The Silver Linings Playbook (30 page)

When I finish my story, Cliff says, “So you’ve been in bed since Christmas?”

“Yeah.”

“And you have no interest in reading or watching television?”

“No.”

“And you’re not working out your upper body at all? No weights?”

“No.”

“What do you do all day?”

“I sleep, or I think. Sometimes I write, but Danny has been coming to visit me too.” I had already told Cliff all about God reuniting Danny and me, which even Cliff had to admit was a bit of a miracle and maybe the silver lining to my awful Christmas.

“What do you and Danny do when he visits?”

“We play Parcheesi.”

“Parcheesi?”

“It’s the Royal Game of India. How can you not know it?”

“I know Parcheesi. I’m just surprised you and Danny play board games together.”

“Why?”

Cliff makes a funny face, but doesn’t say anything.

“Danny brings his Parcheesi game all the way from North Philly. He rides the trains.”

“That’s good, right? It must be nice to see your old friend.”

“I was sorry to learn that he still can’t rap, even after a second
operation, but his aunt got him a job doing the janitorial work at her church, which is also a day-care center. He wipes down the pews with pine oil and mops the floors and empties the trash and vacuums every night—stuff like that. He smells like pine trees now too, which is sort of a nice bonus. But Danny is quieter than I remember him being in the bad place.”

“Did you tell Danny about what Tiffany did to you?” Cliff asks.

“Yeah, I did.”

“What did he say?”

“Nothing.”

“He didn’t give you any advice?”

“I didn’t ask him for any advice.”

“I see.” Cliff grabs his chin, which lets me know he is going to say something my mother has told him. “Pat, I know how you lost your memory. Everyone does.” He pauses here, gauging my reaction. “And I think you remember too.
Do you?”

“No.”

“Do you want me to tell you how you lost your memory?”

“No.”

“Why?”

I don’t say anything.

“I know Dr. Timbers used to tell you the story every day as part of your therapy. That’s why I never brought it up. I thought maybe you would talk about it when you were ready, but it’s been almost five months—and now you have a broken leg, and things seem to have gotten worse. I can’t help feeling as though we need to start trying other tactics. What Tiffany suggested about closure is true. I’m not saying her methods were honorable, but you really do need to come to terms with what happened, Pat. You need closure.”

“Maybe my movie isn’t over,” I say, because sometimes moviemakers trick the audience with a false bad ending, and just when you think the movie is going to end badly, something dramatic happens, which leads to the happy ending. This seems like a good spot for something dramatic to happen, especially since it’s my birthday.

“Your life is not a movie, Pat. Life is not a movie. You’re an Eagles fan. After watching so many NFL seasons without a Super Bowl, you should know that real life often ends poorly.”

“How can you say that now, especially since the Eagles have won four straight and are headed into the play-offs—
even after McNabb went down!”
Cliff just looks at me, almost as if he is scared, and suddenly I realize that I was just yelling. But I can’t help adding, “With a negative attitude like that, it
will
end poorly, Cliff! You’re starting to sound like Dr. Timbers! You better watch out, or you’re going to be defeated by pessimism!”

There is a long silence, and Cliff looks really worried, which begins to worry me.

On the drive home, Mom tells me that people are coming over for my birthday. She is making me a birthday dinner. “Is Nikki coming?” I ask.

“No, Pat. Nikki is never coming,” Mom says. “Never.”

When we arrive home, Mom makes me sit in the family room while she cooks meat loaf and mashed potatoes and green beans and an apple pie. She keeps trying to talk to me, but I really do not feel like talking.

Jake and Caitlin arrive first, and they try to cheer me up by talking really enthusiastically about the Birds, but it doesn’t work.

When Ronnie and Veronica arrive, Emily climbs onto my lap, which makes me feel a little better. Caitlin asks Emily if she wants to draw a picture on my cast, and when she nods, Mom finds some markers and we all watch little Emily draw. She starts off by making a wobbly circle, which is understandable, since the cast is not perfectly flat, nor smooth. But then she just scribbles all sorts of colors everywhere, and I cannot tell what she is up to until she points to her creation and says, “Pap!”

“Did you draw a picture of Uncle Pat?” Ronnie says, and when Emily nods, everyone laughs because it looks nothing like me.

When we sit down at the dining-room table, my father is still not home. Even after the win over Dallas, he has been pretty distant lately, hiding in his study again. Nobody mentions my dad’s absence, so I don’t either.

Mom’s meal is delicious, and everyone says so.

When it is time for pie, they sing “Happy Birthday” to me, and then little Emily helps me blow out the candles that make the shape of the number 35. I hardly believe that I can actually be thirty-five, because I still feel like I am thirty—maybe I only wish I were thirty, because then I’d have Nikki in my life.

After we eat our pie, Emily helps me open my presents. I get a brand-new wooden hand-painted Parcheesi board from Mom, who says she invited Danny to my party, but he had to work. Ronnie, Emily, and Veronica give me an Eagles fleece blanket. Jake and Caitlin give me a membership to a gym in Philadelphia. The brochure in the box says the club has a pool and a steam room and basketball courts and racquetball courts and all types of weight-lifting equipment and other machines that build muscles. “It’s where I work out,” my brother says. “And I was thinking we could start working out together once your leg mends.” Even though I’m not all that interested in working out so much
anymore, I realize that the membership is a nice present, so I thank Jake.

When we retire to the living room, I ask Veronica about Tiffany. “How’s Tiffany?” I say. I’m not really sure why I ask. The words just sort of slip out of my mouth, and when they do, everyone stops talking and a silence hangs in the air.

