When Memory Creates Its Own Reality

How easily the weight of responsibility falls upon a hockey player’s shoulders. The hearts and hopes of millions carried by 20 exhausted backs; if they falter there’s only heartbreak and disappointment felt amongst the aching muscles. One pain muting another.

At times you blame the others almost as much as you blame yourself. Almost, but the blame always hangs here first, around your neck. You missed your scoring chance, turned it over at the worst possible moment. Made stupid split second decision. Somehow the goalie commits too much on a shot that goes in and it’s your fault anyway. If you could only score.

Then there is that other heartbreak, being pulled from one family without a moments hesitation or notice. A trade. With me, it takes so long before the new city becomes home and I can feel welcoming glances beyond the burning stares of expectancy. But not now. Not after a conference final sweep. Not the year we go all in.

We are a disappointment but none so more than me. I know the other guys must feel it, Crosby must be going through hell, and then there’s Iggy. And sometimes with the guilt there is a measure of selfishness. I can’t think of what it’s like for them, I can only focus on blame, disappointment, regret.

The alcohol I’ve managed to consume becomes a throbbing numbness but crisp night air prods me awake. The darkness of night obscures everything around the large door yet the moonlight teases out vague silhouettes. I try my keys but they are all impossible shapes and I can’t jam any of them into the brass lock. Can’t make them fit. Can’t make myself fit.

Earlier that day when I get back to Pittsburgh, I walk into the house and harshly release the weight of my bags. I take one look around at this place that is supposed to comfort, and no, I don’t want to be here. I don’t change, don’t fix myself up, I turn and disappear from the cold confines, barely remembering even to lock the door.

I want a drink. Or maybe several. I want numbness, perhaps amnesia. I want better.

And that’s why I’m such a mess. Trying in futility to muster the dexterity to even open my front door. A losing effort, the metal eventually falls to the cement step in utter refusal of my one request. I want to go inside, maybe fall asleep. I don’t want to be out here any more, afraid of the ridicule I never end up receiving.

You could look at this Pittsburgh street and call it perfect. Every house and life from a magazine that’s got all the answers. A great photograph, a manicured image, except for me succumbing to the haze of alcohol and letting myself slide down the cool grain of the door. My suit jacket drags under my weight, dirt embeds itself in the fabric of my pants as I finally settle on the step. The sad, humbling journey of an old autumn leaf crumpling spent on the warm summer ground.

If someone were to walk right up to me and punch me in the face I probably wouldn’t even feel it until blood dripped from my chin. I’m not even sure what I’m doing. I know I’m waiting for something but I can’t put some label on it. I just watch the orangey glow of the streetlight contrast against the smooth dark blue shades of night. Such deep tones.

There are moments where I miss ho-hum Dallas. A passionate place but not the church of Crosbys and Lemieuxs. They don’t create idols and heroes like Pittsburgh does. Images I can never live up to, and in Dallas never had to try.

Or maybe it’s not the extra weight of expectation in Pittsburgh that is bothering me but the fact that here I never share it. In Dallas I sulk in my own aggressive frustration but only until she comes to find me. She runs porcelain fingers up my arms and drags away the tension with such simple action. Touches always linger on the ink of my tattoo, tracing new patterns overtop. Every time, her painfully soft lips lightly tease me there. Its always there she places the first kiss, the old ink had become her unspoken starting line. I can’t look at it and not think of her pouty lips. Eternal reminder.

Her perfume floats towards me and the familiar smell mingles with the air beneath my nose. When this happens it’s a memory. I hear footsteps but what are they?

I forget where I am. Lead eyelids dragging closed. Rest. I don’t care. My head feels so heavy and I want my thoughts to stop. I want to stop blaming myself.

But it’s all my fault. I am Atlas and that single loss is the world.

I hear my name in her familiar hybrid accent and that too is from the past.

“James.”

The idea of it brings memory, sensation, comfort.

An early morning appearance at a Dallas hospital is pretty routine, even as a baby-faced rookie. Reibero and Niskanen flank my sides as we navigate familiar halls. Barely any visitors at this hour, no reporters for our little surprise. The room we’re looking for is the last one in a long hallway and my teammates don’t hesitate before slipping in, but I do. I’m pulled away for a fraction of a moment as my nose follows the pleasant perfume that floats by me. Notes of jasmine, maybe rose. An absolute vision of thick brunette hair—tinted a glowing copper under the abrasive lights—frames a freckled face, impossibly green eyes. The breath in my throat falls short and did my stomach just fall to the floor? But she is gone just as fast as she appears.

