Single Player: Humor, Love, Breast Cancer and a Gaming Girl... (17 page)

“Ash, it is eight o’clock in the morning… on a Saturday.  Leave me alone.” He cuts me off before I can say my final goodbye.

“Like I said, thirty minutes. By the way, keep in mind that I know you sleep best in the nude so if you don’t want to get up that’s cool. See ya soon, Hotpants! Or shall I say, No-pants.”

And just like that, I’m up and at em’. This better be important, because since my Dad’s funeral last week I have slept a total of maybe ten hours. My mind’s been jumping all over the place fighting between the sadness I feel over his passing and the guilt I feel for finally being free of the nightmare that was his Cancer. Either way, the point here is that for the first time in a week I am actually in a beautiful, sound sleep, having a lovely dream about being at the beach, free, warm and relaxed. Now I’m not.

Thirty minutes pass and I’ve showered, put on the pants Ashton suggested and am currently waiting on the couch killing time by playing Halo with an online gang of frat boys I met during the one month I was away at school. Now we’re in a strictly long distance gaming relationship, but it works great for us all. Someone is always online and ready for a match, night or day. I wonder sometimes how they’re getting anything done, but then again, who am I to talk. I’m hanging on by a thread in my online courses and hope, with any luck, to graduate with my degree in creative writing at the end of this fall semester. 

After explaining my dad’s situation, most of my professors have been lenient with my deadlines, which I’m beyond grateful for since I’ve been his sole care taker until recently when we had no choice but to finally call in hospice. Connor came home from law school whenever there was a long weekend and Aunt Joanie would fly in from Seattle as often as she could but otherwise it’s just been me and dad. Whenever I had extra hands around I’d take full advantage and work my hardest to catch up on all my upcoming papers and projects so that when it was just the two of us again I’d be back on track with school and able to give my father all of the attention he deserved. Helping to keep my father alive and comfortable had become a very tricky game of Jenga, where one wrong pull of a primary-colored block could bring the whole damn thing crashing down to the ground around me, capable of obliterating both my life and mental health in the process.

Turns out the block that was capable of destroying me was the one that had “dad dies” imprinted on its underbelly in invisible ink. All the time he was sick, I was back and forth praying for it to be a good day or for it to just end already. You’d think after he finally took his last breathe that I’d be able to pick up the pieces like Connor has and continue moving forward at long last, free from my caretaker’s burden. It’s funny how things work out. I mean, we knew what was coming for the last four years. The doctors never handed out any false hope. I thought I was prepared. Yet, it turns out… I wasn’t.

I’m twenty-two, turning twenty-three in a month, and have no parents to speak of. I did however have a parent who loved me unconditionally and for that I consider myself blessed because I know firsthand that not everybody does.

Before my dad died, Ashton’s mom tried to be helpful. She knew how much my father had been there for her son over the years and wanted to show her gratitude. So from time to time she’d bring us over delicious homemade soup or offer to do the laundry. But, unfortunately her gratitude and time were unsustainable resources. It wasn’t long before giving to us became yet another burden for her to carry.

Her husband’s abuse only got worse as we got older and when she finally had the nerve to kick him out things changed. At first it was great. She was around more and appeared happy for the first time that I can remember. But then Mr. Stevens started calling and harassing her and when she’d hang up on him he’d just show up and beat on the doors drunk with furry and booze at all hours of the day and night.

She was scared all the time and her visits became fewer and farther between. Ashton and her rarely spoke anymore and it shouldn’t have surprised us when she announced one day that she was leaving to go back up north to live with her sister but it did. Unfortunately she never once asked Ashton if he wanted to go with her and that was the nail that pinned shut the proverbial coffin on Ashton’s trust. Since then it’s been locked away and he will never allow his heart to be broken like that again.

He won’t admit he was heartbroken when she left; he has this thing about never wanting to look weak. But I know him and I can see his pain. When he sings, his emotions and his heart bleed out through his words and that is the very reason why people fall in love with him. His words and his pain are relatable and they are real. They’re part of the human condition that we all experience in one form or another throughout our lives, and in his music these truths are visible, palpable, and able turn the ugliest feelings into things of beauty.

I’m about to call him when my cell ticks to life in my hand. 

