The Winner's Game (21 page)

W
HEN LEISURE TIME
was free for the taking, reading was one of my passions. I would devour at least two new novels every week, often reading late into the night to find out what became of the characters' lives and loves and dreams. Then my own daughter drowned before my eyes, was brought back to life, and was sentenced to the handicap of an incurable heart and the constant fear of death. For a while after that, I was too numb to read anything. Then I began immersing myself in medical journals and the like, wanting to know more about Ann's condition, all the while looking for any little tidbit of knowledge that might help the doctors treat her.

Nothing that I found ever helped.

More recently, with a transplant looming and a marriage in doubt, I've been hesitant to read much of anything anymore. I know it might be a good distraction from reality, but I've felt like maybe I should face my own reality before I lose myself in someone else's fantasy.

Then I found Grandma's journals in the attic last week, and suddenly my love of reading has never been stronger.

As I close the volume I'm in the middle of, my thoughts express themselves in a long, deep sigh.

“You OK?”

Dell's comment startles me. It's late, and I didn't realize he was still awake. I hope my reading didn't keep him up. “I'm fine,” I whisper. “Sorry if I woke you up.”

“It's not you, it's me. I've got too much stuff churning around in my head.”

“About Ann and Tanner?”

“Yeah, that too, I suppose. But mostly…”

Since Dell showed up yesterday morning professing to want to fix things, we haven't made any progress in that direction. Between scolding Ann for getting involved with a boy, blaming me for allowing it, and then dealing with the aftermath when everything went just as bad with Tanner as he said it would, he hasn't had much time to focus on us.

Please, God, let that be what's keeping him awake…and help us to find a way to fix things.

“Mostly…?”

He leans up on one arm in bed so he can see past the nightstand that separates our beds. “You know…property values. How much do you think we'll be able to get out of this place?”

I could scream…or cry. Maybe both. “That's what's keeping you up?”

Dell chuckles dryly. “I'm kidding.”

“You're awful.”

“I am, you're right. Just trying to keep this lighthearted.”

I sit up in bed so I can see him squarely. “Please don't joke, Dell. The state of things right now between us is hardly funny.”

He sits up too, propping himself against the headboard. “I know. I'm sorry. I just…I don't know where to begin.”

But I do
…
I hope.

I glance at the closed book on my lap. “How about we start with something simple?”

“Such as?”

“A question. If I ask you a question, will you give me an honest answer? I want the unvarnished truth.”

He nods. “I can do that.” With his eyes locked on mine, he waits to hear what's coming next.

“It's pretty simple actually. A follow-up to our phone conversation.”

“I'm all ears.”

“OK. Dell…do you love me?”

“That's it?”

“For starters.”

“Yes,” he replies soberly. I can hear the sincerity in his voice, and I know that he means it.

“Good. Me too.”

“You love you too?”

“No jokes, remember.”

“Sorry. I'll be good. Do you have another question?”

I exhale and nod at the same time. “This one's more difficult. How do you love me?”

He takes a second to think, then says, “Just the normal way, I suppose. I'm attracted to you, of course. And I appreciate all of the things you do for this family. I love the way you're always taking care of us and helping the kids. And even though we haven't had a lot to smile about recently, I do love your smile. Oh, and your dry sense of humor—when you show it—cracks me up.”

“Those are reasons
why
you love me, or what you love about me. I asked
how
you love me.”

“How?”

“How.”

He needs more time to think. “Well…I go to work every day, to provide for you.”

“And I appreciate it. So if you didn't love me anymore—say the worst happens and we get divorced—would you stop going to work for the rest of your life?”

“No.”

“Then that's not something you do just because you love me. So I'll ask again, how do you
love
me? What do you do to show me your love?”

“Well, I…”

I don't want to interrupt him, but as the silence grows, it's probably for the best. “Let me help you. I think part of our problem is that you say you love me, and I say the same thing back, but that's often where it ends. We love each other, but don't
love
each other.”

His shoulders slump slightly against the headboard. “That's what you were talking about last week. The noun and the verb, right?”

I nod.

“So what do we do?”

I take another breath. This is the point where he either plays along…or he doesn't. “Do you remember our first year of marriage, when we played Scrabble all the time at night?”

“Yes, how can I forget? You're the queen of triple-word scores. You'd beat me like nine times out of ten.”

“So why did you keep playing?”

With a little shirk he says, “Because I hated losing. And the fact that I lost so frequently made my victories all the sweeter.”

“You're competitive, Dell. We both are. It's one of the things I've always loved about you. Which is why…”

He raises his eyebrows expectantly. “Don't leave me hanging.”

I'm about to say something else, but another question comes to mind. “Do you want to win?”

“Win what?”

I smile. “Well, take your pick. Do you want to win in our marriage? Do you want
us
to win? Do you want to win me over?” I pause, looking right at him. “Do you want to win
me
?”

“You're the prize?” he says with a wry smile. I haven't seen that smile in a long time. I've missed it.

“Uh-huh.”

“Then yes, I want to win all those things you said. I certainly don't want to lose you.”

“Good, because I want to win too, which is why I want to challenge you to a game.”

“Of Scrabble?”

“No. Not Scrabble.”

“What sort of game?”

I hold up the journal I've been reading: “The Winner's Game.”

I can tell before he speaks that he's skeptical. “Didn't your granddad's letter mention something about that? The one Cade found in the Altoids can?”

“Yes.”

“Emily, look, I'm serious about making things better between us. I want to work on it. But…a game? I was thinking we needed full-on counseling.”

“And maybe we do, but I think, first, this is a good place to start. It's more than just a game, Dell. It's motivation…to help us love like the verb. Maybe it's crazy, but after reading my grandmother's journal, I think this could really work for us, if we give it a try.”

