The Shortstop (20 page)

Annie

His parents filled me in on the condition in which they found him and our condo the day after I left. I sat in shock, listening to them as they described a stranger. The Lawsons urged me to speak to my parents. I argued that I needed time. Except for explaining to them that Quint is devastated, I haven’t shared any details with anyone. I’m not lying, just omitting…mainly because I don’t want anyone’s opinion of Quint to change in any way. My parents would never understand why he’s treating me this way. Injury or not, I’m not sure they would forgive him. It would kill them, especially my father.

He’s hurting everyone who loves him. It doesn’t matter, though. I feel completely alone in this hell. The only person I would go to when I’m hurting this badly is the same person hurting me. I can’t wrap my brain around what’s happened to him. I need to believe this is temporary. Once he accepts the change in course his life has suddenly taken, he’ll come back to me. He’ll realize what’s most important is what we shared. With each day, I’m having a harder time convincing myself.

I’ve been putting on a brave face all the while my insides feel like lead.

How did I end up here? Life is so fucking cruel. I would have never predicted an injury would cause our demise. I’d never imagined he was capable of this behavior. The man lying in that hospital bed is not Quint Lawson. I’ve become obsessed with emotional trauma and all its symptoms, going as far as Googling courses of therapy. The words further confused me. Some sites claim time is the only way to heal. Others claim revisiting the source of the trauma is absolutely necessary to move forward. Identify with it and acknowledge it. Yet, other sites say that it can send the victim into a deeper depression. I’m questioning everything, including the man I thought I fell in love with. The man I knew would never throw what we had away so quickly. He would use me to help him get through this.

My thoughts are so scattered it’s making me feel like I’m losing my mind. Nothing is registering. I woodenly listened to the surgeon share the details of his surgery and recovery. It’s still too soon to tell how much mobility he’ll gain with physical therapy. The surgeon explained his road to recovery would be long and difficult. He’ll need a strong support system. How do I supply one when all Quint keeps doing is throwing dynamite my way?

I had no intentions of him seeing me. My plan was to watch him sleep and slip out before he woke up. I could tell he was surprised by my presence. Once our eyes met, I stupidly thought that it would make a difference. His cold stare, his harsh words, even the way he atypically avoided my touch spoke volumes. With each passing day, he’s slipping further away from me.

It was hard to hide my bewilderment when he asked me to leave. It was harder to hide my pain. I need to channel it when around him. I need to show him I’m not leaving without a fight. Once I said my piece, I decided to go back to our condo to feel a connection to my old Quint. I miss him desperately.

On my way through the main lobby of the hospital, Mr. Lawson calls out my name.

“Hi,” I nod toward him and his wife. They look exhausted.

“We were just on our way back up to his room.”

“He’s awake. He saw me. He asked me to leave.”

Mrs. Lawson runs a hand soothingly down my arm. “Annie, he’s lost. Everything he knows is questionable right now. The one thing he could count on was you. Please remember that. He’ll find his way back.” She’s said these words before, and I’m having a hard time believing them.

I need to change the subject for my own sanity. “I’ll talk to you guys later. I’ll come back tomorrow. He may not want to see me again. If not, I may go home for a few days. Once I decide, I’ll let you know.”

“No, Annie. Please stay. He needs you. He’ll be in this hospital for a while, and then rehab. Even though he’s pushing us away, he needs us. Please don’t give up on him.”

All I can muster is a tired smile. After giving them a stiff hug, I leave without saying a word. I can’t sugarcoat this, nor can I lie. Their son is in serious trouble. At some point, we need to realize he may never be the same.

Once I’m in my car, the tears I’ve been holding back roll down my face. How am I going to live without him? I won’t survive without him. My entire life is wrapped around him. Besides loving him so much that it physically hurts, financially, I’m bound to him in every way. He always said we’re a team, what’s his is mine, and his good fortune is our good fortune. I’m in a car he owns, driving to a condo he bought. Somewhere along the way, I’ve lost my identity. It didn’t consciously happen. It wasn’t as if he tried to control me. Bottom line, we were a team in every aspect. His heart was so open and so loving that there was never a question that his success would be my success.

I don’t care about the money. I’d trade it all to have us go back to our lives before his injury. I’d go as far as saying I regret the Yankees recruited him. Maybe if he’d never had a taste of his nirvana, he wouldn’t be crushed beyond belief from losing it.

I know the “what-if” game is a dangerous one to play, especially when your frame of mind is not strong enough to debate the contrary. Yet, I can’t help but play it over and over in my mind.

