Alex
Page 72
Turning away from her, because more than anything, I just want to crawl back in bed with her and spend the day there, I head out of my hotel room. We are staying another night in New York because we have an afternoon game just across the Hudson with the Wildcats. I have an afternoon practice skate, but that gives me a few hours to hang with Sutton. She’s going to stay in New York and watch tomorrow’s game, so I have her again tonight too, the thought causing a smile to plaster across my face as I walk to the elevator.
After a short ride down to the lobby, I make my way to the hotel’s restaurant, which is surprisingly empty, and immediately spot Cameron. We had made plans to meet in New York because that was a shorter trip for him than coming to North Carolina. I’m assuming he arrived last night as he drove in, and he planned to head back after our meeting.
Cameron spots me as I walk toward him and he stands from the table. I haven’t seen him in almost three years, the last time when I made a short trip to Hamilton in the summer while I was visiting my hockey coach, who was sick. We look a lot alike in the face but he wears his dark hair in a buzz cut and he’s starting to develop a little bit of a gut.
Outside of his looks and knowing that he owns a hardware store in Hamilton, I really don’t know much about my older brother at all. I approach him and he looks at me awkwardly, not sure if we should shake hands or hug. I take the decision out of his hands and grab hold of the chair opposite where he was sitting and pull it back. I glance at him briefly and say, “Cameron,” then I sit down.
He follows suit, taking the napkin on his plate and placing it on his lap. “It’s good to see you, Alex. I caught the game last night…on TV, of course, in my hotel room. You looked great.”
My head pops up at that revelation, because as far as I’ve known, Cameron was not a fan of the sport and never talked to me about my career. I don’t even know what to say, so I take a sip of water that had already been poured and cut to the chase. “So how is Dad doing?”
Cameron’s face goes slightly red, and I guess he’s a little miffed I’m not engaging in small talk. “He’s fine right now. They gave him some steroid medications to reduce the inflammation and the bleeding stopped.”
“Is he drinking?”
The look Cameron gives me says it all, so I press forward. “Have you suggested rehab to him?”
“Yes and he won’t do it. Maybe if you talked to him—”
“He’ll never listen to my advice. Half the time he can’t even stand to look at me,” I snap.
“I think you’re wrong,” Cameron says. “He’s proud of you. He admires what you’ve become. I think he’d do it for you.”
I stare at Cameron as if he’s just fallen out of the crazy tree and hit every branch on the way down. Is he living in a dream world? Has he just buried his head in the sand, pretending that the first sixteen years of my life weren’t traumatic? Has Cameron truly forgotten the ways in which my dad abused me, both physically and mentally?
The thought causes rage to build and I want to tear into my brother. From the corner of my eye, I notice a waitress approaching and I level a look at her that sends her scurrying. But that moment was enough of a reprieve that I bring myself under control.
With my voice as calm as I can make it, but still gritty and raw, I tell Cameron, “I know you didn’t fail to notice the shit storm that Dad rained down on me for most of my life. I know you are aware of it, because you sat blissfully untouched while Dad focused all of his attention on me. And by attention, I mean using pain to forge me into a hockey machine.”
“Alex—” Cameron says in a pleading tone, but I cut him off.
“No…you know what I went through, and you may not know it now, because we don’t talk, but I go through it still with him. He’s still to this day trying to control and manipulate me—that is, when he’s sober enough to put the effort into it. So what makes you think, first, that Dad would listen to me, but, more important, what makes you think that I give a shit if he goes to rehab or not?”
Cameron jerks backward over the vehemence in my voice but his eyes look sad when he says, “Because he’s your dad. And yes…I know he was a monster to you. I wish I could have done more…as your older brother, I should have—”
“You’re f**king right you should have done something,” I growl as I lean across the table.
Cameron just looks at me patiently, eyes still sad. When I lean back, he continues, “I regret I didn’t do anything—step in, redirect his attention, whatever. I can’t change it. But maybe you need to consider…my life with him wasn’t all that great. You might have had negative attention from him, but you had all his attention. I had none. Once he realized I had no talent for the game, I was forgotten. I raised myself in that house, and you can spout all you want about how terrible he was…but there were good times too. I remember them. I remember you and Dad watching hockey together on TV, laughing and joking. I remember you getting extra presents at Christmas, and I remember Dad telling all of his friends about how proud he was of you. Not me, you. So don’t think you were the only one who suffered, Alex. My suffering was just different.”
