Maybe I need to see a shrink.
I tear up at the idea of her hidden sadness. I was still catty and stuck-up at the time she wrote that, but I gained perspective with her death. It’s hard to be arrogant when your mom decides that a terrifying death is more appealing than returning home to finish raising you. I might’ve been a disappointment to her when she was alive, but I’ll do right by her wish now. I’ll be strong and open and kind and, above all, not an asshole.
Brady
Seven minutes short. I failed to qualify. I ran twenty-six-point-two goddamn miles to come up seven minutes short. I look around for a ledge or a curb, anything to sit on.
A lady standing next to me flails a finger at a friend. “No. I’m telling you, your qualifying time is based on the age you’ll be at the Boston Marathon. You’re a September birthday, right?”
In my depleted state, it takes a second to process that I’ll also be a year older by then, which means three hours and twenty-seven minutes is good enough. I do a little fist pump that does not go unnoticed. “I’m glad I sat here,” I explain when the women look my way. “I didn’t think I’d made it.”
The runner smiles. “Me neither. And I would have been pissed.” Her words are more aggressive than you’d expect given her petite frame. “Pamela,” she says.
“Brady.” We exchange basic pleasantries as the crowd ebbs. It’s refreshing to converse with someone who assumes your life is normal. She owns her own commercial real-estate business in Boston. This was her first marathon. She’s a Patriots fan too.
I don’t know if it’s delirium from the run or if I’m just up for celebrating, but I ask Pamela to dinner. Her friend giggles and politely looks the other way, pretending to be distracted by someone in the crowd.
Pamela scowls at my wedding ring. “I don’t think so,” she says coldly, wiping a new layer of sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand. “Your wife deserves a little more respect, don’t you think?”
I clam up, unable to respond, as though I’ve been justly busted. I look around for an exit strategy, but people are everywhere. Pamela continues her lecture. “I’ve been on the receiving end of a husband like you before. Worst decision I ever made.” She mutters something with the word asshole in it and turns back to her friend.
I look to the pavement, ashamed. Suddenly, the sounds of the city and crowd merge together into an unintelligible din that clouds my ability to think. As if there’s an earthquake, my footing becomes unstable. My heart pounds more than it did during the race. I can’t make sense of what’s happening, but this-this force that has taken me hostage shouts at Pamela’s back, “Maddy is gone. Dead. She died. And I wasn’t there to stop her.” My legs buckle beneath me and I fall to the ground. I look ridiculous, and I know it, but I’m not in control. All the tears I replaced with temper tantrums and expensive bourbon pour out now, a sprung leak.
Newly finished runners swarm me. Some are jovial, slapping my back, saying things like “It’s all over buddy!” or “You did it, man!” I lay there, blanketed in sweat, sobbing.
There’s a soft kick at my side. Pamela stands over me, arms extended. I reach for them and she pulls me up. “Where are you staying?” she asks. I point down the street to the Hyatt. “Okay, okay, I’ll get you there. Walk with me.”
She props her small frame under my shoulder, leading me through the maze of people. Her height is misleading; the woman is solid muscle. I lean on her in a complete haze, emotionally and physically spent.
She brings me all the way to my room. I collapse on the hotel comforter that Maddy always took off right away because you never knew what foul things had taken place on it, and fall asleep.
It’s dark when I wake. The humiliation of my finish line debacle wakes with me. A thick film covers my body like a wet suit. My eyes are swollen, my head is throbbing, but mostly, I’m thirsty. Savagely thirsty. Kill-a-man thirsty. I drink both of the four-dollar waters on the dresser, then hit the minibar for apple juice, orange juice, pineapple juice, and iced tea. When I finish, about forty dollars later, I enjoy the primal sense of survival. I stretch, smelling myself with disgust, and head to the bathroom for a shower.
The water has an almost spiritual quality. It’s roasting hot and I welcome the burn. I soap and then soap again, scrubbing away the memory of my mental breakdown. I can picture Dr. White correcting me at my next session: “Brady, what you’re describing is a breakthrough, not a breakdown. Your core is finally admitting the magnitude of its loss. That’s progress.”
I stand under the scalding water so long my body acclimates to it. Is it progress? I’m mortified by my lack of composure, but damn it, I do feel lighter having gotten that out. When I finally call it and turn off the shower, the steam is so thick it seeped underneath the bathroom door into the bedroom.
Refreshed and donning only a towel, I call Eve at the Cape. She picks up on the first ring, worried I hadn’t called sooner. As soon as I tell her my time qualified, she forgets her anxiety and cheers with genuine excitement. “I’m so proud of you, Dad. You worked so hard.” I might be the only man to ever hear those words from his seventeen-year-old daughter.
“Thanks, Bean. I’m sort of proud of me too. How’s the Cape?”
“Good. We miss you. Uncle Dan says there’s too much estrogen in the house, and if I ever come without you again, he’s staying home.”
“Tell him I can only imagine. I won’t let it happen twice.” I have no intention of sharing my “breakthrough,” so after I hear about their gorgeous beach day we say good night.
I’m starving.
The lobby bar is hopping with runners. I’m eager to blend in with the crowd and knock back a few celebratory drinks, until I see her. Apparently, escorting me to the Hyatt wasn’t out of Pamela’s way. I try to duck out, but she taps my shoulder as I turn to leave. “I was about to call and check on you. I’m glad you came down.”
I want to disappear. I’d banked on the fact that, statistically, I’d never see this woman again. Yet here we are, five hours later. I improvise, determined not to lose any more credibility. “Um, I’m actually getting room service. I’m here to snag a menu because there wasn’t one in my room.”
She smiles and I remember why I was initially attracted to her. “Well, I’m glad you seem to be feeling better. And congratulations on qualifying.”
“You too. Listen,” I start, but what can I say? Sorry I completely lost my shit earlier? I clear my throat. “About before, I don’t know what came over me.” I grab a menu off the bar with the intent to excuse myself.
“No, I’m sorry. I have a big, fat mouth and it gets me in trouble sometimes.”
“You couldn’t have known. I don’t know why I still wear the ring.”