There are her first words to me at the hospital. “You’ve been here a while.” Staring into the room at her younger brother. Our second visit. Her accent is something subtle, embedded only in her vowels and some places where she chooses to emphasize. Each sentence a landscape of mountains and valleys. When I ask her where it’s from she says “we moved to Boston from Ireland 6 years ago to get him help. Ended up here a few years ago” She’s so concerned for him, and how he’s looking a little pale. “Does he look like he needs a thicker jumper?”

At some point she learns that the green of my Dallas shirts make the green of her eyes that much deeper. Some Saturday mornings she slips them on, the contrast of her fair skin with these shirts and the cloud of white duvet that surrounds her is an intoxicating sight to drink up. The masculine lines of the fabric hang desirably off all her feminine curves.

When a game is bad and I blame myself she is always there to comfort me. Slipping into my bed while I fall asleep. Whispering encouragement in my ear. And I love her. It’s not a forced loved, or a trophy love. We don’t tell anyone because no one else matters. This is not a relationship of labels because we both know enough responsibility. We aren’t cut out for that, only for loving embraces, and all night conversations.

There is also that first contact of my skin on hers and I’m an addict. My nose is the second thing to ever touch her soft skin after a gentle graze from my fingers. It rests at the hollow where shoulder and neck meet, feeling the firm contour of bone there before following the smooth runway up to just behind the lobe of her ear. Here I stop and feel the warmth of her hair against my cheek and breathe in her shampoo. Her mouth is so close to my ear when she sighs my name. “James.”

I like her expressions. The way “shite” can slip out accidently, sometimes playfully, “Agh, go on with ya’.” So much time in the U.S. during her teenage years mean these pearls don’t come out often, I have to coax them out, and I always do.

If I weren’t so drunk perhaps the bad memories would come. Her small hand pushing me away by my chest. “James…” Pushing me away too with her words. “Just go on, yeah? I don’t know about you, but I can’t do it. Go to Pittsburgh.” Green eyes guarded. Nodding encouragement, vowels as soft and smooth as silk “…go.”

The slightest bit of moisture leaves the corner of my eye and catches the cool night air against the skin there. Not even a full tear, only just a hint. And I don’t know if it’s because of the thought of her, or the loss of the game, or all the alcohol I had been warned not to drink. But its there.

“Oi, you are a stubborn thing, aren’t you?” Still her accent. So beautiful and soft and warm. “Stubborn bloody mess.”

The slightest hint of affection in the words. I feel better. Slightly. But I want to shake off the past and stop living in it. I’m in Pittsburgh now. And the urge to get up and in the house overtakes me with new agency. With a pull of the crisp fresh air into my lungs I reach for the keys, wobble upwards uncertainly. My eyes try and focus the moving ground. How did I even get home again?

The door is my only steadying force as I try and stay up, looking once again through the blur of metal keys but they fumble and confuse my hazy mind. Every effort gets absorbed by futility and a growl escapes again.

“Here, let me help you there, stud.”

Porcelain fingers graze my palm, which starts a domino effect of muscles tensing in shock. That voice is not a memory. Not those fingers…

They hook the ring of keys and pull them from the small line of my vision. Did everything just start spinning faster? I see her arm and the four beauty spots in their familiar constellation.

Dark violet nail polish grips one of the metal keys, turning it gracefully in moments. Everything is happening so fast, wrapped in such a fog it is only then that I finally turn to see my helper. Hair nearly black in the darkness, big round eyes twinkling in the hint of light. Is that a smirk on her pouty lips? How long had she been there?

The trip through the first floor is filled with stumbling. Reminisces of mid night entrances to her Dallas apartment. I don’t falter intentionally but I love the feeling of her steadying hold, warm soft and firm are fingertips that grip me. Passed the discarded bags from my trip, it’s one, two, three steps into the living room before I collapse on the couch. Just stop spinning. Everything.

“Sleep.” Comes her soft command and I’m out.

-----------------

Could she have actually been in Pittsburgh? Is my first coherent thought as I wake. Is it an actually possible thing that she had carried me to my rest that night? Had it been a dream, it certainly felt like one. Or maybe a memory? But the image of her seemed off, even in my drunk state I felt it.

She could not have come to Pittsburgh. These were two and a half year old memories resurrected in my sloppy state. They like to resurface when I’m at my lowest and the night before was certainly that.

The couch creaks slightly when I sit up on it and try desperately to push away the fog clouding my brain. I remember the trip home from Boston, I remember drinking, reminiscing drunk on the doorstep but I don’t want to think of any of that.

Why did her memory haunt me so much? It seems insane to me now that we had only ever been glorified friends. In the privacy of our homes, at the latest hours we acted as longtime lovers but only then. I had let her go so easily but what else could I have done? When would time heal this one last wound?

If I turn on the TV will I regret it? A moderate headache is creeping on and I know at the very least the repeated news of the loss will keep my mind occupied. I actually prefer the weight of blame to the emptiness of her absence.