Just as I pull out of the hospital parking garage, my cell rings with a call from Daphne. She’s been calling every day, several times a day. I’ve been obviously avoiding her. I’ve sent her some quick texts explaining things were a bit hectic, but my excuses are running out. I decide to take the call and get it over with.

“Hey, Daph.”

“Seriously, Annie? What the hell is going on up there?”

“What?”

“Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about. Billy spoke to Quint. He called to see how his surgery went, since my best friend is keeping me in the dark.”

My blinding tears and my labored breathing force me to pull over or face killing myself. Shock hits me with such force, I feel like I’m having a heart attack. I can’t believe he told Billy. The only reason he would is if he truly believes we are done. He hasn’t spoken to me or to his parents in days. Sharing our personal problems with Billy is a slap to my face.

“Annie. Annie,” she repeats when all she hears over the phone are my sobs.

“What did he say to Billy?” I ask, barely above a whisper.

“I’m coming up. I’ll be there in a few hours.”

I spend two hours staring at photos that he left broken or shattered in their frames. Daphne finds me clutching the one we took in the tunnel right before his first game in pinstripes. She wordlessly removes the picture from my grip and holds me until my sobs subside. Once I calm, she shares what little Billy told her.

Quint left out many details except to say he can’t pretend to be the person he once was. He said I deserved better, and I needed to accept that he’s no longer the man I fell in love with.

As I recap a condensed version of the chain of events that led me to leave that night, she remains uncharacteristically quiet. I leave out his destructive tantrum and the damage that he caused. The pain I felt seeing the objects he chose to destroy, as if they meant nothing to him, is still too raw.

“Sorry, I don’t have milk,” I apologize, handing her a black cup of coffee. I know she hates it that way.

While still sitting in shock, she accepts the coffee robotically. “I can’t believe what I’m hearing.” She looks at me with confusion written all over her face. “It’s you and Quint. You guys are rock solid. If you can’t make it, there’s no hope for the rest of us.” I know she’s trying to help, but she’s not. All I can do is cry. I’ve been doing so much crying, it’s exhausting me. “Annie, I don’t know what to say. This emotional trauma stuff you described, maybe it’ll improve with time. Once he starts therapy or comes home.”

Shrugging noncommittally, I can’t find it in me to agree with her.

“What can I do for you? Do you want me to go talk to him?”

“No. Please, let him be. He needs to work this out himself. The more we all try to reason with him, the more he withdraws.” Shaking my head to remove all thoughts of Quint, I decide to change the subject. “How’s Billy?”

Daphne avoids my eyes, staring into her coffee. “I don’t know. Except for his call to me today after he spoke to Quint, I haven’t spoken to him in days.” She at least has the decency to look embarrassed about their situation. “Annie, it felt like we were trying to squeeze a square peg into a round hole. We’re officially over.”

“I’m sorry, Daph. I really am.”

“Eh, it’s not like we weren’t mentally prepared for this to happen. Unlike you and Quint, Billy and I were not meant to be. I applied for a few jobs, one in Baltimore, and a few in New York. It’s time to move on and grow up.” She pushes the cup away and adds, “I can’t drink this. It tastes like ass.”

A small smile appears on my face, causing her to smile in return.

She tilts her head empathetically. “You look exhausted. Why don’t you go take a nap? I’ll go to the grocery store, pick up
milk
—” she emphasizes before adding “—maybe some dinner. You can stay in your room or we can rent a movie. Whatever you want. We’ll do whatever you want. If you want me to go to the hospital with you tomorrow, I will. If not, I won’t.”

“Thanks, Daph. You’re such a great friend.”

“I know,” she says and waves me toward the bedroom. “Go.”

When I retreat to my room, I can barely contain my emotions any longer. I’m hoping exhaustion will take me into a dreamless sleep. I can’t even wish for a good dream, because that would make things much worse when I’m forced to wake up.

Frantically, I open his drawer and pull out one of his T-Shirts. I need him surrounding me, even if this is a pathetic attempt to achieve that. Choosing his side of the bed, I clutch his pillow in another desperate attempt to connect with the man I love. It smells of him and causes more tears to flow as I drift to sleep.

Quint

It’s been two weeks since my surgery. If I had to use one word to sum it up, it would be
pain
.

My leg hurts like a motherfucker. The simplest of motions sends shooting pain through me like bullets hitting and penetrating my flesh. My head hurts from the pounding migraine that’s been torturing me for weeks. My chest hurts with every breath I take.

