Single Player: Humor, Love, Breast Cancer and a Gaming Girl... (13 page)

After Liddy leaves for the evening, I realize that not once this week have I gone online to play or stalk my now ex-boyfriend, MrnotsoCoolatall. However, I did notice that he left me a private message in my inbox, but no way am I opening it. No doubt he’s left me a lengthy goodbye asking me, the stalker, to please lose his game-tag and for the love of god find someone else to play with from now on. But, I will ignore that message because no way can I handle that kind of rejection right now. My ego is struggling enough as it is without adding yet another issue to the already-full abandonment-issue playlist I have running through my head. Instead I choose to flag the message as “read” and ignore it. Sounds simple, but no.  Hardest… Flag…. EVER!   

Liddy calls to check in before going to bed later that night loaded with reassurances and reminders about her and Connor’s plans for tomorrow. 

“Okay. Our flight is at noon and is scheduled to arrive in the evening. We’ll call you as soon as we get settled at the hotel and then in the morning we’ll go and meet your mom.”

She goes through the itinerary for the rest of their trip like she’s reading through the phone book… like what she just said, “We’ll go and meet your mom”, was no big deal.  She mistook my silence to mean that I was listening and continued on with the details of their trip all the way through to their departure on Sunday evening. All I can hope is that I didn’t missed too much between the words, “then in the morning we’ll go and meet your mom,” and “Love you CeeCee,” because after the shocking reminder of what they were doing, my mind ran off.

***

Following that conversation, I spent several futile hours at my desk drawing in an attempt to create something worthy of consideration for our new collection. It didn’t take long before I gave up and instead gave in to a much-needed quiet time of reflection, where I gave myself permission to dream of what my actual mom may be like.  It’s incredibly difficult to re-imagine and rewrite the many years of stored up images and stories that I’d painstakingly created from nothing. 

When I was in preschool I often imagined she looked like all the other moms I saw running around at the playground. She’d have ready-to-wear short hair and wear shorts that were disguised as a skirt paired with a flouncy t-shirt that was lovingly adorned with a mystery stain across the breast. When I started kindergarten the imagery changed and she became a sweet mom with long, pretty, flowing hair that always had on a pair of time faded mom jeans and a baggy t-shirt. 

Now, after all these years, here I am again lying here on my bed trying to add my mom’s face atop of one of those kid friendly images of my youth and it’s proving to be an impossible task. Because with every pair of mom jeans and skorts I imagine, Play-woman strikes again and all I’m left with in my mind’s eye are stilettos, miniskirts and corset tops all of varying colors, shapes, and fabrics, not a pair of mom-jeans insight. 

Until I see her for myself (IF, I repeat IF I see her myself) I will continue to hold onto the images I’ve grown attached to and created in my head. It seems impossible that my subconscious could change the number of invented lingerie moms that I’ve dreamt up in my memory bank over the years. In computer talk, the folder is in storage overload and the system is full. Until I lay eyes on her myself (IF) the memory’s cannot be erased and she will be who I want her to be, because honestly, I’m terrified of who she may actually be.

Oddly enough all this mom pondering isn’t helping my mental state any so instead I make the smart decision to close my eyes in what will likely be the first attempt of many at falling asleep tonight. As I lay here staring at the interior of my eyelids, listening to music that’s quietly being piped out from the phone beside me, I am struck with the thought that Ashton is clueless to the fact that I could have a living, breathing, mom. 

For the very first time in the history of our friendship he will most certainly miss what has the potential to be a monumental moment in my life. Responding to this realization a tear drops unbidden from my right eye down past my firmly clasped hands and onto the pillow beneath them. Not to be outdone by the right, the left eye then releases a tear of its own that rolls from its interior corner down across the bridge of my small nose and into my right ear hole. This systematic draining of my facial fluids builds and continues until I can no longer lay here and breathe easily through the mucus clogging my sinuses, thus I’m forced from my cozy bed to go in search of the tissues that I know I have stored somewhere in this meticulously tidy place I call home.

After I’ve cleared my head (quite literally) and gotten some warm milk (its gross but it does seem to help) I head back to my room, laptop at the ready.  Tonight I will not sit on the closet floor and crumble over the loss of my father because tonight I’ve decided who I need is my best friend. I need Ashton, and I’m betting Google can help me find him. 

As soon as the internet pops up I’m hypnotized by the little blinking light in the search bar that’s urging me to make a choice.  It mocks my indecision as it flickers on and off waiting for me to make a move. I think back to what my brother told me after he talked to Ash and I remember him saying that the band is based out of Phoenix, Arizona. So with that little bit of information and nothing left to lose I simply type in
bars that play live music in Phoenix
and guess what? I find him.

