“What am I doing?”
“You’re blocking me.”
“Blocking you.”
“I’m not a ball, Dirk. I’m a person. A woman. A woman who loves you.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Once a goalie, always a goalie, but this is no ball game. You can let me in, you know, into your goal, into your life. But actually, the ball’s still in your court, Doc O’Connell.”
I still don’t know what to say. I fold my arms. Unfold them. My hands swing, too big, beside me. My fingers flex and relax. I raise one hand to my chin, a habit, and stroke my cheeks with my fingers on one side and thumb on the other, feel my bristles.
Her voice is a whisper, so quiet I have to lean down to hear her.
“What if we were on the same team, Dirk? Think about it.” She holds my gaze for a few seconds – more – not smiling, not frowning. She lifts her head, then steps aside to let me pass.
I try to chuckle as I descend and get into Jamison’s car, but my heart’s not in it. My heart’s confused.
That night, after rehearsal, I’m aware of every sound from Lucy’s apartment below mine. I wonder where she is – in the kitchen, in her living room, feet curled beneath her on the couch, in her bedroom. I remember how she felt in the big bed in Franklin, so warm beside me as she slept.
I lasso my imagination, force it to the ground and straddle it. Lucy is just a neighbor.
Instead, I turn my mind to Jamison’s latest request, that I help him set up his own company, harnessing AI to come up with wealth management options faster than Capital Plus Investments, faster than anyone else.
Next day, I’m in my exercise gear, pulling on my new walking shoes when I get a call from Jamison, right in the middle of his working week, in the middle of the day. I pick up, thinking someone’s cancelled on him for lunch at the club. I’m watching my weight but I have all the time in the world, more time than I know what to do with.
I’m not prepared for his tone of voice - strained. Is my son crying? He can barely get out words.
“Jamison? Son?”
“Dad ...”
“Are you okay? Where are you? Has there been an accident?”
“Not exactly. Yes. But not like that. Dad?”
“What is it?”
“Dad, I need your help.”
“Can I call the police?”
“No. No. Where are you?”
“Brighton Court.” I say, mind spinning through possibilities. He can’t have crashed the car. I still have it. “Where are you?”
“Downtown.”
“You busy?”
“No. Need me to come pick you up?”
“Yeah. Be great, Dad. I’m sorry. I’m a mess.”
It’s not the first time Jamison’s asked directly for help. That’s what I’m for. We never stop loving our children. But it’s the first time in a decade, maybe. A memory of an incident back when he was in school flashes back at me, of rescuing Jamison and his friends from a party when they drank alcohol underage. I took them to a back room of the clinic to sober up – kept their secrets quiet under patient confidentiality. They were sick enough to have learned their lesson.
He’s drooping when I collect him, shoulders hunched, tie hanging off, suit coat crooked, one half of the collar turned up. He’s dejected, unshaven. Haunted. I wonder if he’s been drinking.
