★★★
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.
Then her hand comes into my vision, her palm up, ready for me to take it.
She wants to touch me.
And I need to touch her.
So I look up, my heart stopping the second my eyes make contact with hers—tear filled, just like mine.
She taps a finger to her nose, and then to her heart. I love you.
And I release the first sob that’s fallen on anyone else’s ears since my dad died.
I reach out, take her hand and pull her into my apartment, closing the door behind her.
Because I don’t just need her touch.
I need her.
And she knows that.
Somehow, she sensed it.
Because she knows me.
She sees me.
Time stands still.
And so does she.
“I love you, Becca,” I tell her.
Because I know her.
I see her.
And I know it.
I can feel it.
It’s our last goodbye.
“I love you, too,” she mouths.
Then she kisses me.
And I kiss her back.
We kiss away the tears coated on our lips while she holds me in her arms until my sobs fade to level breaths. She pulls back, her emerald eyes on mine. And then
she nods once, telling me it’s okay. It’s okay to hurt. To cry. To let the immense pain consume me.
For one night.
It’s okay to let physical pleasure help heal me.
So we ignore the desperation in our kiss, the ache in our touch.
We ignore the voices in our heads, the ones that tell us it’s wrong, that it’s over, and that God, it’ll hurt.
We ignore time as we slowly take each other in; our clothes coming off just as slow as our eyes and our hands and our mouths explore each other for the last time.
We ignore the taste of our tears as we hold each other, kissing, touching, moving as one.
And as I hold her in my arms, naked and grateful for a moment’s reprieve from the pain of it all, I stroke her hair and wonder how I’m supposed to move on. How I’m supposed to wake up every day and breathe new air and fake it through the numbness that will no doubt live inside me. Then she looks up, and she smiles.
She smiles.
I think about my future. I wonder how I’ll look back on this time in my life… a time that changed me. When the fucked up circumstances of her life brought us together, and the messed up circumstances in mine tore us apart. But as I look down at her, her eyes boring into mine and her smile still in place, I make a choice. I’ll remember her as the girl who saw me. The girl who loved me. I’ll stop questioning the why’s and the how’s because in her heart, and in her mind, she felt like I was worthy of it. And I owe her that much—to remember her as the girl who loved me… more than any spoken word could convey.
I’ll love her for that.
I’ll love her forever.
I ignore the shattering of my heart as I watch her dress for the last time… as she stands up without looking back… as she walks to the bedroom door and I just lie there, knowing it’s over.
It’s all over.
“I’ll always love you,” I tell her. “You’ll always belong to me, Becca.”
★★★
My body awoke to the sound of knocking on my door and I already know she’s gone.
I know because she’s taken half my heart with her.
The other half now standing in front of me. “Hi Daddy. I missed you.”
“I missed you too, buddy.”
Kim asks, “How you doing today?”
I shrug. “As good as can be.”
She smiles sadly and lifts an envelope in her hands. I take it from her and look at my name scribbled in Becca’s handwriting.
To Josh,
Your emerald eyes have never been so sad.
“Becca was home?” Kim asks as Tommy pushes past me and into the house.
I flip the envelope in my hands. “Was. She’s gone now.”
“I’m sorry, Josh. I know she meant a lot to you.”
I shrug again. “Thanks so much for taking him. I needed the night to myself.”
Kim smiles. “Of course. You know I love having him. Tommy drew something last night. I think you should take look at it. I put in his backpack.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
I close the door, anxious to see what Becca had left me. The second I hear Kim’s footsteps climb down the stairs I carefully rip open the envelope. It’s a black and white picture—a picture of an old man with his hand out, palm up. His head’s tilted back, his eyes rolled high, looking at the skies. There’s a single drop of rain on his forehead and I instantly remember the moment Becca told me about taking this picture—the moment she fell in love.
I flipped the photograph over and there on the back is a single sentence.
Six simple words.
Now you own all of me.
My smile’s slow, starting at one corner then the other and the next moment it’s taken over, not just my face but my entire body. I look over at my son—the little boy who holds half my heart in his little hands. “I love you, buddy.”
He looks up from his train set and he smiles.
And I realize it then; what everyone always tells me. His eyes may be like his mother’s, but his smile’s mine.
His happiness belongs to me.
“Your aunt said you drew something?”
“Wanna see?”
“I’d love to see it.” I place the photograph on top of the fridge and grab his backpack before sitting down on the couch. He takes a seat next to me and waits while I pull out his drawing from his bag.
I unfold it slowly as he climbs onto my lap.
It’s a stick figure drawing of a bunch of people—the smallest in the middle. “That’s me,” he says, pointing to the figure. Then he points to the ones next to him, “That’s you and Momma.” He goes on and tells me who the rest are; Natalie’s parents, Robby and Kim, Hunter and Chloe, his Nan and Pa, and then he points to Chazarae and Becca.