Meet me at the park

by your house

Ash

---

On my way

Cee   

Before Connor left yesterday to go finish his last semester of school he expressed to me his worry that I haven’t been leaving the house. He wants to see me get “back up on that horse” but I don’t work like that. Trying to  explain to Connor that not all of us are good at saddle riding and prefer walking is like talking to a giant haystack. My gait in grief is more of a slow trot while his started there but is already on its way back to a gallop. His grief lies like a loose noose around his neck while mine tethers me tightly to home. We just process it differently and until this morning’s pushy text’s from Ashton, I thought that at least I had one person who respected my process, but apparently I was wrong. Now I’m getting a swift, firm kick to the hind quarters and it’s done nothing but piss me off!

Reining my fury in, I climb into my dad’s old turquoise VW bus and head to the park. It may be old and slow but it gets me where I need to go safe and sound every time. I also love driving it because it’s a place that dad was never sick and, because of that, everything in its interior is still happy. The old cracked leather seats still hold his spicy, clean smell; the grease stains on the steering wheel reveal the size and depth of his large fingerprints and his favorite Beatles album will forever be in the self-installed CD player. It’s a comforting sanctuary for my senses and I will always love and care for this bus, just like I did my daddy.

Off in the distance I see Ashton sitting on the ground in the sun beneath the monkey bars. A little girl with a head full of golden curls is seated next to him, talking and demonstrating her enthusiasm with their topic using her tiny, animated, overexcited arms. He’s being a patient and attentive listener, and in that moment I’m able to see the man that he is capable of becoming one day for a daughter all of his own. He has a huge heart to give someone and, I hope when he finds the right girl she appreciates him and the gift that he is. P.S. If not, I’ll cut a bitch. Just sayin’.

The little girl’s mom calls her to leave and as she dutifully gets up to go, a little black ball starts to go after her, nipping at the bottom of her cute little summer dress. I almost pee my pants in excitement (I hate that that’s even a thought, but I’m known to do it). Ashton turns and catches my eye and instantly a huge grin spreads across my tough rocker’s face. Only one song could be used to describe the power of that smile, and it would be “Here Comes the Sun” by, of course, The Beatles. I can’t help but light up my own in reply and shine it back on him. 

“Watcha got there?” I say taking in the precious bundle of black fur that’s leaping toward me through the deep wooden chunks of mulch.

“Uhm? If you don’t know what that is, our problems are greater than I originally thought.” I slap his tatted arm and bend to pick up the little ankle biter.

“Mischievous little guy, aren’t you? What’s your name?” I look up at Ash wondering if he has any clue who this heart stealer is or better yet, who he belongs to, because he’s not wearing a collar.

“Wow, you’re quick today Cee. You should go play the lotto.” 

He takes the pup out of my arms, holds him facing me and lifts him up Simba-style into the air as an introduction to the world. I think he might be about to sing the famous introduction hymn from the Lion King when he says, “This guy has no name.  He is all alone in this big scary world and needs a home. Cee, look at this face,” now he’s shoved him to within an inch of my nose. Using what I believe to be a puppy voice he says for the dog, “CeeCee. Ry, reed, ru.”

“I don’t speak dog Ashton, I’ve never had one. Help a girl out.” 

“You’re killing my moment here Cee. What he so clearly said was ‘I need you,’ oh great ruiner of surprises. Here, he’s yours.”  Then he passes me the baby made of fur and I immediately pass him back as I say, “I believe I need to use the restroom,” and then run off toward my car.

Ashton curses under his breath behind me before sprinting in my direction. I pick up my pace but it’s no use, his legs are like eighteen miles longer than mine so he gets to the door at the same time I do. Another point against being short: in a race, a killer will totally catch me.

“Cecilia. Stop it.” 

I look up at him with tears streaming down my face and thankfully he talks first because I can’t. “Listen. You loved my dog and before your dad passed away, he and I picked this little guy out from a breeder we found online together just for you.  He’s a gift from us both. Please, stop crying and take him. Your dad wanted him to be with you.” He reaches up and gently wipes away the tears as they cascade down my sunken cheeks. Just because my Dad set us up I know this little guy and I are going to be the best of friends.

“Does he have a name yet?” I ask in the midst of my ugly cry.

“Nope. That’s your job. Your dad and I wanted you to have the honors. Anything come to mind?” Ash continues rubbing his fluffy little head as he hands the pup back to me. I think that maybe I’ve discovered that dogs can purr. 

“Actually, yah, I know what I want to name him. You’re totally going to laugh though. Actually, first I want you to promise not to laugh or I won’t tell you. AND, I won’t let you hold him, not ever!” 

“Fine, whatever, I promise. Now what’s it gonna be? Mr. Grey? Ryan Gosling? Batman?”

“Batman? You do know I’m a girl right?”

