Kick, Push

Page 61

Chris takes care of everything; from my clothes, to my decks, registrations, schedules, etc. Luckily, this comp’s local—only an hour away. He says my mom and he will look at the full tour schedule and go through “logistics” later. Whatever that means.
Chris’s good at what he sets out to achieve. I don’t have to worry about anything but skating and that’s pretty damn perfect for me.
Of course everyone shows up to the event, even my dad, forced—again into a wheelchair by my mom. They wear their matching Deck and Check shirts and hats, the same ones I wear.
They sit and watch me skate and move on to the next round, round after round, and each round they sit together and show their support.
My mom claps.
Robby whistles.
Tommy squeals.
But my dad—he just smiles the same proud smile I’ve seen at every comp he’s ever taken me to.
And when it’s over, I drive us back to my parent’s house; set the first place trophy right next to the other trophy on dad’s nightstand and I face him. “I skated my heart out today.”

After that comp things get a little more major. Chris starts getting calls and turning down sponsorships and interviews, etc. He tells me not to worry too much about all of it and that if anything worthy comes up he’ll definitely tell me. I trust him. I have to. Because really? I have no fucking clue what I’m doing.
He does, however, say that I need to work on my brand. He sets up a website and all the other social media bullshit and when I tell him it’s too early for any of this kind of stuff he just looks at me with a twinkle in his eyes and says, “Just you wait.”
The first post I get on my Facebook wall is from Hunter.
 
You’re still the best I’ve ever had.
 
I didn’t tell Hunter about the event but it doesn’t surprise me at all that he knows.
So, I spend most of the summer working and skating.
One comp turns to two and plans for many more. I seem to coast through everything.
Well, almost everything.
I think about her a lot.
More than I like to admit.
And I miss her.
God, did I miss her.
Then, one day, my mother calls with news that puts a shadow on everything.
My dad’s in the hospital.
He’d suffered a stroke.
The doctors stand in front of my mom and I while they throw out terms I’ve only read about while researching the disease. Apparently the stroke and his failing kidneys go hand in hand, resulting in his entire body shutting down. We knew it was coming, but still, hearing the words and seeing it take action is a whole other experience. Mom asks him to go back on dialysis, but at this stage, it’ll be useless and under the doctor’s recommendations and my father’s request, the best thing to do would be to “make him as comfortable as possible.”
In other words: continue to watch him die.
 
For weeks I put off skating.
I work as little as possible.
I spend every spare moment in his hospital room making sure he’s “as comfortable as possible.”
Slowly, I watch the life, the light, the hope leave his eyes. And in my heart, I know he’s already gone, but the constant beeping of his monitors remind me that he’s still holding on.
Still fighting.
Still waiting.
Then one Sunday, Chazarae knocks on the hospital room door. “Let’s pray,” she says.
So we do.
She takes me to her church and we pray. Not just us but every single person in the room. They pray for a man they’ve never met before.
They pray for a husband.
For a father.
And for a grandfather.
And when I get back to the hospital and my mom’s eyes lift as I enter the room, her cheeks still wet from the tears she’s shed, I feel the darkness surround me.
And for a moment, I let the blackness of my life consume me.
“It’s time, Joshua,” she whispers, getting up from the seat. She grasps onto my hand as she walks by. “Time to say goodbye.”
 
I release a breath as my eyes drift shut and my feet carry me toward his bed.
And there’s one distinct moment that flashes in my mind.
One sound that accompanies it.
It’s the moment I realized Becca had left.
The feeling of my heart being crushed as my lungs fought for air.
And the sound?
It’s the sound of my breaths as I struggle to push on.
Just one more inhale.
One more exhale.
I’m trapped in that pain…
…In that sound.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Only now, I share that pain with the man in front of me.
A man waiting for death.
Welcoming it.
Seeing his battle for air should make my struggle easier.
Only it doesn't.
Because I want the same thing he does.
We all do.
We want him to die.
So that the pain of his breaths will no longer trap him.
Inhale.
Exhale.
“I love you,” he whispers.
And I forfeit my breaths and give them to him.
Because he needs them more than I do.
And because he has a lot more to say.
“You remember the talk we had when you were twelve and I was trying to convince you to start competing but you said you were too scared of failing?”
I nod once.
“Do you remember what I said?”
“You said that life’s just like skating; I just need to kick forward and take a chance, push off the ground and follow through. And when everything works out, I’ll coast.”
He smiles. “Kick. Push. Coast,” he murmurs, his eyes drifting shut. “Time to coast, son.”
 
 
39

-Joshua-
It’s easy to fall into the darkness, to drown in the pain and heartbreak and submerge myself in black, day after day, nothing but black. And just like that I feel like I’m falling and falling and there doesn’t seem to be an end, and when the ground hits—so does reality—and it hits me hard. I claw against the walls, fighting against the desperation seeping into me. I bargain my life. I promise to give up my last breath so that he has one more and I do this over and over and over and over. Until the pain becomes too much and I can no longer fake the smiles as I shake hands with everyone that passes through the house I grew up in—plates of food made for mourning held tightly in their hands. So I turn to my mother, who seems to be coping a hell of a lot better than I am and I tell her that I’m sorry—that I have to leave, and because she’s my mother—a woman who raised me and raised me right, she nods and says, “I understand.” I ask Rob and Kim to take Tommy for the night and of course they agree because they, too, understand.
I say goodbye to Chazarae, who’s doing everything she can in the kitchen, sorting out plate after plate of mourning food, like any of us can actually eat after losing someone who meant so much.
Then I get in my truck and I drive home so I can sit alone in my darkness and bargain some more even though I know it won’t do shit.
A figure stands as soon as my headlights hit my apartment stairs and I know who it is even before she comes into view.
And I feel like that kid again—the same one kicking the shit out of a brick wall, when suddenly, a light shone upon me. I get out of my truck, my head lowered because I don’t want her to see my tears… because the cause of my tears are nowhere near equivalent to the ones she’s shed. I stand in front of her at the bottom of the steps but shame prevents me from looking at her.