My heart starts pounding over Cam’s words and I flush heavy with guilt. Holy shit…is it possible I’ve been so mired in my own bitterness and self-pity that I failed to recognize that I wasn’t the only one my dad warped?
After a short ride down to the lobby, I make my way to the hotel’s restaurant, which is surprisingly empty, and immediately spot Cameron. We had made plans to meet in New York because that was a shorter trip for him than coming to North Carolina. I’m assuming he arrived last night as he drove in, and he planned to head back after our meeting.
Cameron spots me as I walk toward him and he stands from the table. I haven’t seen him in almost three years, the last time when I made a short trip to Hamilton in the summer while I was visiting my hockey coach, who was sick. We look a lot alike in the face but he wears his dark hair in a buzz cut and he’s starting to develop a little bit of a gut.
Outside of his looks and knowing that he owns a hardware store in Hamilton, I really don’t know much about my older brother at all. I approach him and he looks at me awkwardly, not sure if we should shake hands or hug. I take the decision out of his hands and grab hold of the chair opposite where he was sitting and pull it back. I glance at him briefly and say, “Cameron,” then I sit down.
He follows suit, taking the napkin on his plate and placing it on his lap. “It’s good to see you, Alex. I caught the game last night…on TV, of course, in my hotel room. You looked great.”
My head pops up at that revelation, because as far as I’ve known, Cameron was not a fan of the sport and never talked to me about my career. I don’t even know what to say, so I take a sip of water that had already been poured and cut to the chase. “So how is Dad doing?”
Cameron’s face goes slightly red, and I guess he’s a little miffed I’m not engaging in small talk. “He’s fine right now. They gave him some steroid medications to reduce the inflammation and the bleeding stopped.”
“Is he drinking?”
The look Cameron gives me says it all, so I press forward. “Have you suggested rehab to him?”
“Yes and he won’t do it. Maybe if you talked to him—”
“He’ll never listen to my advice. Half the time he can’t even stand to look at me,” I snap.
“I think you’re wrong,” Cameron says. “He’s proud of you. He admires what you’ve become. I think he’d do it for you.”
I stare at Cameron as if he’s just fallen out of the crazy tree and hit every branch on the way down. Is he living in a dream world? Has he just buried his head in the sand, pretending that the first sixteen years of my life weren’t traumatic? Has Cameron truly forgotten the ways in which my dad abused me, both physically and mentally?
The thought causes rage to build and I want to tear into my brother. From the corner of my eye, I notice a waitress approaching and I level a look at her that sends her scurrying. But that moment was enough of a reprieve that I bring myself under control.
With my voice as calm as I can make it, but still gritty and raw, I tell Cameron, “I know you didn’t fail to notice the shit storm that Dad rained down on me for most of my life. I know you are aware of it, because you sat blissfully untouched while Dad focused all of his attention on me. And by attention, I mean using pain to forge me into a hockey machine.”
“Alex—” Cameron says in a pleading tone, but I cut him off.
“No…you know what I went through, and you may not know it now, because we don’t talk, but I go through it still with him. He’s still to this day trying to control and manipulate me—that is, when he’s sober enough to put the effort into it. So what makes you think, first, that Dad would listen to me, but, more important, what makes you think that I give a shit if he goes to rehab or not?”
Cameron jerks backward over the vehemence in my voice but his eyes look sad when he says, “Because he’s your dad. And yes…I know he was a monster to you. I wish I could have done more…as your older brother, I should have—”
“You’re f**king right you should have done something,” I growl as I lean across the table.
Cameron just looks at me patiently, eyes still sad. When I lean back, he continues, “I regret I didn’t do anything—step in, redirect his attention, whatever. I can’t change it. But maybe you need to consider…my life with him wasn’t all that great. You might have had negative attention from him, but you had all his attention. I had none. Once he realized I had no talent for the game, I was forgotten. I raised myself in that house, and you can spout all you want about how terrible he was…but there were good times too. I remember them. I remember you and Dad watching hockey together on TV, laughing and joking. I remember you getting extra presents at Christmas, and I remember Dad telling all of his friends about how proud he was of you. Not me, you. So don’t think you were the only one who suffered, Alex. My suffering was just different.”
My heart starts pounding over Cam’s words and I flush heavy with guilt. Holy shit…is it possible I’ve been so mired in my own bitterness and self-pity that I failed to recognize that I wasn’t the only one my dad warped?