“What? He’s black, and Batman’s a friggin’ billionaire who kick’s ass. I don’t see the problem? He’d be like the Dark Knight. Oh, please let it be Batman!” He’s actually begging for it to be Batman.

“Nope. Master Chief. It fits, don’t ya think? I mean look at him. He’s got tough guy written all over his face and I can predict he’s going to have the two of us doing anything he demands. It works, right?”

“I hate to admit it because the Dark Knight would’ve been way cool but yours is good too, I guess. So Master Chief it is?”

As soon as the words leave Ash’s mouth, Master lifts his little head up in recognition and looks to be smiling in appreciation.  But, that’s no smile. Nope, that’s his pre-barf face and you guessed it… he loses his breakfast all down the front of my shirt.  Oi, this is going to be the start of another awesome relationship, I can just feel it… dripping through my shirt.

***

My buddy and I finally decide to call it a night after we’ve both stuffed ourselves full of our well earned treats (Don’t worry. I watch
The Biggest Loser
and I know I shouldn’t reward my feelings with food, but… I do). As I lay in bed, maybe regretting that third scoop of ice cream, I make a list of things I want to do when I break free of this place tomorrow. But before I do that I must call Ashton and tell him how I feel about him. Though first I need to make sure I can say it, you know, the words because I’m pretty sure they’re the BIG ones. 

My biggest fear (besides leaving the front porch, of course) goes a little something like this: I call Ashton and say ‘Oh Ashton. I love you’ (I imagine a princess voice here for some reason) and then he’s like, “Ah”… (Staring contest through the phone ensues)… and then we’re both sitting somewhere and I’m like “Uhm”… (More staring)…. And then he’s all, “Maybe I should go because I have like (suddenly he’s turned Valley girl! It’s an outrage!) this really hot rocker girlfriend and… it’s like, over between you and me.” 

Just Great! My best friend’s moved on… is now with a valley girl… and uses the word like… FINE! (Stamps foot)  FINE! (Stamps foot again) FINE! (Stamps foot, stubs toes)

Like… Goodnight.

fourteen

Bright and early Sunday morning Chris texts and wakes me from a horrifying dream wherein I’m being chased down the street (huge fear) by valley girls (new fear) in their pretty underwear (this will NOT ruin pretty panties for me, I won’t let it). His text asks: 

Can yo
u
please save my number

under the contact heading of either,

MY HERO (all caps), or Awesome Dance Partne
r
. 

Out of the two, MY HERO is more accurate, since I saw no such awesome moves on account of his extremely untimely song choice. Also, he did save my dog (from getting laid) and brought him back to me, unharmed and with no ransom requested for his services so hero makes the most sense. But instead I decide to liven things up so I text:

I was thinking of going a different direction.

These are my top two choices thus far,

Mr. Desperate-For-My-Number or He Cray-Cray
?

His quick response reads:

Not even close to desperate,

So, He Cray-Cray will d
o,
with a smiley emotico
n
added for a touch of fun and a clear sign of his approval. 

He Cray-Cray beat out My HERO by a heavy margin and just like that I have a friend, proven by the new number now stored into my phone. Take that, Ashton!  See, I can make friends, too, and mine don’t say “like” unless used in its proper form as a noun, adjective, preposition, conjunction or adverb. You’re friend uses it as an interjection and it’s extremely disruptive in its overuse, just
like
, an opinion of course.

A moment later my phone beeps again and it’s none other than He Cray-Cray.

I have a proposition for you

that I’d like to discuss this evening

when I bring over dinner. Bonefish ok
?
 

P.S. I’m going to request some Bang-Bang shrimp and can only hope that he’s not expecting a little bang-bang of his own in return because mama’s bang-bang is sealed up inside a take-out box which just so happens to be fastened securely with tape and stored in the fridge, where it’s sealing in the freshness until further notice.

My return text reads:

I love the bang-bang but

just the shrimp kind
.

He responds with a winky face ;) Ha! I knew it! He wanted to shoot the gun, bang-bang, into the outfield, but too bad for him because it’s raining and the park’s temporarily closed (Yes, I realize my euphemisms don’t make any sense, but you know what’s going on here, so don’t judge). He ends our textersation with:

See you at 6-is
h
? 

I send a:

K
  
 
in reply and we’re set. 

