The Winner's Game (13 page)
Authors: Kevin Alan Milne
“It's still unbelievably embarrassing,” Mom says to Jody, even though she's looking right at Cade. “Girls, aren't you embarrassed?”
“No,” snaps Bree. Everything about her exudes venomâher voice, her glare, the expression on her face, even the way her muscles tense when she looks at our brother. “I'm just
mad.
At Pea Brain. For ruining our one chance to be in a movie!”
“He's not the only pea brain,” I whisper, looking at Bree.
“Well, look, I really am sorry about this,” Jody tells everyone. Turning just to me, she says, “Most of all for you. But keep your chin up. I'm sure everything is going to be OK.” She pats me on the shoulder and then trots off.
Wait. What did she just say?
I could scream. Before I get the chance, Mom tells everyone to get in the car. “C'mon. I want to get home.” Her cheeks are flushed; she looks guilty.
Bree and Cade pile in, but I remain firmly in place. “You played the heart card, didn't you, Mom? To get us in the movie.”
“I only said that you've been sick, and that you were really looking forward to it. They were happy to make room for us once they knew the situation.”
Uh-huh. Likely story.
I cross my arms. “Did you tell them I might die?”
Mom is completely silent.
Guilty as charged.
“You did! Oh my gosh! That's so hypocritical! You're always telling me how everything is going to be fine, but you go tell complete strangers that I'm some freak who needs a new heart so they'll take pity on me?”
“It wasn't like that. You're blowing it out of proportion. All I did was tell them the facts.”
“So we could get in the movie.”
“Yes! Isn't that what we came here for?”
All I can do is shake my head. “Don't you get it? I don't want pity. Not from you, not from the family, and certainly not from strangers on a movie set. I'm tired of being the girl who always gets coddled. And I don't want to be the girl with âthe heart.' I just want to be
the girl
.” I toss the car key at my mom. “You better drive. Poor, pitiful Ann is not in the mood.”
L
AST YEAR,
on the Fourth of July, I remember watching them light the first fuse at the fireworks show we went to at the park by our house. It was really dark, so even from a distance I could see the fuse burning. I knew it was going to blow, I just didn't know when. Everyone must've known it was time, because the crowd got all quiet. Finally a dark shadow shot off into the sky, then a few seconds later the world exploded in orange and red.
The ride home from Astoria is kind of like that. For several blocks, there is nothing but silence in the car. I know the fuses have been litâ¦it's just a matter of waiting for someone to blow up.
I'm not surprised that Bree's fuse ends up being the shortest, or that her mortar is pointed right at me. “I hate you
so much
! Why do you always have to ruin everything, Cade?”
The way she says it, I don't doubt that she truly hates me. But being hated like that sets me off too. “Not more than I hate you. You're the meanest, ugliest person in the whole world!”
“And you're the stupidest!”
I guess Ann doesn't want to miss out on the fireworks either, because she quickly pops off. “Have you checked the mirror lately, Bree? I bet you'd find someone stupider than him looking back at you. If you hadn't opened your big mouth, you and I could've still been in the movie.” To make sure I understand that she's not taking sides, Ann also says, “But you're right, he is
really
stupid.”
“I happen to love what I see in the mirror, O Boring One!” Bree screams. “It's called â
beauty.'
But you wouldn't know about that.”
“Then I guess you didn't see the new zit on your nose, huh? It's been getting bigger all day.”
“Yeah, it's really huge,” I tell her. “I bet if you squeezed it, it would squirt on the car window.”
“I hate you both!”
Ann isn't as loud as Bree, but just as mean. “And I hate both of you more than either of you could ever imagine. I wish I was an only child.”
“Well, I wishâ¦!” Bree is panting. She looks really mad. Like a rabid dog backed into a corner. She's staring right at Ann. “I wish you were
dead
.” After saying it, she crosses her arms and turns away from us.
Mom's got a really tight grip on the steering wheel, but she doesn't make a peep. She's mad, though. I can tell that. Honestly, I wish she'd just say something. I know from watching her and Dad that whenever she stops talking, it means she is going to have an even worse explosion later.
Not like fireworks, more like dynamite.
