferably with multiple refills.

While he perused the possibilities from family medicine to gynecology services, Del lumbered into the kitchen where he grunted a morning greeting and headed straight to the coffee machine.

Del scraped out a chair, set his mug on the table, and sat with an
umph
. Padraig shook his head as Del scooped two large teaspoons of white sugar into his coffee and stirred.

While Del leafed through the haphazardly stacked, day-old Sunday paper, he said, “Didn’t see much of you yesterday. What were you up to?”

“Didn’t feel the greatest after Saturday, like, so spent the day in bed.” After getting the cab back from the gas station, Padraig had slipped into the house quietly and remained shriveled and unsure in his room the rest of the day. Even though his hangover had finally lulled and hunger pains had taken over, he hadn’t wanted to deal with Rory or the captain. The questions, the jabs about Gillian.

He went back to studying the phone book.

“In yours or Gillian’s?” Del perused the sports section, a smirk on his face.

Padraig placed a finger at his place. “I was home by midday.”

“Oh, she kicked you out, eh?”

“She had things to do.”

Finally, Del lifted his face to Padraig’s. “I’m glad to see you guys together, mate.”

“I don’t know if you’d call us together…” Especially after yesterday morning. Whether she even talked to him again was uncertain.

“She’s a good one, Gillian,” Del continued as he picked up his mug and dropped it into the sink. “All the team is half in love with her, so you be cool to her, eh?”

Anger pulled at Padraig’s gut, but he held it in and turned his attention to the phone book once again, but without focus. The words only abstract scratches and lines in front of him. He had never meant to hurt her. Del might be his captain, but who was he to give advice on his personal life? Feck, he had never wanted to get involved in any way. But time stretched on without any contract. At the best, vague answers from his agent by email.
Still in negotiations. Hang in there.
And here he was feckin’ knee deep in club shite. He had gone from keeping a distance to engaging with the Yankees, their opinions and character becoming important to him.

“What ya looking for, mate?” At first Padraig thought he was talking about Gillian again. Or about the team, or about life in general. Del now leaned in the door frame, his weight resting on his right arm, the muscles bulging. Under Del’s laid-back exterior bubbled a passionate man. One who Padraig had no intention of pissing off. That had become clear after the first week in the States. As supportive and friendly as the Kiwi was, there was something simmering beneath the surface. Not anger like Padraig, but grief. That’s what it was. Sadness cloaked by his jokes and good nature. Until that moment, he hadn’t been able to pin it. The Kiwi was obviously here dealing with his own demons.

In a better way than Padraig. Obviously.

“I need to see a doctor. You don’t happen to have one here that you’d recommend?” Padraig tried to keep his voice as casual and nonchalant as possible.

Del squinted at him, then turned away to knock at the door jamb a couple times as if in thought. “Nope, haven’t had a reason to go. Gillian takes care of us pretty good, mate. What do you need to see one for?” He pinned him with his eyes.

As Padraig considered, Rory came around the corner from the stairs, ducked under Del’s arm, and entered the kitchen, energetic and happy as always. As grating as it could be at times, especially when Padraig wanted to revel in his own angst, he had come to respect the young man with his hopes and determination. He had been just the same ten years ago. Now, his age hovered above him, a constant reminder of the limited time he had to get to the World Cup, his ultimate goal, the dream that never died. That was the thing about sports, the career life was short compared to other paths. He’d known many players who had been confused and uncertain about their future after they finished playing with their Irish club. Everything they had known for so long came to an abrupt end. And many with families to support. There weren’t many options for ex-rugby players other than coaching. Like so many, he hadn’t bothered going to university, a decision he regretted to this day. Even to get some business qualification under his belt. Anything. All the more reason he had to get out of here and get some money in from an Argentinean club. Beyond his pride and desire, he needed to look at his future.

“What you lads goin’ on about?” Rory asked.

“Padraig here needs to see a doctor.”

“Oh yeah, what for?”

“My back,” Padraig replied, not meeting Rory’s gaze.

“Gillian can help you with that.” Padraig heard the implication, the jesting behind Rory’s voice.

“It’s part of my contract with my agent to be checked by a physician,” he lied, and one glance at Del, knew the captain didn’t believe him.

Rory had started making one of his vegetable and yogurt smoothies, adding in spinach this morning and a raw egg. “I went to the Med Center on 31 to get antibiotics when I had a chest infection. Must have gotten a bug on the plane over. Hadn’t been in the country for a few days before I was in bed for a week.” Now, he spooned in peanut butter. Padraig’s stomach rebelled at the sight. But the Med Center sounded promising.

“You remember the name so I can look up the number?”

“Aye, I remember it because it was so daft.” Over the burring of the blender, he raised his voice. “The Walk-In Clinic. Can you imagine? How clever, whoever thought of that one.”

“Did you need an appointment?”

Rory raised an eyebrow at him as if he was the daft one. “No. I think that’s why they call it The Walk-In Clinic.”

Padraig didn’t appreciate the sarcasm but laughed to keep Rory talking. “Is it walking distance from here?”

Rory shook his head. “Nope, that’s the problem. It’s a bit out of town, maybe half an hour in traffic.”

Well, feck. How the hell was he going to get there? Taxi again, but that would be expensive and take the whole day. Better than the cost of the emergency room, though.

Del interrupted his thoughts. “I can take ya, mate, if you really need to go.” He joked, “I’ll just put it on your drink tab.”

As good as it was for him to offer, Padraig didn’t want him to, as the drive there and back left plenty of time for questions that he didn’t want to answer. Del must have sensed his hesitation. “Or you can take my beast if ya want.” He directed his next question at Rory. “I can get a ride with you to the gym, eh?”

“Nae bother, Del, I’m gonna leave in about an hour.”

