Page 10 of Play the Last Card

My phone chimes from where it lays on the floor next to my bed, along with the shorts I’d been wearing. I can see my bra hanging on the chair across the room and my shirt from last night is near my bedroom door. I’m honestly useless when I’m drunk. Once I decide it’s time to go to bed, nothing can stop me.

My skin hates me for it because I never remember to take my makeup off before passing out. Luckily for me, it’s rare that I ever drink. But I still pay for my one-track mind with a break out.

I swipe my phone from the floor and drag myself to the bathroom, setting it on the vanity as I turn on the water.

My mind screams at me as I splash the cold water over my face. My phone chimes again. Blinking through the water still dropping from my lashes, I tap the screen to life.

Katie’s replies to my ‘home’ text last night are first. Then a message from another of my colleagues this morning, asking about what day I plan to go in to set up my classroom. But the last two are from my Uncle Jeff.

He’s not really my uncle. He coached my dad when he was playing football in college and then moved down the street from us. His daughter is a few years older but we practically grew up together. She is one of my best friends.

Uncle Jeff:Hi kiddo, wanted to check in and see how you were doing with Billy still being in hospital? Do you need anything? Cathy is making lasagna this week for dinner, want to join us? No pressure but would be good to see you. Also, found this picture of you with your mom and dad at a game we played against UCLA. If I’m remembering right, this was the first road game your mom brought you out to. Same game your dad set his passing yards record. He showed off for you, kiddo. Thought you might like to see it. Love you. Come for dinner. Uncle Jeff x

Uncle Jeff:*1 Attachment*

I stare at the picture that now fills my phone screen.

No older than a year, I sit on my mom’s hip. But while my mom is smiling brightly at the camera, the Harvard football jersey she wears hanging off one shoulder, my dad stares down at me and I up at him.

We have the same eyes. Back then mine weren’t as defined and the color not as dark but they changed as I grew. I glance up at my reflection and then back to the screen in my hand. My hair color is the same as his, but the rest of me is pure mom.

I study the picture on my screen. Dad has sweat drenched hair and the black paint under his eyes is smeared down his cheeks but his smile is so wide, so bright. The edges of his eyes are crinkled. One hand is on the arm my mom is using to hold me, tight against my mom’s body as he holds us both close to him. The other is thrown up above his head.

I can imagine him trying to wave his hands around, trying to get me to smile for the photo, but I can’t remember the day. I can’t remember if I’d been tired and crying or excited and laughing through the game.

I can’t remember and I can’t ask.

Everything in me wants to know the story. I can probably ask Uncle Jeff.

But I won’t. I can’t.

I type back a text agreeing to dinner and thanking him for the photo.

Stepping under the hot spray of the shower, my mind is still reeling. My newest photograph of my parents and I takes center stage of that chaos. I pool water between my hands to wash my face. I lean my head back under the spray and let the water run freely through my tangled hair. Over and over again. The picture plays like a memory in my mind. My chest tightens. I feel the air in my lungs become heavy. I try to swallow yet fail. I gasp, trying to catch some air but water just runs over my dry lips, chasing down my neck.

Damn it.

I don’t need this while I’m hung over. I close my eyes, holding them shut as tightly as I can as I will myself to hold back the tears that sting behind my eyes.

The cruel reality of it all is that football makes me feel so connected to my dad. Every time I catch a glimpse of a game, of a play, I wonder if he’d ever run a play like that. Anytime I see a post on Instagram about a player and their stats, I wonder what it all means and if my dad’s stats had been better or worse. I have questions yet the only person I want the answers from is gone.

In the end, I can’t stand the reminder of what I lost. Every time I am, I’m thrown back into all the pain and the hurt and it feels as if it consumes me for days. The cycle repeats over and over.

So I avoid it.

The tears come despite my efforts and I let them. I allow myself to forget where I am for just a little while until the water starts to run cold. When my skin wrinkles and my eyes finally dry, I step out.

I wrap the plush towel around my body, swiping my phone off the vanity. Heading back to my room, I throw on some clean shorts and a t-shirt. I grab my keys, pulling my shoes on before heading downstairs and out the door.

By the time I get back from seeing Pops, a shorter visit due to the hangover and unexpected emotional overload thanks to Uncle Jeff, I’m exhausted.

I strip off my clothes and pull on some clean pajamas. Scrolling back through the messages, I save the photo from Uncle Jeff into the hidden folder on my phone and then connect it to the TV sitting in the corner of my room.

Scrolling to the beginning of the album, I press play on the first video.

My mom’s laughter fills the room. Squeals of delight from my younger self and a badly mimicked roar of a lion coming from my dad follows. On the screen, I watch them smile, and laugh, and live.

This is all I have left.