As we get closer to Cannon Beach, Mom surprises us by pulling off the highway at a state-park lookout spot just north of town. The place is pretty cool, actually. Mom and Dad brought us here once before to look at the cliffs. It has an awesome view of the ocean because it's sort of a peninsula. From the right spot, you can see all the way down to Haystack Rock a couple miles away.
“What are we doing?” I ask.
“Get out,” orders Mom without looking at anyone.
For a second, I wonder if maybe Mom is so fed up with us that she wants to push us over the edge onto the jagged rocks below.
Nah, she'd neverâ¦
I quickly dismiss the idea and climb out to find that Mom is busy collecting rocks near the fence at the edge of the cliff. From the looks of it, she already has five or six of them in her hands, all roughly the same size. “Here,” she says, handing one to each of us. “We're going to have a little contest. I want to see who can throw the farthest.”
“Why?” asks Bree.
“Because. It's
fun
.” The way she says it, it doesn't sound fun.
“I like contests,” says Ann, “because I like winning.” She weighs the rock in her hand, and then casually tosses it in the air. When she catches it, the look in her eye says that she really doesn't want to lose to me or Bree. Not now. Not ever. In one quick motion she cocks her arm, and then lets the thing fly. It sails over some shrubs, then over the edge of the cliff, and eventually plunks down in the wet sand at the edge of the surf. “Beat that.”
Bree's eyes are suddenly on fire and her face is red. She chucks her rock as far as she can, but it lands short of Ann's.
“Weak,” Ann tells her, grinning.
“Are you referring to your heart? Or your brain?”
Now Ann's face turns red, too, but she doesn't reply.
“I'm gonna beat you both,” I tell them before I throw my rock. I may be younger than them, but I'm the only one who plays baseball. The edge of the water is less than the distance from outfield to home plate, and I've made that throw a hundred times. I give it my all, and just like I planned, my rock splashes down in the water behind the first wave, at least twenty feet beyond Ann's.
“No way!” she yells angrily.
“You suck,” says Bree, talking to me.
“That was only round one,” says Mom as she shuffles along the fence and gives us each a new rock.
We quickly launch them again. Ann has enough strength to match my first throw, but my second one is better than hers by several feet. Bree's reaches the water too, but is last again.
“One more time,” says Mom.
“Don't try too hard,” whispers Bree while Ann is winding up. “Remember, your heart can't take it.”
After hearing Bree's comment, Ann hesitates at the last second, messing up the motion of her throw. Her rock doesn't even reach the ocean.
Ann drops her hands to her side, knowing she will lose the round. “You're such a jerk.”
Bree smirks. “I know you are, but what am I?”
“Did you really just say that? We used to say that in like second grade. Grow up, Bree.”
While the two of them are going at it, I take a run at the edge of the fence and throw as hard as I possibly can. My rock reaches the same distance as my last throw, which I assume will be enough to beat Bree's.
My sister, however, is more determined than I gave her credit for. She sprints toward the cliff with a rock in hand, whips her arm as she reaches the fence, and then stops to watch the thing fly. Somehowâfrom either a gust of wind or sheer dumb luckâher final throw beats mine by a couple feet. “Ha!” she screams, pumping her fists in the air. “The ultimate champion!”
I lost? To her?
“One more round!” I shout.
Bree shakes her head. “No way, I already won.”
Mom looks back and forth between us, then nods. “One more. But this one will be a little different, and it will definitely be for bragging rights.” She hands us each a rock and then takes a giant step back. “Now that we know you can all throw really hard, I want you to take a few steps back, then turn so you can see each other.”
I'm a little confused, but I follow her instructions. So do my sisters. After backing up, we're all standing in a triangle, maybe twenty feet apart.
“Now,” Mom continues, “I want you to take that rock and throw it as hard as you can at one of your siblings. Whoever hits their target and draws the most blood is the winner.” She licks her lips like she can hardly wait for us to start killing each other.
Ann is as confused as me. “Huh?”
“You heard me. Take the rock, throw it at Breeâor Cade, if you preferâand see how much damage you can do. Extra points if you can hit someone in the face.”
“We can't do that,” says Bree. “Somebody could get hurt.”
Mom just shrugs. “So? Fifteen minutes ago you wanted at least one of them dead.”
“That was different.”
