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“No,” I swallow past the painful lump growing in my esophagus. “I’m sorry. I wasted a lot of years being so angry.”
“I’m not the therapist here, but I’m pretty sure that’s a normal reaction.”
Push harder. He isn’t getting it.
“I was mad at you.”
The silence on the other end of the line is deafening, but Vic’s still here. Still listening. Letting me say what needs to be said.
“I felt robbed, cheated. How could we be identical down to our very DNA, and yet I was sick, and you were so healthy? Why couldn’t I keep the weight on and the muscle tone despite the chemo? Why couldn’t I have had any other cancer than one that would destroy my ability to play? I was the better player. I was the flashy player. We were going to get deals because of me.” I take a shaky breath. “I was so angry and then I had to pretend like I wasn’t. That seeing you with your USHL team gear on wasn’t a slap in the face. Like watching you sign with your first NHL team, and score your first goal didn’t set tiny pieces of me on fire.”
A ragged inhale on the line. “Erik,” Vic says, but I’m not done.
“I knew it wasn’t fair. I knew it was shit luck that cost me my everything while you got to live our dream. And the worst part of all of it?” I gulp down the lump in my throat. “I ached with pride, too. I was so happy when you got signed. So fucking proud when you laced your skates up during that first game. You earned every piece of that dream and I wanted that for you, even as I hated that you made it without me. That was the hardest part. Knowing I was a selfish bastard. That I’d spent years resenting you and mom and Anna for being able to live your lives while I seemed stuck, but also because it felt like I couldn’t be scared or in pain or angry because I had to be strong for everyone else. I can’t even look at Mom sometimes without remembering her sobbing right outside the door to my hospital room.”
My heart is pounding beneath my sternum, slamming into my organs like a battering ram trying to escape. Sweat drips down my forehead and my lungs burn. I haven’t felt this out of breath since my last long run during peak marathon training. Maybe not even then. Maybe I haven’t felt this since sprint drills with my brother. The ones where we ignored everyone else on the team and almost killed ourselves trying to beat each other. It didn’t even matter who had won those races.
“I’m sorry,” I say again. “I was selfish. I’m still being selfish by staying away. I know that. My head wants to fix things, Vic. I swear it does. I just don’t know how.”
My brother says nothing, and I pull the phone away from my ear to check that the call hasn’t dropped. Between the two of us, Vic has always been more of the rambler and I’m the listener. Vic was the one who always knew what to say and when to say it. Now the silence is stretching out into eternity, ringing between us.
I’d messed everything up. This was why I stayed away so long. The problem with years of guilt and blame is that they fester when left for too long. In theory, the therapist in me would have told anyone else that it was never too late to let go of the anger and guilt. It doesn’t mean that everything will go back to the way things were before everything went wrong, but there was always value in airing heavy emotions. In practice? Well, in practice, it’s always easier to give advice than to take it. That’s why I have a therapist of my own. We’ve spent years addressing why I cut my family off, why I shut them out. I just never felt much motivation to change the status quo. Not until recently.
“If you’re a selfish bastard, then I’m a selfish bastard.” Vic sounds winded. Strangled. Like his vocal chords aren’t working properly. It reminds me of the morning after the first pro game we’d seen together. We’d screamed our nine-year-old hearts out until our throats were toast. It had taken close to two weeks for our voices to return to normal.
“You aren’t.” I say. It’s not selfish to go after what he always wanted. It’s not like he chose to leave me behind. I know that.
“I’m serious, E,” Vic says. “I knew you were sick. I knew what your diagnosis had cost you. But after the first surgery, when the doctors were optimistic about the future, I still spent hours pissed off that everyone was too worried about how much you ate or pissed to remember that I even existed. I couldn’t talk about Juniors or my average points per game, because that would upset the person I was supposed to share it with. Anna was away at school and mom was posted outside your room, and I was left bumming rides to practice and games. I was forging signatures so I could miss school and travel. My life was headed where I’d always wanted it to go, and the only thing people wanted to talk about was you.”
Funny.
The only thing I hadn’t wanted to talk about that first year was cancer, and my twin hadn’t been able to escape it.
“So, I’m sorry,” Vic sighs and I know he’s pulling his hand through his unruly hair even across a cell phone connection and multiple states. “Because every single fucking day I ached for everything you’d lost and I worried about your future and I wished that for just two minutes you could stop hogging all the motherfucking attention.”
That shocks a laugh right out of me. “I’m sorry for being a fucking inconvenience. What with the chemo and the carving out chunks of my bone and replacing them with slices of metal.” There’s no heat in my words, and I laugh again. “I suppose I should have been more considerate.”
“Exactly,” Vic says. “At last you see it from my point of view. I’m clearly the victim here.”
“Right. A victim with a multi-million-dollar contract with a team that is in good-standing as we get closer to the playoffs. I don’t feel sorry for you.”
“Of course not,” Vic scoffs. “Because I’m being ridiculous. And yet not at all. I’d have assumed you’d be the first to tell me that all feelings are valid no matter how illogical they seem. We should have talked about this years ago. Or at least in person.”
“I think fear of doing this in person is what led to years passing,” I say, scrubbing a hand across my jaw.
“Or resignation to the status quo.”
“Or that.” We both laugh.
I feel antsy in my skin. Energized. Like I could get off this call and run a solid ten miles and then maybe do another round of weight training at the gym. The building’s equipment is state-of-the-art, and I make use of the facilities often, but not this late at night and not twice in a day. I’d kept a strict workout regime since leaving hockey behind; it was part of my original rehab, but it was also one of the few things that felt normal. I should do a google search, find some gyms in Quarry Creek. For the next time I visit. None of the homes I’ve bookmarked has a gym, but I could make one.
My brother has one too. One he rarely touches since he tends to work out with his teammates. One he’d give me access to if I just ask.
“Back to more serious matters,” Vic says, as if we haven’t just ripped open old, badly healed scars. “I had a reason for calling.”
“Not moving,” I say again. “My job is here.” As if I don’t still have that flagged email sitting in my inbox, asking me to toss my hat in the ring for the director position at Grace Hospital. As if I haven’t looked over my client list to see if I could step away, to match them with other practitioners, to continue working with them remotely. As if I haven’t drafted a response and trashed it at least twice a day since the email first pinged into place.
“Then it probably won’t bother you to know that I saw your Quinn out on a date.”
