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The quiet she leaves in her wake rings with shit I don’t want to think about.
I close the door and lean my forehead against it. I can just hear the whir of Liam’s noise machine upstairs. The soft buzz of my refrigerator in the kitchen.
Once upon a time, this used to be my favorite time of day. I love to eat, so dinner’s always something to look forward to. It’s always nice to revel in the feeling of having had done shit, relaxing on the couch while patting myself on the back for everything I accomplished that day: exercised, practiced, pushed.
But over the past year or so, nighttime’s brought with it this weird . . . unhappiness. I don’t know how else to describe it. I’ve tried mitigating it with more exercise. More doing and going and accomplishing. But the harder I work, the crankier and more tired I seem to get.
The more anxious I seem to feel.
I push off the door and head for the kitchen, grabbing a beer out of the fridge. I pop the top and take a long, hard sip, the sudden deluge of carbonation burning the back of my throat.
I take another sip, and another, waiting for the hard edge of . . . whatever it is to go away. These days, it takes more and more booze to make that happen, so it’s no surprise I stay anxious, despite the second beer I open, and the third.
I stand by my statement: I love the game.
I just don’t know if I love my life anymore. Maybe because I don’t have a life outside of football. I’ve sacrificed everything to win this goddamn championship. Family. Fun. Relationships. Hobbies.
I thought living this way was the right call.
Now I’m not so sure. And I don’t know if Liam’s going to make the doubt I feel any better or worse.
I wake with a start at the sudden, high-pitched screech.
“Mama,” someone moans. “Mama! Lili want mama!”
Groping blindly on the nightstand for my phone, my hand bumps into something unfamiliar. Bigger than a phone. More solid.
That’s when it hits me: the sound isn’t coming from my phone.
It’s coming from the monitor beside my phone.
My son is making that sound.
My eyes fly open, and my stomach dips when I see the grainy video of Liam standing up in his crib, sobbing.
The monitor tells me it is 11:52 P.M. I think—I hope—I must’ve passed out sometime around nine?
I push up to sitting, my brain sloshing around inside my skull. I wince and run a hand over my face, taking in the disaster that is my bedroom. A half-empty beer bottle stands beside a water glass on the nightstand. My khakis and shirt are in a pile on the floor, along with my shoes and belt. The sheets are hanging off the bed. I must’ve kicked them off after I fell asleep.
The TV is still on. At least I had the peace of mind to mute it.
“Mama,” Liam screams.
Heart clenching, I climb out of bed. Poor little dude. Is he scared? Maybe being in a new place with new people is freaking him out?
I scurry to the bathroom, angry with myself, and maybe the universe too, for the throb in my head.
I scurry up the stairs and into Liam’s room.
He’s hysterical now, the kind of crying that almost sounds like a series of breathless hiccups.
“Hey, buddy,” I say, using the low, soothing tone Amelia did as I lift him out of the crib.
He only cries harder, asking over and over for his mama.
It’s fucking heartbreaking.
I try rocking him the way Beau showed me. I bounce him, doing laps around the room. I sing, wanting to cry myself when that doesn’t help either. At one point, Liam arches out of my arms and accidentally clocks me in the nose with his little hand, clearly fed up with my attempts to soothe him
Hours pass. Or maybe it’s minutes. There is no concept of time when a screaming kid is involved. Liam cries and cries. I feel bad for him.
I feel bad for myself too. Then I start to get frustrated. And then I start to panic.
What if this kid never gets over losing his mother? What if I can’t give him the help he needs?
And what the fuck am I gonna do about the call I have with my agent tomorrow at nine, followed by a two-hour workout at eleven, if I’m up all night?
I’m angry with myself for thinking about this stuff. Slogging through a call is small beans compared to losing a parent. But I can’t seem to help it. I’m more than a little obsessed with my work, which, up until now, was a good thing.
Mostly.
Heading downstairs, I try to give Liam his sippy cup.
Doesn’t want it.
I try snacks. Goldfish. A yogurt pouch. A banana. I fumble with a syringe of bright pink children’s Tylenol. I turn on Mickey. I give him Pup Pup.