“Really?” She turns to Ann. “What about you, Ace? Care for a little retribution?”
“What if I put out one of their eyes? Is that what you want?”
“Don't
you
want that?”
Ann scrunches her face in disgust. “You're crazy.”
“Weak,” says Mom, repeating what Ann said earlier about one of Bree's throws. “Cade? How about you? This is your chance. You gonna take a shot at the sisters you hate so much?”
I stare for a moment at the rock in my hand, wondering what it would feel like to hurl the thing at them. “Maybe, butâ¦I have really good aimâ¦and I don't want to hurt them.”
“Then why,” she asks, sounding exasperated, “do you spend so much time and energy chucking verbal rocks at each other? The way you treat one another is toxic, and that's putting it mildly. News flash, guys:
Words hurt
, no matter what they say about sticks and stones.
You don't want to hurt each other physically, but, heaven forbid, one of you so much as smiles the wrong way at someone, and it turns into a bloodbath.” She glances around the triangle, pausing to lock eyes with each of us. “Stop throwing stones.” Mom unclenches her fingers and lets several rocks drop from her hand. She gives us all a final disappointed look and then walks back to the Walrus.
I drop my rock and follow her.
E
VERYONE, PARK IT
in the living room,” I tell the kids when we get home, before they can go their separate ways. They're still not speaking to each other, so this may not be the best time to try this, but it may be the only shot I get.
“Is this going to be another lecture?” drones Bree. “We already got your message loud and clear. âDon't throw stones.'”
“It's not a lecture,” I assure her. “More like story time.”
Ann is already halfway up the stairs. As she stomps back down, she mutters, “This better be good.”
I have everybody take a seat on the couch, then I sit down in the lone chair near the puffer-fish lamp. “I've been thinking a lot about our family this past week. Well, not just this weekâfor a while actually, but last week one of you did something that gave me extra reason to pause, and I'd like to discuss it with you.”
Bree has a guilty look on her face. “Was it me?”
“It usually is,” pipes Ann.
“Oh, like you're so perfect.”
While the girls trade glares, my gaze slowly drifts toward Cade, where it remains until he starts to squirm.
“What'd I do wrong this time?” he asks.
Trying to lighten the mood, I snicker. “Do you remember what you did a few days ago when we went to visit Grandma Grace?”
“Uhâ¦I shot a rubber band at Bree?”
“You did?” Bree and I ask at the same time.
He shrugs. “I missed.”
“No, there was something else you did, when we were going through the large double doors to Grandma's wing.”
He shrugs again. “I don't know.”
“You held the door open for one of the nurses there who was walking through with a tray of pills.”
“I did?”
“Yes. Did you know that nurse?”
“No.”
“Never seen her before?”
“Nope.”
“Then why did you help her?”
He shrugs a third time. “Justâ¦because. To be nice, I guess.”
Thank you, Cade
. “Excellent. So do you all see why that bothered me?”
Everyone is staring back at me with blank faces. Nobody responds.
“What Cade did truly concerned me, and while I was reading a book last night, I figured out why.” I turn once more to Cade. “When was the last time you held a door for your sisters?”
“Like, never.”
“Like, precisely. What bothered me about you holding the door for that woman was not that you helped herâwhich was very sweetâbut that we almost never show such courtesies within the walls of our own home. The more I thought about it, the more I realized that we, as a family, treat complete strangers better than we do each other. Why is that? Why are we so hostile to those we're supposed to love, yet kind and courteous to people we don't even know?”
Again, nobody has an answer, so I continue. “During our first week here, I heard all sorts of hurtful things between you kids. I know part of that is just that it's summer time, and you guys were cooped up a little more than expected, but it really bothered me hearing the things you said to each other. âShe touched me.' âHe put his foot too close to me.' âShe eats too much.' âHe's a stupid brat.' And my personal favorite: âShe's breathing my air.'” I let the words hang out there for a moment, then ask, “Would any of you say those things to a complete stranger?”
Again, silence.
“Would any of you even say those things to your friends or acquaintances at school?”
“Probably not,” admits Bree.
“No, probably not. And yet those aren't the worst things that have been said around here lately. Cade, would you care to repeat what you said in the car about your sisters?”
“Not really.”
“Indulge me.”