“In other news, Penguins coach Dan Bylsma had a few words to say to the media regarding the surprising third round exit of his hockey team…”

The image on the TV switches to Dan, pulling himself together better than me but the disappointment is still there.

“It was a tough series, they have a great hockey club over there and unfortunately we—“

Turning it off I could finish the thought for him. –were just not good enough. I never am.

The sun is already up, highlighteing rectangular patterns on my hardwood floor, pulling out flecks of gold in the grain. Depth of colours holding my attention until the doorbell rings. An immediate annoyance. I’m still barely able to process that I’m awake but I know I should answer the door.

I don’t even realise I’m wearing the same clothes I came home in until Pauly is walking passed me, judgement etched into his expression.

“Just wanted to make sure you got home man. Are you aright?”

“I’m fine, just drank too much.” But his eyes look at me expectant for more, but that’s all I have. “Sooo,” I feel awkward despite how long we’ve been friends, I’ve never been this ridiculous. Even though he’s just being a good teammate I want nothing more than for him to leave. “Is that all?”

“Actually I want to go for breakfast, so go clean up.”

I groan. Do I have to? But I know I do. “Yeah, fine. Just give me a few.”

When I clean and shave I actually look like a sane human being again, not that I really feel like one, but it’s a start. I still have to drag myself back to the main floor. Grab my ring of keys and phone left on the table where I slept.

The loss is still weighing pretty heavy on both of us and it creates a silence as I go to leave. To lock up the door when I notice that my key is missing.

“Where the fuck is my key?”
“You lost your house key?”
I shake my head trying to remember. “I don’t know.”
My eyes scan the ground near where I’m sure I settled last night. It’s with my eyes focused on ground and my mind wandering for an answer that I bump into the metal mailbox on the wall and something white falls into the line of vision. It takes a couple of blinks before I process that it’s really there and pick it up.

The front of the envelope has a beautifully imperfect blend of cursive and printing I remember from Dallas. It says one single word. Whitby. It’s not where it should be sent or where it is from but who it’s addressed to. Me. I realise she must have been here, suddenly sending my nerves jittering into overdrive. For some reason I’m acutely aware of how much leaving her hurt, and how hopeless this note, letter, whatever, probably is. I wonder what if it’s not? But I know better than that. It doesn’t stop me ripping the top seam of the folded paper and slipping out the letter.

I know I said I’d stop calling you that if you never called me Cork, but it’s been a while, and I was always more a Dubliner anyway.
I’ve been in Pittsburgh for a week now but I didn’t get in touch because I know it’s the post season. No doubt all of your energy and focus has been on taking that ginger beard to finals length. I was watching. Every game. That’s why I finally came round last night, hoping you were home. Never thought I’d use that address you sent me. I wasn’t even sure it’d still be yours. Guess I was lucky you were on the step as confirmation. You looked a right mess but I guess it was bad timing from me as well. I just know how much losing “sucks” and wanted to make sure you were taking it alright.
That’s not why I’m in Pittsburgh and maybe I should be telling you this in person like I had planned to but I didn’t really get a chance last night. I know over the last couple years you’ve kept in touch with my brother Patrick. He was always excited when you sent him something or called him. The nurses and I would hear nothing else the next day. He really looked up to you, so I wanted to thank you for the effort you put in with him, and the others in his ward. I also thought I should come to give you the news that he passed, about a month ago. Well, exactly 28 days ago. It was during the night, he had a seizure in his sleep. I didn’t come for comfort or support or anything like that. I just thought you should know in case you tried to send him something or call him. I’m sorry to spring this on you now. I don’t want you to get upset over it or feel sorry for me.
I do hope that you’re finding happiness in Pittsburgh. If you want to see me before I leave, I’m staying at the Fairmont for a few more days. Then it’s back to Dallas to sort everything out with the family. You can ring my mobile, I’ll make sure it’s charged and not on silent.

Cheers (hopefully that’s appropriate)
Wren
###-###-####
Also, left your key in the mailbox after locking up last night.

I should have read it alone with all the expressions I know I can’t stop. Shock, sadness at the news, disappointment at all the reminders. But Paul never says a word and when I finally finish and refold it along the creases with extra pressure I know my first priority. Breakfast.
No matter what my choice I need the energy.

“I knew you wouldn’t have made it alone. You were so trashed man.” He’s referring to the key I’m digging out of the mailbox, deducing from there.
“Yes well thanks for all your help.”
“Who do you think drove you home? I was going to drop you off here but you insisted on walking from my place. When I tried to go with you, you wanted to fight me.” That helps fill in a few missing memories from the night before but I don’t want to think about that because then I’ll think about the loss, and I’ll think about her.
“So, what restaurant has the biggest breakfast portions?”