What You Left Behind (8 page)

Ha. Whatever.
I'm not sure if I actually say that out loud.

“Second…you really think
Michael
has something to teach you about being a parent that I don't?”

Shit.
Suddenly I'm realizing how that reasoning must sound to her. Like I think she wasn't enough of a parent. Like everything she's done for me was so lacking that a five-minute visit with my deadbeat, glorified sperm donor would be more meaningful than a lifetime with her. Goddammit. That's not what I meant at all.

“Mom…that's not…not
teach
me anything…more like what it
feels
like…I mean, you're the best—”

She holds up a hand to stop me. “It's okay, Ry.” She takes a breath and then asks, “Have you started looking for him?”

I nod.

“Anything?”

I shake my head. “I think it might be a lost cause.” But her question reminds me of all my other Googling, which provides me with the perfect opportunity to get far, far away from the subject of Michael. The news that the day care dilemma won't be an issue next year should cheer up Mom at least a little.

“I almost forgot—I did some research last night,” I say. “UCLA has a day care for students' kids. And they give you financial aid. So I can take Hope to California with me. I know it's not gonna be easy, but I really think I can do it.”

She crosses back over to me, places her hands on my shoulders, and really
looks
at me. Then she smiles a sad, weary smile. “You know what, bud? I think you can do anything, if you want it badly enough.”

“So”—I pause—“I'm gonna go to practice.”

Mom nods. “Have fun.”

• • •

“I got your message last night,” Alan says as I run him through the basics of child care.

“And?”

He shakes his head. “I haven't seen any of Meg's journals in months. Since she was still…here.”

“Damn.”

“What exactly are you looking for?”

I quickly explain my theory about the checklist and he goes, “That's so Meg.”

“So you think I'm right? About her leaving us some sort of message?”

“I guess it's possible. Or at the very least maybe she left us each a journal. As a…” He looks like he's searching for the word.

“Souvenir?”

“Or like a gift? But I don't know where she would have left them if they're not at your house and they're not at my house. It's not like she was going out all that much.”

“I know. That's the problem.” But with every moment that passes, my desperation to find Meg's journals grows. Because if I'm not going to get answers about how to be a dad from my father, then maybe I'll get them from Hope's mother. What if Meg left pages and pages of motherly wisdom behind? What if, even though she's gone, she didn't actually leave me alone in this?

At this point, I don't care where the answers come from—Michael or Meg or somewhere else entirely. Soon I'll be “Daddy,” and all too soon after that, Hope will be old enough to start remembering stuff, and I really need to figure out what the hell I'm doing by then, because I don't want to permanently screw her up. So you can be damn sure I'm going to follow any lead that comes my way.

I hand over Hope and all her stuff and book it across town to school. I get to practice at 9:55.

“Brooks,” Coach O'Toole barks, not looking happy. “You're late.”

“I know, Coach. I'm sorry. It won't happen again.”

He nods toward the field. “Take your place with your team. We're doing windows.”

I jump right into the passing and receiving drill, and after a few minutes, it's as if the last year didn't even happen. I'm back in time, the Ryden of old, the one who spent the summer before sophomore year hooking up with Shoshanna Harvey, swimming at the lake, drinking a lot of beer. The Ryden who knew absolutely nothing about baby feeding schedules or diaper rash or what the word
metastasis
means.

My foot connects with the ball over and over again, and each impact is like a jolt of electricity from a defibrillator. Out here on the field, I'm coming back to life.

Dave approaches me at lunch. “Dude.” He gives me a fist bump.

“Hey, Dave.”

“I didn't know if you were coming today. You seemed kinda freaked out at the lake. And you've been totally MIA all summer.”

I take a bite of my sandwich and chew slowly, trying to figure out how to respond. I really don't want to get into a whole discussion right now. Eventually, I go with, “Yeah, well, here I am. So what's going on with you and Shoshanna?”

Dave's eyes glaze over a little, and I know exactly what he's thinking about. There are certain things Shoshanna Harvey is very, very good at. “Man, she's amazing. I think I'm in love.”

I smile. He's not wrong. Sho
is
amazing, in lots of ways.

“That's cool with you, right?” he asks way too belatedly. “I mean, you're totally over her, yeah?”

“Yes, David. I'm over her. I'm happy for you, man.”

He pops a straw into a Capri Sun and downs the whole thing in one sip. I watch as the pouch gets flatter and flatter, powerless as its insides get sucked out. “Whatever happened with you two, anyway? You never told me why you broke up.”

I shrug. “Dunno. Just wasn't right, I guess.” The truth is, Sho and I had fun, but the same kind of fun over and over again gets old after a while—at least, when there's nothing underneath. I was ready for something else. Looking back, I was ready to find Meg. Not that Shoshanna's stupid or anything. She's actually really smart. And she's cool too. And fun. But we weren't right together. And I told her so. She was really pissed off at first, but she got over it. Shoshanna always bounces back. Maybe that's why she wears so much makeup—it's a barrier against assholes like me, so nothing we say or do can cut through her mask enough to hurt.