“But I was mad. I didn't mean it.”
“But you said it. And what was it, exactly, that you said? You remember, don't you?
Cade drops his eyes to the floor and nods. “I said I hate them.”
“And Ann,” I continue, “what was one of the mean things you said this morning? Any one will do.”
Her response comes as a whisper. “I wished I was an only child.”
I purse my lips.
The best is yet to come
. “How about you, Bree? What awful thing did you say to Ann that you would never tell a random person on the street?”
It takes several seconds, but finally Bree whispers, “I wished she was dead. But I didn't mean it! She made me mad and it just came out!”
I put my hands up to calm her down. “Bree, I know how you feel. None of us is perfect. We all lash out from time to time and say things that are hurtful or that we don't really mean.” I pause momentarily, suddenly thinking of Dell and the things we've said to each other over the years, and especially during the last twelve months.
I wish he were here to hear this.
“And I think it's
because
we love each other that we end up saying or doing things that are unkind, as a way to get the attention of those we care most deeply for. Or to retaliate against them for some perceived injustice. When strangers wrong us, we tend to give them the benefit of the doubt. We tell ourselves that it was a simple accident, or that it's no big deal, and we let it slide. But when someone in our family does something that we don't like? Watch out.”
“Why are you bringing this up?” asks Ann. “You already gave us your little stone-throwing lesson.”
“Because I want to fix it. I want the way we treat each other outwardly to match the way we feel about each other in our hearts. This may sound odd, but I want us to love each other like family but be kind like strangers.”
Bree looks the most perplexed. “How?”
“Can I wait to answer that? I want to read something first, which I think will explain it better than I could.” I hold up the thick, leather-bound volume that I finished reading late last night. There is no title on the cover, only a few faded gold letters on the bottom-right corner. “Do any of you know what this is?”
Several heads shake.
“Is it a diary?” asks Ann.
I give her a wink. “To be more precise, it's a â
gurnel'
âone of many old journals that Grandma kept. I found a whole box of them in the attic on Saturday night.” I turn to a page marked by a yellow Sticky. “I'll just read a handful of passages to give you a flavor, and to show that not everything I imagined about my grandparents was true. I thought they had the perfect marriageâ¦and maybe they did. But it wasn't without its ups and downs.” I clear my throat and begin reading:
“Our youngest child graduated from high school last month, and already my fears about Alfred and me are being realized. It seems he is pulling away from me, or perhaps he'd already pulled away a while ago, but I was too preoccupied to notice. Our children have been the center of our world for the past twenty-five years, and now they are gone, leaving a sizable gap in our relationship. It's perhaps akin to a black holeâI can't see it, but I feel the effects of the void sucking us in. Without the kids around, we don't know how to behave; don't know how to interact; don't know how to love.”
I turn to another marked page.
“When did I lose my best friend? Was it while I was running the kids to baseball practice and Girl Scouts? Was it while I was helping them with their homework, or prepping them for tests, or yelling at them to do their chores?
Did I somehow forget that I had a best friend while I was cleaning the house and cooking the meals and folding the laundry? I don't know where or when or how, but it's becoming increasingly clear that Al and I are no longer best friends. He likes to read, I like to knit. He likes to watch golf, I like to garden. He likes to eat out, I like to cook in. And it's not even so much that we don't like the same things; I think it's more a case of finding different things to fill our time so we don't have to spend so much time together, because when we're together, we fight. I hate quarreling, and so does he, so we both stay in our corners as much as possible to avoid trading punches in the ring.”
I look up to check that they are still listening, then turn another page.
“The last week has been a living hell. Nothing I do seems to be right in Al's eyes. It culminated last night with an argument, which began when he made a comment about how loudly I was sipping my tea. My tea! It was hot!! After that we each rattled off at least a dozen things that annoyed us about the other. Then we began itemizing all of the unkind things the other had done to us for as far back as we could remember. It's shocking, really, how well we each recall all the instances of hurt. Though there's been no official scorecard, it's safe to say we've both been keeping score.”
“Is that what that box of scorecards was for?” asks Ann. “Did they start keeping an actual score of being mean to each other?”
“I'll get to that.” I skip ahead to the middle of the book.