I’m moving to a rehab facility today. I’ll be there for a few weeks before being sent to the three-bedroom condo in Jersey that serves as my shelter. With Annie gone, I refuse to call it home. My mother informed me that Annie decided to move back with her parents so she could enroll at the community college. She visited me every day until the day she left two days ago. It’s been more of the same between us. She’d talk, I’d listen, she’d say she loves me, and after a kiss, she’d leave. Every time she spoke, she made sure I knew the pain I was causing her inside. From the hurt she felt when she found out I confided in Billy to the hurt she feels every moment of every day, her choice of descriptive words left nothing to my imagination. I’m killing her. Ironically, she doesn’t realize that her tactics are backfiring.

Each time she voices the hurt I’m putting her through it only strengthens my argument that she’s better off without me. The way I see it, I’m sparing her a lifetime of misery. Fast-forward twenty, thirty, or even forty years and I’ll be an angry prick who’s still living with regret. Hopefully, Annie will be a wife, a mother, a grandmother, and a lot better off.

In spite of my asshole behavior, she calls every day and leaves me a voice message. More of the same, she loves me, and she’ll be waiting when I’m ready to come back to her. Of all the scenarios the doctors are throwing my way, there isn’t a doubt in my mind I’ll never play ball again. I hold the same convictions in regards to Annie. I know with time, she’ll heal. I will too, physically at least. If she found a way to move on without me, I’d be miserable but at least I’d find comfort knowing she found happiness. It’s all I want for her.

My parents have given up on me. Medically, they are involved with every step of my recovery. Along with Yankees management, they’re ensuring I have the best doctors and therapists lined up. Sometimes I feel they’ve all rallied and started their own support group. The common denominator—how badly I’m hurting them. The list of members—Annie, my parents, my ex-in-laws, my best friends, my teammates, my coaches, and I wouldn’t doubt the nurses at the hospital are now members as well.

After all these weeks, the media circus surrounding my demise continues. The pity everyone feels puts me in a constant state of nausea, adding to my list of ailments.

I’ve decided I’ll trudge through the next year or so of my life, taking advantage of the painkillers I’m being gifted. The more I complain, the more they give me. It’s the good shit that numbs me from head to toe.

While deleting the dozens of texts and voice mails that are clogging up my storage, my cell rings with a call from Daphne. Instinctively, I hit the ignore button. Three seconds later, she calls again. Muting my phone doesn’t stop her. My phone continuously lights up with a call then a text then a call then a text. This goes on for a full five minutes.

“What!” I finally bark into the phone.

“I knew you’d pick up eventually. It’s not like you’re having a day at the spa.”

“I’m busy.”

She anticipates my next move and screams, “Quint Lawson, if you hang up this call I’ll flood your phone with so many voice mails and texts, it’ll be easier to get a new phone than to delete them all!”

“What the hell do you want?”

“Why are you doing this?”

“Doing what?”

“Killing her. I love that girl. It’s the only reason I’ve put up with your shit these past four years. It’s the only reason I haven’t told you…” She stops abruptly before saying, “Just cut the shit.”

“I need to focus on my leg. If I have any chance of playing ball again, I can’t be worrying about anyone else but me.”

“You may be fooling Annie and Billy, or even yourself, but this prick act you have going doesn’t fool me.”

“It’s far from an act, Daph. My fucking world imploded four weeks, two days, and seven hours ago. Every second that passes on the clock, I’m reminded of what I had and what I lost and what I’ll never have again. So, spare me the theatrics and fuck off.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, really.” I can imagine the look on her face when I end the call. I don’t need her sermon or her guilt trip. Billy is the only one who doesn’t give me shit when he calls, which is why I actually take his calls. He’s the only one who knows there isn’t anything that can be said. I laid it on the line and told him Annie and I were done, and then I said I didn’t want to discuss it again. Our last conversation revolved around a hot chick he’s pursuing at school. Not one mention of my leg, or the Yankees, or even Annie…and that’s just the way I like it.

Predictably, my phone lights up again, prompting me to open the drawer beside me and throw it inside in one swift motion. I couldn’t give a fuck if my phone starts smoking before exploding. There’s no one I need to communicate with anyway.

The rehab facility my medical plan covers could be considered a luxury spa. Sitting on a dozen acres in Port Chester, NY, it has some of the best therapists in the country, offering state-of-the-art therapy options. Gotta love that Yankees bankbook. I have a private room with a view of the grounds. The length of my stay will depend on my progress. From here, I move back home to continue off-site therapy before my surgeons determine if another surgery is needed.

