RUNNING BACK

Chapter 26: The Hero or The Zero

The next morning, I wake up exhausted. My body is weighed down by fatigue, as if I never really slept at all. Thoughts of every sort snuck into my brain like thieves that wanted to steal any sense of happiness or peace that last night's game might have given me. The worst of it was the nagging voice that kept telling me things were getting worse, not better. Like everyone around me is crumbling, and no amount of touchdowns are going to be able to fix that.

Walking down the stairs and into the kitchen on a Saturday morning, I'm not sure what to expect. The house is so quiet, like it's still sleeping, but someone has made coffee. I pour myself a cup, dump in some cream and sugar. I look out the kitchen window and see him sitting there in the back yard.

One leg crossed over the other, a mug in his hand.

The philosopher contemplating life.

I walk out onto the back porch to be with him, but he's gone by the time I get out there. Our house sits up some, the back-yard sloped downward to where it sweeps outward into the forest behind. The morning is cool and crisp, and the sun is low in the sky like it always gets in October.

I love this time of year. The light in autumn has a magical slant to it, and the shade falls at you in comfortable angles.

I look down at my phone, and see there's a text from my mom:

Had to go to campus to get some work done.

Congratulations on your game!

I read all about you in the paper.

I'm proud of you, Peyton.

I sigh and allow myself to feel happy. A smile curls at my lips.

Dad is still gone. Maybe my mom went to find him. When he was fired, she found him a part-time job teaching Criminal Justice at the University. He's an adjunct, so he only has a couple of classes, but they gave him an office anyway. He's been hiding there when he wants to get away.

I've been thinking about him a lot, and it's weighing heavy on me. I get up and go back in the house, walking down the hall towards his office. I push the door open.

That's where I find him, passed out, with his head flung back over the arm of the chair. For a brief second, I wonder if he is still alive, so I creep close enough to check for signs of life.

He's breathing.

But... he looks like death. Before Pax was diagnosed, my father was about 200 pounds on a six-foot-three frame. Lean, but fit. Now, he appears to have withered away to about a buck seventy. His cheeks are hollow and gray, waxy like the belly of a fish. Then I glance down at the photo album in his lap. It's flung open to a page from one of our first family trips to the beach.

The glossy, sunbaked pictures are of me and Pax when we were about five. God, he was a cute kid. My heart twinges with bittersweetness at the frozen images of him alive, vibrant, and full of joy. It became hard to remember him like that toward the end.

In one photo we have our arms around each other, smiling into the sun. In another, we're digging for shells. But my favorite, the one that my mom must have shot because she's always had an artistic eye with a camera, is of the two of us, holding hands, running down the beach. The picture was taken at sunset as we're running away from the camera. You can't see our faces.

The photograph captures the dark outline of our single form, my long hair flying and glowing white in the setting sun.

I remember running and playing with my brother on the beach during those family trips. But what sticks out most is memories of racing.