After the break, we play a full game to get back into the rhythm. I block every single shot.

At the end of practice, Coach O'Toole has us all gather around. “Nice work out there, gentlemen. Welcome back.” We all applaud. “Seniors, listen up. Some of you who will be playing D-One have unofficial offers already, and that's great. Keep talking to the coaches. Now that you're in your senior year, they're free to call you once per week. Let's turn those unofficial offers into official ones. For the rest of you, if you're planning to play in college,
now
is the time to start looking at schools and sending out your letters of interest. Don't dally. Recruiters' schedules fill up quickly, and you want to make sure they have time to come see you play.”

“Hey, Ryden,” Dave says after Coach lets us go. “A bunch of us are going to Chili's. You comin'?”

I shake my head. “Can't do it, man.”

He nods, like he expected me to say that. “Cool. See you tomorrow then.”

I shower quickly and hop in the car. I have thirty minutes to get to Alan's, pick up Hope, drop her off with Mom, and get to work.

But really, all I'm thinking about is writing the UCLA head coach. I know Coach said those letters were for guys who don't have any interest from recruiters yet, but I also know the UCLA recruiter needs to see me play one more time—in person—before offering me my scholarship. As far as I know, that visit hasn't been scheduled. So it couldn't hurt to remind them that I'm the guy for their team.

“How'd it go?” I ask Alan as I bundle Hope into her car seat. She's holding on to her spider stuffed animal, staring up at me, a little like
Hey, I remember you
.

She starts to get cranky the second that recognition kicks in.
Of
course.

“Great!” he says. “She's amazing.”

I walk out to the car, and Alan follows. “Thanks, man,” I say. “I really appreciate it. So you're cool for tomorrow?”

“Yeah, no prob. My mom's in love with her too. She wants to make her Korean baby food. Is that okay?”

“Sounds good.” I get in the car. “See ya, Alan.”

“Ryden, wait.”

I roll down the window. “Yeah?”

“You didn't call to check on her today.” He's looking at me like he's trying to figure something out.

Huh.
Calling to check on Hope didn't even cross my mind. I never do that when my mom has her while I'm at work. God, I'm so bad at this. Even when I try really freaking hard, I still screw up. “Oh, yeah, sorry. I, uh…practice was really busy. We didn't really have any downtime.”

“Okay.” I can't tell if he means it or if he's saying it sarcastically, like “yeah, right.”

I make a show of looking at the clock on the dashboard. “Gotta get to work, man. See you tomorrow. Thanks again.”

And I speed off.

• • •

I'm making a mental list of all the stats and info I should include in my letter to UCLA while taking all the expired containers of precut fruit off the refrigerated shelves in produce when someone taps me on the shoulder. I don't have to look to know who it is. But I turn around anyway.

“Before you say anything,” Joni says, holding up a hand, “let me say my thing first.” Her other hand's behind her back, like she's hiding something from me.

I wait. She's got a nose ring today. It's a really tiny green stone. I wonder if she just got it pierced or if she just wasn't wearing anything in the hole the last few times I've seen her.

“I wanted to say I'm sorry for being a total douche on Saturday. Sometimes I say things without thinking about how it will sound to the other person. It's a fault. I'm working on it.” She blows her hair out of her eyes. “I don't think you're spoiled or angsty or anything else that I said. I actually think you're pretty cool. So will you be my friend again, please?” She bats her eyelashes at me.

Maybe it's the high I'm riding from conquering the hungry baby dilemma last night and having such a good day at soccer, but I can't help but smile. “Yeah, okay.”

“Rad.” Joni brings her hand from around her back and hands me a package wrapped in aluminum foil.

“What is this?” I ask, taking it. It's warm and about the size of my fist.

“It's a vegetarian empanada.”

I stare at her. “Why are you giving me a vegetarian empanada?”

“It's a peace offering. Duh. My dad made them this morning. He loves to cook, so even though there are about a thousand people in my house, we always have a ton of extra food around. I gave one to my bus driver this morning—he liked it so much, he gave me a pass for a free ride home.”

“You take the bus to work?”

She shrugs. “Don't have a car yet.”

I open up the foil. A mouthwatering smell hits me. “This better be recycled aluminum foil,” I tease.

Joni holds up three fingers, in the shape of a W, and holds them over her heart. “Whole Foods honor.”

I take a bite of the empanada. “Holy shit.”

Joni grins. “Good, right?”

“Fucking amazing.” I devour the rest of it in two more bites. I guess with all the running around after practice, I didn't realize how hungry I was.

“There's more where that came from, friend.” She skips off just as some guy who looks like he came straight from the gym pulls an avocado from the middle of the display and about fifty avocados from the top of the pile, the ones that apparently weren't good enough for him, fall to the floor. Joni stops to help him pick them up, and I watch from across the produce section as she checks him out as he bends over. I don't mean checking him out in the “ringing up his groceries” kind of way. Her eyes are seriously
glued
to his ass.

Well, that was unexpected.

A couple of hours later, I take my break and open Meg's journal. I stare at the checklist, waiting for some meaning to float up off the pages. But I got nothin'.