I’m fucking bored out of my goddamn mind. I avoid TV, newspapers, and magazines. My mom bought me a new laptop, which is used to watch porn. I sleep a lot. More than I should. It’s the perfect escape for my pathetic existence. Except for the times when I dream of the day I was injured. I wake up in a cold sweat and feel the pain shooting through my leg as if it were happening all over again. Most of my dreams are of Annie. Days we spent at the beach or in our bed making love. When she appears, she’s smiling and beautiful. Those are the times I wish I could sleep all day and night. They didn’t allow it at the hospital and I doubt they’ll allow it here. That’s when the meds come in handy. Taking them during my waking hours numbs me just enough to stand myself, or anyone who comes near me.

“Quint Lawson.” A tall dude leans against the doorframe of my room. His muscular arms are folded over his muscular chest.

“Yeah?”

“I’m Lance Rogers. I’m your team manager.”

“I don’t have a team anymore.”

“Your therapy team. Four therapists along with myself will be managing your therapy during your stay here.”

“Yippee.”

He watches amused from where he stands. His face shows no signs of the impatience that most of the staff members around here usually display. Ignoring my sarcasm, he asks, “Can I come in?”

“Whatever.”

A patronizing smile spreads over his lips. He reaches for a chair and drags it closer to my bed. “You’re pissed, you’re angry, you’re fucking irate that this happened to you.”

“No, I’m ecstatic.”

He laughs at my expense. It should piss me off, but I find it a welcome change. “Let me start by saying I don’t bullshit.” He immediately grabs my attention. Everyone I’ve encountered up until this point has been nauseatingly positive. Not one doctor, nurse, or other has been completely honest with me. “Because of the fracture, we need to wait another four to six weeks before you can do any weight-bearing exercises. What we’ll focus on first is range of motion. The fracture delays therapy options we would normally be taking. Your leg is pretty fucked up, and this isn’t going to be easy.”

“Well, it’s about fuckin’ time.”

“I take it this is the first time you’ve heard the truth?”

“Yep.”

“Well, the truth is, the chances of you playing ever again are slim but not impossible. As we progress, we’ll know more.”

“Yeah, yeah, time will tell. I’ve heard it before. Well, I have all the fucking time in the world.”

“Yes, you do. Some days it will feel as if time has suspended and you’ll make no progress. I’ll never sugarcoat it for you. I’m brutally honest. Sometimes my patients can’t take my blunt assessments. This is your fair warning.”

“Noted.”

“Are you in pain now?”

“I’m always in pain.”

“Well, the meds should be used to take the edge off enough for us to begin manipulating your knee’s movements. The hour during and after therapy will be when you’ll feel the most discomfort. Icing will help, although not as much as you’d like. Is there anything you are concerned about that you’d like to discuss?”

“I have one goal and that’s to play ball. You do whatever is needed to get me there. I can handle the pain.”

“It’s not just up to us to get you there. Quint, your progress rests on your shoulders. I’ve been briefed on your—” he breaks eye contact for a few seconds before continuing “—your attitude. A positive attitude is key.”

“There isn’t anything about this that’s positive. I’m angry as fuck, and I’ll use my anger to get me there.”

Lance measures me up, deliberately raising his eyebrows. “We’ll have to wait and see how far that anger gets you.” He picks a piece of lint off his trousers, pausing a few seconds before he meets my eyes again. “Do you have a support team to help you through this?”

“No.”

“No one to ride your ass when I’m not riding it?”

“Nope, just me.”

His smug expression makes me wonder whom he spoke to. I wonder which of my supposed family ratted me out? He doesn’t ask any more questions and I don’t offer any more information. His only concern should be my knee. From the Rolex
on his wrist to the expensive shoes on his feet, this prick obviously gets paid well. It’s time he earns his pay with me.

“Ready to get started?”

“No, I was just about to go out for a run.”

He stands and throws me a dazzling smile. This fucker could star in a toothpaste commercial. “I’m sorry this happened to you, but shit happens. I’m not going to tolerate your self-pity while working together. You’re going to have to check that ‘Oh, the world is against me’ attitude at the fucking door.” Just before he leaves my room, he turns and adds, “It was really nice meeting you. I’ll have one of the therapists come get you in a few minutes.”

For the first time in weeks, I feel a touch of something other than anger. If anyone can get me to fucking play again, it just might be this prick named Lance Rogers.