“Al's been spending more and more time at work. It's hard to talk to him. When I try, we invariably end up in an argument. He seems so unhappy; I know I'm unhappy. And still the tally of hurt feelings grows.”
I jump down toward the bottom of that same page.
“Last night, when I put supper on the table, I accidentally spilled some of Al's water. It didn't get him wet, but it did make him mad, as though I'd done it on purpose. He seemed very put out that he should have to wipe it up with a napkin, and he even scolded me for not being more careful. Then this morning a very interesting thing happened. We went out to breakfast, and the waitress inadvertently spilled an entire cup of orange juice on Al's lap. Orange juice! An entire cup!! But how did he react? He bent over backward to let her know that it was OK, that accidents happen. He even laughed about it, even though his pants were soaked. When we left, he gave her an extralarge tip so she'd know he didn't hold it against her. I was furious! He's supposed to love me, but when I accidentally dribble a little water, he blows up, and then a complete stranger stains his trousers and he gives her a pass! I can't help but wonder if that makes me the bigger stranger in his life⦔
“Wow,” remarks Bree while I turn to the next Sticky. “I'm surprised they stuck together.”
“Me too,” says Ann soberly.
“Me three,” I agree. “Does their fighting remind you of anyone?”
“You and Dad?” chirps Cade.
With a sigh, I nod. “Yes, unfortunately. But you guys too, right? Just because you are kids, are your words any less hurtful to each other?” I pause, but nobody speaks. “Listen to what she writes next; this is getting to the heart of what I wanted to discuss with you. She says,
“It is very late at night. Al is asleep beside me; I am unable to rest. Yesterday was our anniversary, but no gifts were exchanged. No cards, no flowers, no special meal. Certainly no kisses or âI love you's'âwe haven't had those in a while now. After dinner I retired to my room to knit in silence, while Al played Solitaire in the living room. As I knitted, I cried. This isn't the life I dreamed of, nor the marriage I deserve. I was so angry. And tired of us blaming each other for every little thing. So fed up with the constant jabbing and poking and backbiting. So done with it all. I've been approaching this point for a long time, but last night it came to a head. I knew I either needed to do something to repair the damage between usâto find my old best friendâor I needed out. I've been stewing on an idea for several months, having no clue if it will work, but I made up my mind right then that I am going to try. To make sure he knew how serious I am, I packed a suitcase and carried it out to where he was playing his game.
“âWho's winning?' I asked.
“âIt's Solitaire, Grace. There can only be one winner.'
“âWhat a lonely game.'
“He saw the suitcase and asked what it was for.
“When I told him I was leaving, he seemed as stunned as I hoped he would be. âBut we're married. You can't just up and walk out. We love each other.'
“âDo we? Do we actually love each other? Or do we just remember how we used to love each other?'
“âWhat are you saying?'
“âI'm saying I don't think we love each other the way we used to. Life got in the way, and somehow we forgot how to. But I think we can remember.'
“âHow?' he asked.
“âI challenge you to a game,' I told him. âNot like Solitaire, where there is only one winner. We're both competitive, Al. We both like to winâwhich is maybe why we fight so much. But I want to compete with you in a different way. Mentally, we've been keeping score of each other's faults and mistakes for too long. I want to start keeping score differently.'
“I had a small spiral notepad in my hand, which I tossed on the table, completely scrambling his card game. When he asked what it was for, I told him. âThis is our scorecard. I want to track the number of ways that we can find to be nice to each otherâto love each other. I'm tired of pretending that we love each other without either of us really showing it. So if you want me to stay, tell me you'll play.'
“He invited me to sit, and for the next hour we discussed possible rules for our âgame.' We agreed to award ourselves points for saying or doing kind things for the other. At the end of each week, once we've totaled the scores, we'll go on a date as our rewardâthe winner gets to choose the restaurant. We also agreed that whoever wins the most weeks of our game for the next year will decide how and where we celebrate our anniversary. Next year is our fortieth, and I told him that if we're still married, we need to go somewhere big. He said he's always wanted to visit Fiji, but I said I want to go to Paris.
“Oh, how I pray that this will work. I miss my old friend. Tonight, while we were talking about the game, I saw glimpses of the Al I used to know. I do love him, somewhere deep downânow I just need to show him.”