My eyes fix on his image of Becca—of her darker skin and her flowing dark hair and her eyes—her bright-green crayon eyes. “Daddy?” he asks, grabbing my chin between his hands and getting me to face him. His gaze flicks between my eyes, and then he says, “It’s my family. You like it?”
“Your family?”
He nods enthusiastically. “Do you like it?”
“I love it, Tommy. It’s one of greatest pictures I’ll ever own.”
He laughs at that, and follows me to the kitchen so I can stick it on the fridge along with all his other ones.
“I might sell it online,” I tell him. “I think I might be able to get a trillion moneys and then you can take care of Daddy for once. How does that sound?”
He cackles with laughter. One that spreads my heart completely open for him. I pick a magnet on the fridge and that’s when I see it; something that wasn’t there yesterday.
Two magnets.
Both white.
Red ink.
Choose to be happy. Fire truck the rest. -C-Lo.
I look down at Tommy quickly—still laughing, still happy.
Then I gaze back up at the picture of Tommy stuck on the fridge—the first one of him that Becca ever showed me. His face is covered in dirt mixed with sweat and his smile prominent.
Then I see the magnet used to keep it in place.
One word.
COAST.
Yeah…
It’s extremely easy to fall into the darkness.
But then I see my son.
And I hear his laugh because I’ve sheltered him from the pain of it all.
Just like my dad sheltered me.
Then the storm passes and the blackness turns to light.
And I wake up.
Breathe new air.
And fall even deeper in love with a kid a created.
I search for the light.
And my light is his words.
His last words.
“Time to coast, son.”
40
-Joshua-
So, for the next year I do what he asks.
I coast.
I think about him every second I’m out there.
I train when I can, travel only when I have to, and work in between. I place more times than not and even win a few comps. Each trophy sits on the mantel at my parent’s house right beneath a picture of three generations of Warden men. Warden Warriors, my mom calls us.
The sponsors start coming through—ones that are actually worthy of my attention. Chris and my mother take care of everything. The number one clause in all the contracts is that it doesn’t take away from my time with Tommy. Along with the exposure, comes interviews and social media awareness—things I don’t really enjoy but know I have to do in order to get myself out there. It all happens so quickly that I’m not really prepared for any of it—especially the phone call from Chris when he tells me that Globe shoes wants to be my major sponsor. They offer a six-figure deal that’ll entail me wearing their gear, promoting their brand, and they’ll take care of everything else. “You’d be an idiot not to take it,” Chris says. “I’ve gone over every single detail of the contract and they don’t want anything from you, Josh. They just want you.”
>
I take the deal. I’d be stupid not to.
Chris says the online skate world blew up when it was announced. I start getting messages from everyone and their dog congratulating me. I even make front page of the local newspaper. The day after the newspaper comes out I show up to the job site just like I’ve done many other days and as soon as Robby and all the other guys see me they drop their tools and cross their arms.
“What’s going on?” I ask Robby.
“They refuse to work with a celebrity,” he says, patting my shoulder.
“Don’t be assholes,” I shout, strapping on my tool belt.
They don’t move.
“Get out of here, Josh,” Robby says. “You can’t be wasting your time on a job like this when you have so much else going for you.”
“Shut up,” I say incredulously. Then repeat it, softer this time.
“I’m serious. And so are the boys. We’re all proud of you, Josh. You’ve worked hard and you’ve earned it. You deserve everything coming your way. And as much as we love/hate seeing your handsome face every day, we don’t want to see it anymore.” He smirks. “So, you either walk off my job site or I fire you. Your choice.”
“You’re kidding, right? I need this job. I need a fall back in case anything happens. I could get injured tomorrow and—”
“The job will always be here, Josh, and you know that. But right now, you’re living the dream. Take some time. Soak it in. Enjoy life.” He quirks an eyebrow. “Coast”
I look around at all the guys I’d been working with for the past three years. Their smiles match Robby’s. “Okay, I guess. Um… I quit?”
The room erupts with shouts and cheers so loud it echoes off the walls and the next thing I know I’m being tackled by the waist and dropped to the ground; a dozen men laughing, ruffling my hair as they all celebrate for me. “What the fire truck are you doing!”
“Tools down!” Robby shouts, and we spend the afternoon drinking beers and eating pizza.
I guess it’s a farewell to me and to a life I used to know.
The rest happens in a blur.
I dedicate every win, every loss, every spin of the wheels to the man who created me. And as I watch the sun dip below the horizon from whatever half-pipe I find myself on, I close my eyes and I feel him with me, watching me. And when the sun disappears and the night takes over, I laugh and smash the shit out of my skateboard—not out of anger but to remind myself that our raw imperfections make us real and make us human but they don’t make us.