I flip back toward the beginning of the book. That entry I read yesterday about the baby-naming conversation is still bothering me.

I read it again.

Yeah, still feels off. There's something about it that gives me an uneasy feeling—like I'm on my way to the beach and am about to realize I forgot to pack a bathing suit. But I still can't figure out
why
it feels that way. Maybe it's because I'm reliving that conversation about Hope's name with the power of hindsight behind me, and knowing how the whole situation pans out taints the moment with bitterness. That could be it.

But then, wouldn't
all
Meg's journal entries make me feel this way? Why is this one in particular driving me nuts?

I'm about to skip ahead to where I left off when Joni comes into the break room.

“There you are,” she says. She pulls out the chair next to me and sits down. “I saw on the schedule that you're off on Friday.”

“Yeah, why?”

“I'm off too. I thought we could do something.”

“Do something?”

“You know, hang out. Chill. Socialize in a nonprofessional capacity.”

Hmm. Does she mean as friends? Or something else? Because I'm beginning to think she's not quite as gay as I thought she was.

“I have soccer practice during the day,” I say.

“After that.”

“Uh, okay.” Okay?
Okay?
What the hell are you doing, Ryden?

Oh, who am I kidding? I know exactly what I'm doing. Joni's the only person I know who doesn't know about Meg or Hope or any of it. Being back at soccer today proved that I can be the old me again, the Ryden Brooks who everyone loved, who could do whatever he wanted with zero consequences. And it felt really, really good. I think if I play this right, I can have two lives—the shitty one
and
the good one. And they don't have to mix.

“Awesome,” Joni says. “What do you want to do?”

I shrug. “Whatever.”

“Do you want to go with me to get a tattoo?”

I stare at her. She's looking back at me, all “what?” like she just said the most boring thing in the world. “Uh…I don't really want a tattoo,” I say.

Joni rolls her eyes. “I wasn't talking about you. I was talking about me. It hurts like a bitch, and I could use a handholding buddy.”

I consciously ignore the hand-holding part of that statement. “How do you know it hurts so bad? Do you already have a tattoo?”

She rocks back on her heels, her hands in her pockets. “Yup.”

“Where?”

“Wouldn't you like to know.” She grins mischievously and then says, “Okay, cool, so we'll figure out the details later. See ya.” And then she's gone, the break room door swinging behind her.

• • •

That night, I write my letter to UCLA. If Meg were here, she'd watch over my shoulder for a few minutes as I struggled to get the words out on the screen. I used to read a lot, before I stopped having time, but writing has always been hard for me. How am I supposed to know what to say? Eventually Meg would gently put her hands on my shoulders and lean down and whisper in my ear, “Want some help?” She wouldn't say it condescendingly—she'd just want to know if I needed her help. I'd say yes, and she would sit on my lap and start typing, and in twenty seconds flat, she'd have the perfect letter written, no typos or misspelled words, and she wouldn't even have to use spell check. She never told me what she wanted to do after college, but I bet she'd have been an author. Or maybe a journalist. She did tell me she'd always dreamed of going to Dartmouth but that her plans changed after she got her diagnosis. That was why she'd gotten all sad that day outside the cafeteria when I told her about UCLA for the first time.

I read over the letter about a hundred times to make sure all the commas are in the right place and I don't sound like a complete dolt.

Stats, athletic background, academic background, game film, YouTube link, Coach's contact info, game schedule.
Long-ass paragraph of desperate pleading.

I go outside to put it in the mailbox. It's a really quiet night. There are no cars going by, and the people across the street are on vacation, so for once, their dog isn't barking his head off. Even my own house is quiet. Mom's hanging out on the couch with Hope, the two of them watching
The
Bachelor
.

I sink down to the curb and sit next to the mailbox, leaning back on my hands, staring up at the stars. I still don't quite get how each one of those stars is actually a sun, burning up its own part of the universe. It seems incomprehensible that something that big, that complex, that infinite, is out there, while we're here on this stupid planet watching reality shows and waiting in line for the new iPhone and buying all the chia seeds in Whole Foods because some article told us it was trendy, thinking we're tough shit, like any of it means anything. But we're miniscule. We mean nothing. And even in our own world, we don't stick around that long. Not long enough to matter. You're born—more likely than not an unintended by-product of your parents wanting to get laid—you do some stuff, and then you die. You get sick, you get hit by a train, you get old and fall apart. It all ends the same way. And that's it. Then your kids get horny, have a kid, and the cycle starts again.

What the hell is the
point
of any of it?

I brought Meg's journal with me. The light from the streetlamp casts the book in a muted golden color. I read a few entries. Meg writes about her family dinners, how her father has been drinking a lot more wine lately, shopping online with Mabel since she's not strong enough to go to the mall, watching the clock and counting the minutes until school gets out and I can visit her.

Her words break my heart into as many fragments as there are stars in the sky. But none of the entries have the same stomach-twisting effect as that baby-naming one.

I lie back on the narrow strip of grass between the street and the sidewalk and focus on one particularly bright star.

My voice is a whisper in the darkness. “I miss you.”