I have plans with a new friend. Burn! Who and why I feel the need to burn, I’ve no clue. But, now that I’m all hyped up on some very heady new-friend adrenaline and my phone is still in hand, I decide that I can finally play nice and respond to Ashton’s text from yesterday. I won’t bring up his “fav girl” comment but instead I’llgo with my standard
:
Hey Douche
,
and then for fun I decide that I’ll attach a picture of Master and I mimicking him and said girl’s kissy pose from yesterday, outside.

Before I have the chance to chicken out, I grab Master, head out front and take the picture sitting on the threshold of the open front door hoping to give him a little taste of the new, outside me. He’s going to freak, like, for sure (Sorry, apparently valley girls contagious).

It’s way too early for him to be awake on a Sunday so after I send the shocking photo, I make myself some coffee, aka brain juice, and sit Indian-style on the couch, a pad of paper on my lap ready to make a list of what I need to do in order to grow up and become a better me. Across the top in permanent black Sharpie I pronounce this list
,
The
Change Cee-Cee’s Life Pla
n
.
Then I just sit there, willing the words that will no doubt change my life to spill from my well-studied brain and out onto the yellow-lined page that’s titled and ready for some ink-action. 

Sitting becomes tedious as one minute turns into five and five into ten and ten into twenty. Hopefully, the math is obvious and you can see where this is going, I sit… for a while. 

CeeCee? Surely you’re used to sitting and thinking you ask? I mean you don’t go out of the house, right? Point made universe. But, I’m always busy. That’s the whole misdirection thing that I do so well. If I stay busy, guess what? I can ignore my problems. So to reiterate, I SUCK at sitting still and contemplating. I am an AVID non-contemplator.

Okay. We can all see that I’m getting nowhere. Therefore, I am activating a new approach sequence. “The Plan” is clearly not specific enough, I can see that now.  What I need are some precise, detailed goals. I’ll scratch through the title and change it instead to
: 
CeeCee’s Specific Goals…
(and then to be even more exact I add)
…
For Toda
y
.
 
As soon as the new heading is scribbled across the page it becomes clear where I need to start.

1. Take Master out…  Be adventurous! Try to walk down to the sidewalk and back.
   
2. Come inside… 
   

What do I do after I come inside? This is where things start to get tricky. Pushing myself into recovery is critical but how fast should I go? I grab my notes on therapy techniques and search frantically for some kind of agoraphobic’s timeline-to-the-outdoors equation and nowhere does it mention how aggressive I should be in regards to time spent indoors versus outdoors.  Maybe this is where having a mother would come in handy.  Sometimes a nurturing hand to teach us how to walk again can be helpful even as adults, and although I love and trust my big brother and his blonde little sprite, they haven’t exactly proven to be useful in getting me out.

As I sit contemplating my number three activity for the day my phone buzzes itself right off the edge of the coffee table onto Master, waking him with an inconsiderate thump to the top of his head. He jumps up barking, he’s in attack mode and ready to defend his lair. I laugh with compassion at his overreaction and think
welcome to the party, big guy, I’m an overreaction specialist
. If I were woken by a thump to the head I’d probably go into cardiac arrest but instead of barking, I’d come-to loudly shouting out numbers in time to Ashton’s Blackbird melody. When I pick up the phone I’m immediately frustrated that the screen is flashing the reminder I set to make my to-do list today instead of the return text from Ashton I was hoping for telling me how proud he is of my big outside photo shoot!   

Deciding I will not sit here and drown myself in a pity party any longer, I get up and head to my room. Master and I are going to mark number one off of this list and I’m getting ready. In an attempt at impressing upon the world my new cool as a cucumber attitude, I dress in my favorite cut-off jean shorts and chillest worn out Foo Fighters concert tee. I’m hoping my outfit screams, ‘Wow, that girl looks relaxed’ when in reality I’m the girl who’s internally screaming, ‘Wow, I’m violently agitated’. 

The purpose of this little panic inducing escapade into the world is twofold. One, master needs to go out and two, when my anxiety gets triggered today I’m hoping to bypass my typical need to either vomit or hyperventilate while out in public. Sensing my fear and hoping to bring me some joy, Master sets his favorite toy in my lap as I sit tying my shoes. 

“Well, aren’t you just the sweetest boy,” I say scratching under his chin. “But, I couldn’t possibly take this. Instead, how about we go outside?” At the word outside his ears prick up, his heavy tale starts beating against the coffee table in time with my rapid heartbeat and he eyes me with excited suspicion. 