Del questioned Padraig. “Have you driven on the right side of the road yet?”

Padraig hadn’t. Another aspect that added to his lack of freedom. No wheels and no mobility, which did more than irk him. “No, but it shouldn’t be a problem.”

Del and Rory exchanged glances before Del fished into his pockets and pulled out his keys, then dropped them to the table. “Now, don’t go crashin’ her. She’s a beauty.” They all laughed. No one would be impressed by the brown junker with rust and a dented back bumper. Padraig assumed Del would be more financially secure having played club rugby in New Zealand, but it wasn’t his business and he’d never asked. Even Rory had a newer Ford Focus hatchback.

He fingered the keys and nodded at him. “Thanks, Del, I’ll treat her like the fine lady she is.”

That rewarded him with a smile from the Kiwi, who must have been content with his answer and turned to leave. Del paused and over his shoulder added, “Bro, if you need help with anything, you know you can come to me, eh? Not as your captain, but as your mate.”

The sincerity in his voice yanked at Padraig, almost as if Del had a rope tethered between the two of them and had applied a slight pressure like a leash. His deception to this man was all the more apparent to Padraig, and he wondered if Del knew the same. Shame settled on his shoulders with a dusting, but he shook it off.

Having jotted down the address for the clinic, Padraig said to Rory who was washing his dishes at the sink, “I’ll see you guys later at the gym.”

“Aye, we’ll be there. At the free weights, me helping the ol’ man try to lift a hundred kilos again.”

Padraig smiled back at him and grabbed his bag from the floor. Rory was six years younger than Del, but what the captain lacked in youth, he made up in a serious head on his shoulders. He was wise in the ways of rugby and team play.

Padraig dreaded the drive as he slid behind the wheel. When he started the ignition, a loud blast of classic rock filled the car, which only jarred his nerves more. He punched the radio off. Having ridden shotgun, that much he knew. Awkward having all the controls on the opposite side. Luckily, it was an automatic, unlike most of the manual cars in Ireland. He adjusted the seat and played with the indicator, which turned on the windshield wipers, furiously whipping back and forth. So…indicator on the other side.

Padraig backed into the street and drove forward, veering into the right side of the road when a car approached him from the opposite direction. An older gentleman in a long sedan stared at him as he passed. If he hadn’t been so nervous, he would have offered the auld fella the two-finger Irish flip-off that had relieved Padraig’s aggression in the past without offending anyone. The Yanks hadn’t a clue what the motion meant, but it was the same as lifting a middle finger at them. A simple fuck-you, disguised but effective.

Their road ended at a T-junction where no cars passed. After taking a right onto the road, Padraig’s confidence grew, only to drop to the pit of his stomach at the next intersection. When he came to the crossroads, traffic whizzed by in both directions. To take a left, he had to cross the approaching traffic. Impatiently, he zipped his head back and forth to look for an opening. With none happening, and it was apparent there wouldn’t be, Padraig gritted his teeth, prayed to Saint Anthony, and accelerated into the stream of vehicles. One car braked with a fierce squeal of tires. Another honked loudly, but Padraig at least made it to the turn lane.

He turned on his right indicator to merge, but got his windshield wipers again, lashing back and forth as before. “Fuck!” Wipers still beating a path across the window, Padraig accelerated and cut off a car as he merged with traffic.

He cursed the US roads, thumping his hand on the steering wheel. Why didn’t they have roundabouts? So much more efficient than a light every bloody mile.

By the time he turned into the drive of the clinic, he was completely frazzled. Taking a couple of deep breaths when he parked the car, he tried to calm the agitation. All this bullshit out of his comfort zone wasn’t worth it! Vowing to call his agent as soon as he was done at the doctor’s, Padraig slammed the door and headed in.

Clean and bright. New, unlike his local GP he had seen since he was a child. An old red brick terrace house turned doctor’s surgery with a worn brown carpet, an ancient chair, and couch, both with deep seat indentations and losing their stuffing. He had been scolded when he was younger for picking at the fluff.

Straight ahead was a receptionist window with a pin board next to it with brochures advertising flu shots and a new drug for diabetes. A glance at an addiction flyer with a hotline made him pause, but then a middle-aged woman at the desk spoke up. “Hi. Can I help you?”

Padraig had to lower his head to see her since he stood taller than the top of the cutout sliding glass. “I need to see a doctor.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

He pulled his wallet from a back pocket. “I thought you didn’t need one. Walk-in clinic, like.”

She smiled. “You don’t, but you’re seen faster if you do.”

The loud waiting room attested for that. When Padraig had entered, he had briefly noticed about a dozen men, women, and children waiting.

“I’ll wait.”

“Have you been here before?”

“To Michigan?”

“To this medical center.”

“Oh right, no, I’m just visiting from Ireland.” He made sure to stretch out the
r,
almost like a pirate, to give her the full punch of the accent.

Her smile grew wider. “I thought that’s what I heard. But I didn’t want to say and get it wrong. I love Ireland.”

And yet again. “Have you been?”

“Not yet, but my husband and I are saving our pennies to go next year. We both have relatives we want to visit.” What American didn’t?

“Be sure to see Cork. That’s where I’m from.”

“We’ll make sure we do.” A flirt teased her eyes that came out more like a squint as if she had forgotten how after all the years, her mouth a tight pinch of a smile. “Especially if they make the Irish men all big and handsome like you in Cork.”

If it got him in to see the doctor faster, he’d go with it. “Yer lovely to say. Thanks for that. About seeing someone…”

“Oh right, sorry, I was all distracted by your accent and charm.” She handed him a clipboard with a sheet of paper and pen. “Fill this out and return it to me.” Leaning in closer she whispered, “I’ll see if I can put you ahead of a few.” Then winked at him.