His eyes are still skeptical. “You're serious, aren't you?”

I nod, then stand up and motion for him to join me. “C'mon, I want to show you something.” I cross to the bedroom door, then lead him into the kitchen where the kids' weekly score sheet is taped to the side of the refrigerator. Ann and Cade both have one point below their names. Pointing to it, I ask him if he knows what it is.

He shrugs. “A chore chart?”

“A chore—? Seriously?”

“I don't know, maybe those marks are the number of jobs each kid has done.”

His comment makes me chuckle. “Our kids are lazy, but not that lazy.” I pause, getting more serious. “Do you remember the ‘nude books' we found in Grandma's room? The box full of notebook scorecards? Well, this is part of our children's scoring system. They've been playing the Winner's Game for two weeks already.”

“Seriously?”

“Uh-huh. And you know what? I've seen real changes in them. Nothing earth-shattering—I mean they're still kids. But the petty fighting has gone way down, and they're getting much better at biting their tongues when someone does something they don't like. And believe it or not, they're actually looking for subtle little ways to do nice things for each other.”

Finally he seems quasi-interested. “Like what?”

“Well, like yesterday morning, after I told Cade to put away his sleeping bag, I came through the living room and saw Ann putting it away for him while he was still in the bathroom. Then she went and gave herself a point. And Cade asked me at least four times last week if I had any spare pieces of chocolate, because he wanted to put them on his sisters' pillows. Eventually I ran out, so he scrounged around until he found chunks of baker's chocolate in the pantry. I think he gave himself a point for every individual piece of chocolate he delivered—bitter or otherwise—but at least he felt good doing it.”

Dell laughs lightly. “And Bree? Has she been playing along too?”

“Sort of,” I tell him, bobbing my head from side to side. “I'm not sure what her strategy is. As you can see, she hasn't won a week yet. But she assures me that she has a plan. Of course, she was slightly more temperamental to begin with, but even with her I've noticed a marked change in how she treats Ann and Cade. She may not be winning, at least in terms of points, but she is trying, and that's really the purpose.”

He studies the score sheet on the refrigerator for a few seconds, then looks up. “So if we were to play, what would we be playing for?”

“Same as my grandparents. Whoever has the most points at the end of the week gets to choose what we do on our weekly date.”

“But we don't have a weekly date.”

“Well, that's just another perk of the game. If we play, we get a weekly date.”

“Is that it?”

“No, there's a big prize too. Whoever wins the most weeks out of the year gets to choose how and where we celebrate our anniversary.”

“And you'd choose…?”

Does he even have to ask?
“Paris. If we play, we're going to Paris in December, just like we've always planned.”

He pretends to frown. “I've never really wanted to go there. So
if
we play…and I'm not saying I will, but
if
, and if I won—which I would—then we'd go deep-sea fishing in Cabo San Lucas. What I wouldn't give to reel in a two-hundred-pound marlin.”

But…you promised me Paris…

“Fine,” I tell him, not hiding my disappointment. “If you win—which you won't—you can choose Cabo. But come December, don't be too disappointed when we're looking out our window at the Eiffel Tower.”

He chuckles and shakes his head. “Then Cabo it is.”

“So you'll play?” I can feel myself biting my lip as I wait for his answer.

“Do you really think it will work?”

“I'll give you the same answer I gave the kids. I read what happened with my grandparents, and I honestly believe it can work for us too…but only if we really try. If we really want to win, then there's no way we can lose.”

His playful smile suddenly becomes more sincere. “Then I'll play.” He pauses, then asks, “So are there any rules that I should be aware of?”

I consider giving him a hug to thank him for playing at all, but that would be too bold, given how things have been lately. Instead I smile. “C'mon. Let's go back to bed and I'll give you all the details. The biggest thing to remember, though, as the kids quickly discovered, is that it's better to give than to take…”

When I wake up in the morning Dell's bed is empty. I check my watch.

Seven thirty.

With a robe on, I slip out of the room and am immediately assaulted by the smell of something burning. Grease, if I had to guess, and it's left a thick layer of smoke permeating the whole downstairs. I wave my way through it toward the kitchen, where I find Dell standing over the sink with a frying pan, pouring hot grease down the drain.

“Stop!” I scream. “What on earth are you doing?”

He keeps on pouring. “Cleaning up.”

“Dell, stop! You can't pour that down there. What's wrong with you?”

I can feel my agitation settling in, right under the skin. This isn't the first time I've told him not to pour grease down the drain.
Why doesn't he learn? Does he just not listen to me? I swear, sometimes he's worse than the kids. This is just pure laziness…too lazy to dispose of it correctly.

Now he stops and turns around, his expression sinking. “What's wrong with me?”

“Yes! You know that'll just clog the pipes. I've told you this over and over again. It doesn't take much to do it the right way.”

“The right way?” he asks defensively. “Or your way?”

“I can't help it if my way is the right way.”

“It always is,” he mumbles. Something—I can't tell what—flashes across his face when he says it. He takes a deep breath, then he puts the pan down on a hot pad and folds his arms. I'm expecting him to find something else vindictive to say, since I know I'm already loading my next round of words into the chamber. Instead, he lowers his head and mumbles a barely audible, “I'm sorry, Emily.”

“You're…what?” I'm so confused. This isn't how our fights go. It hasn't escalated far enough yet. Nobody is yelling, though I'm very close. And where is the door-slamming or the name-calling?

“I'm sorry,” he repeats. “You're right. You've told me a dozen times to let it cool in another container. I just…wanted to clean up the mess and get rid of the smell before you woke up.”