“Today, you’re freedom is number one on my list. I recognize that I’ve not been very fair to you the last couple of years and I’m going to make things right.  I need you to be patient for this to work, though. You can’t go running off to find the ladies and leave me to fend for myself.  Okay?” He makes it clear that we’re on the same page when he lifts his big brown eyes up to my blue ones and winks at me (he may have just done a regular double lidded blink but I’d swear on his favorite toy’s life that only the one lid went down). 

Prepared for battle we head to the front door, my phone in one hand, Master’s leash in the other.  In order for me to be able to call today’s plan a success I must make it to the sidewalk and back without either spewing or hyperventilating. Feeling prepared and ready to make the journey, I open the door and a stream of fresh air sucker punches me in the face as if to say, ”Hey you, stop being so selfish and give your dog his life back!” Who knew air could be so mean? 

With the memory of last night’s success fresh in my mind, I pull in a deep breath of that hostile, salty air, imagine Ashton by my side and take my first unaided step outside finally ready and completely willing to change our shallow lives. With thoughts focused on my rocker, I harness the faith he has in me and use the encouragement to finally brave the full length of the porch. At the end, as I stand staring down at the three final steps my body responds like it did the day I surfed my first wave. My stomach is churning, my forehead’s sweaty and my limbs are trembling, but then I look down at Master and remember the reason for the mission at hand.  

A moment later I’m rewarded when my shoes land on a surface they haven’t felt in years. Drum roll please… concrete. I’m on CONCRETE! Master looks up at me with his HOLY CRAP face and a tear slips from my eye, squeezed out by the sheer force of my joy. Master takes the lead and I automatically follow. My nerves are in a frenzy, my armpit sweat alone could rehydrate several small bags of dried fruit but I refuse to give up because of a little (okay, a lot) of sweat. 

Becoming a fighter is all about attitude and action, so I do what fighters do and I attack. The narrow walkway’s my newest opponent and I take her on using my best kept secret, the Victoria’s Secret catwalk strut. Step, throw hip, step, throw hip, step, throw hip (Ouch, I’m throwing too hard, bring it in a little Cee). My legs take long strides that propell me forward and added bonus, exaggerate the wiggle in my already gyrating hips. I’m doing great! This is happening just like I’ve practiced a million times before in the privacy of my own home. Who knew I’d be modeling (literally) a lingerie model in order to make it down to the neighborhood sidewalk. MODELING IS SO USEFUL!

We’re finally at the intersection of my walkway and the city sidewalk and I’m stunned at my boldness. No way could I have imagined this scenario unfolding this morning when I was snapping that picture of Master and I on the front porch to send off to Ashton. I feel like I need to thank the academy (Victoria’s Secret) and my manager (Master) and all my friends (Ashton) for bringing me to this moment. As I stand watching my beautiful giant of a dog bouncing around my legs with enthusiasm, I start giggling, loudly. If it wasn’t for the empty, quiet street around me I’m pretty sure the crazy police would be called and I’d be hog tied in a white coat and taken away for my delirious behavior.

To the naked eye, this situation appears to be your average, everyday, typical girl on sidewalk, laughing hysterically with her dog while wearing converse and her very coolest cut offs. You know the one. But, let us not forget that what is happening here is revolutionary in terms of my life. In this moment I have made the decision to jump headfirst off the bridge (bungeed, of course) and back into the river of life (technically I’m just jumping over the crack on the sidewalk so as not to break my mother’s back, but we all know I’m talking big picture here).   Speaking of mothers, maybe that should be next on my list for today. Fine, let’s just do it since we’re being so brave and put mom on the list as number three.

With Master by my side I decide it’s time to start living in the moment. With nothing but time on my hands I set off, ready to take on the few short miles to my brother’s in converse (remember, I’m no longer familiar with the stifling heat outdoors or good shoe choices for long walks. I’m all about the underwear). On the walk there I’ll contemplate how to respond to this so-called mom woman. But, for now, please just wish me good luck and P.S… I’m OUTSIDE!

***

Guess what I found after my first mile? MCDONALDS!  Question answered! There is in fact a new Micky-D’s by my place! This information is going in the journal under my
reasons to go outside
heading, number two behind the fresh air thing. The other good news? Turns out you can walk through their drive thru. That doesn’t mean the girl at the window won’t look at you like you’re a fruitcake, but hey, what do I care? Reiteration alert, I’m OUTSIDE! 

I order Master a Happy Meal and I drink his soda immediately. The girl gives me a cup of water for him and he’s mad, because apparently, he wanted the soda. It’s obvious by the pissed off look he’s giving me as he watches the fizzy goodness flow up the pinstriped straw and into my quenched mouth. Ahhhhh, so refreshing.