“I invited her to your party,” Mom finally offers, probably just so Veronica will not feel badly about her sister being excluded.

“Why?” Jake asks. “So she can lie to Pat again? Set him back a few more years?”

“She was only trying to help,” Veronica says.

“Your sister has a funny way of helping.”

“Stop,” Caitlin says to Jake.

And then the room is silent again.

“So how is she?” I ask, because I really do want to know.

On New Year’s Eve day, after agreeing to buy unlimited beer for our neighbors, Jake manages to trade seats with the season-ticket holder in front of me—and once Jake is seated, he props my cast up onto his shoulder so I am able to sit down during the Falcons game.

A few minutes into the first quarter, head coach Andy Reid pulls the starters, and the game announcer reports that Dallas has somehow lost to Detroit, which means that the Birds have clinched the NFC East for the fifth time in the last six years and the current game is meaningless. Everyone in the Linc cheers, high fives abound, and it is hard to stay in a seated position.

With the starting wide receivers out, I get my hopes up for Hank Baskett, and he actually does catch a few balls in the first half, each of which Scott, Jake, and I celebrate excessively because I am wearing my Baskett jersey over my winter coat, and we all like to root for the undrafted rookie.

It’s 17–10 Eagles at halftime, and Scott actually leaves the
game, saying that he promised his wife he’d come home for New Year’s Eve if the Cowboys lost and the Eagles game became meaningless. I give him a hard time about leaving and am surprised that my brother does not join in with the ribbing. But shortly after Scott takes off, Jake says, “Listen, Pat. Caitlin has me going to this black-tie New Year’s Eve party at the Rittenhouse Hotel. She was mad at me for going to the game today, and I was sort of thinking about taking off early so I could surprise her. But I don’t want to leave you here with the cast and all. So how do you feel about leaving early?”

I’m shocked, and a little mad.

“I want to see if Baskett gets his second touchdown,” I say. “But you can go. I’ll be all right here with all the
real
Eagles fans—the people who are staying to see the whole game.” It’s not a very nice thing for me to say, especially since Caitlin is probably already dressed and waiting for Jake to come home, but the truth is, I need my brother’s help getting out of the Linc on crutches. I have a feeling that Baskett will get the ball a lot in the second half, and I know Jake really wants to see the game anyway; maybe he’ll be able to use his mentally ill brother as a good excuse for missing the first part of Caitlin’s New Year’s Eve party; maybe this is what Jake really wants and needs. “Beer man!” I yell to the Coors Light guy who is passing our row. When he stops, I say, “Only one beer because this guy here is leaving his crippled, mentally insane brother to go to the Rittenhouse Hotel so that he can swill champagne with non-Eagles fans in tuxedos.” My brother looks like I punched him in the gut, and soon he is pulling out his wallet.

“All right. Fuck it. Make it two beers,” Jake says, and I smile
as my brother sits down in Scott’s seat and helps me prop my cast up onto the back of the empty seat in front of me.

Through the second half, Baskett continues to catch A. J. Feeley’s throws, and early in the fourth quarter my favorite player runs an out, catches the ball, and runs down the sideline eighty-nine yards for the second touchdown of his young career. Jake helps me stand, and then everyone in our section is high-fiving me and slapping my back because over my coat I am wearing the Baskett jersey my brother gave me when I first got out of the bad place.

I would later learn that Baskett is the first Eagles player to catch two touchdown passes longer than eighty yards in the same season—which is an accomplishment, even if number 84 has only been a marginal player this year.

“And you wanted to leave,” I say to Jake.

“Go Baskett!” he says, and then gives me a one-armed sideways hug—shoulder-to-shoulder.

After the Eagles’ backup players win the last regular season game, the Birds finish their season at 10-6, locking up at least one home play-off game in the process. I crutch my way out of the Linc with Jake as my fullback, parting the crowds, shouting, “Cripple coming through! Cripple coming through! Move out the way!”

We don’t meet up with Cliff’s gang until we get back to the fat men’s tent and the Asian Invasion bus. But when we do, our friends greet us with a Baskett chant because number 84 had a career-high 177-yard day and an 89-yard TD.

With play-offs to discuss, everyone is reluctant to leave, so we drink beers and discuss the 8-8 Giants, whom the Birds will play in the first round. When Cliff asks me if I think our team will beat
the Giants, I tell my therapist, “Not only will the Eagles win, but Hank Baskett will catch another touchdown.”

Cliff nods and smiles and says, “You called it before the season even started:
Hank Baskett is the man!”

Jake leaves first because he and Caitlin have that hotel New Year’s Eve party to attend, so we all make fun of him and call him whipped—but even though he is leaving us for his woman, I give him a hug and thank him again for staying, getting me a season ticket, and paying for the play-off tickets too, which are pretty expensive. And I know Jake has forgiven me for making him miss the second Dallas game, because he hugs me back and says, “No problem, brother. I love you. Always. You know that.”

After Jake leaves, we drink beers for another half hour or so, but eventually many of the guys admit they too have New Year’s Eve plans with their wives, and I take the Asian Invasion bus home to New Jersey.

The Eagles have won the last five games and the NFC East, so there’s no stopping Ashwini from blowing the Asian Invasion bus horn when he pulls up to my parents’ house, and when he does, the chant blares loudly—“E!-A!-G!-L!-E!-S! EAGLES!”—which brings my mother to the door.

Standing on the front step, Mom and I wave as the green bus pulls away.

We eat a late New Year’s Eve dinner together as a family, but even after another Eagles win and with Super Bowl hopes alive, my father doesn’t say much, and he heads for his study before Mom finishes her meal, probably so he can read historical fiction.