Someone posted a video of his band playing on a small, intimate stage at a place called The Lost leaf. It looks perfect. He looks perfect. I click on the image and am immediately overwhelmed by the sound of his voice. Hearing him sing soothes me instantly, like an infant hearing its mother’s smooth voice outside of the womb for the very first time. It’s perfection.

I can’t help but to be in awe of how at home he appears up on that stage, it’s clear that that’s where he belongs. Trying to categorize my feelings is useless because there are just too many happening at once. It’s quite possible that I could be experiencing the full variety of the human condition all in this one moment in time: love, hate, anger, jealousy, pride, envy, loss, happiness, sadness, worry (goes without saying really), and the one that strikes me the hardest, right between the eyes… fear. The reason is simple. Only because I know Ashton so well do I recognize the one thing I was hoping not to see on his face when I finally found a photo of him and that is
…
peace. I cannot even think it too loudly without it ripping me to shreds.

His peace has brought me to my knees. Here I am, stuck, clutching my phone tightly between my sweaty palms trying to decide if it would be selfish of me to contact him and share my mom woe’s or leave him to his perfect, fulfilled life where for the first time in probably forever he’s finally free of the heavy burden he carries of worrying about me. The answer is duh, of course I should leave him be. It’s clear that he’s happy with these people.  Maybe he’s even doing “the thing” with the beautiful girl standing next to him, the one with the colorful guitar casually slung over her slender, perfect shoulder. He never mentioned she looked like that. I mean, without a face for a visual I never imagined having competition for Ashton’s affection but after seeing her, I get it.  It wasn’t just about the music for him or even about forcing my hand. He wanted to go and the reason appears to be standing beside him in the form of a tall, perfect, buxom blond that I never once anticipated coming between us. She’s the blond bomb.

When we were little kids Ashton used to tell me regularly, “
One day, when we grow up, we’re going to move far away from here, Cee. I’m going to be a rock star and you’ll work at Victoria’s Secret and at night when I sing you’ll come and cheer for me. Then we’ll stay up until morning and instead of you cleaning up my boo-boo’s we’ll listen to music and play Monopoly. It’s going to be the best time of our lives, you’ll see.
” 

For as long as I can remember if Ashton wanted something he made it happen. Unfortunately, the dream he gave up on was the one that I was a part of.  It’s obvious what I have to do. Where he’s concerned there’s no more room for selfishness. I have to let him go so that he can finally live his dream. Not the dream of a child but the dream of a grown man. If he needs a replacement Monopoly partner to be happy (we all know I’m not talking about board games anymore) then I’m glad he found one. He deserves that and if this girl and all the “Monopoly” he has with her can bring him joy, then I’ll back off and leave him be. That’s what a real friend should do. Should’a, could’a, would’a… I don’t know if that’s the friend I can be. 

Maybe, I’m the douche.

ten

What do you write in a text to convey to someone how much you hate them, miss them, love them, loathe them and want the best for them all at the same time, while also dropping the bomb that your long lost mom is back from the dead? It’s especially tricky because Ashton and I have always had a strict ten-word maximum for all of our texts, both of us believing that if you can’t say it in ten words then it’s too important for a text. This has always proven true for us and even though I’m aware that I should not write this text I just can’t figure out how NOT to. Before I send it I’ll test a few out and see what I can come up with:

It’s me

Moms back

You suck

I love you still   

C             (nope)

Master says bark

Guess what?  Moms here… Not yours,

Mine silly

C              (Damn-it! eleven words.  BTW, the signature doesn’t count)

Saw your band-mate,

I get it,

I have a mom

C              (too confusing)

This is it…  (In only six)

Forgive me…

P.S. My mom’s alive

C                                                     I push send.

Now, I wait. And it turns out I will wait… and wait… and wait… because that ASShat does NOT text me back! I may have completely minimized our issues here. I assumed that even though he’s frustrated with me right now, the big picture, which is our LIFE-LONG FRIENDSHIP, would overcome our petty (may not actually be petty, I know) differences and he’d use some sense when he heard my big news, scratch that, HUGE NEWS, and TEXT ME the freakity-freakin’ BACK!  Unfortunately I forgot to figure into the equation the new “girlfriend” and all the “stuff” she offers him, thereby allowing him to easily forget me and the small thing that is OUR LIFE-LONG FRIENDSHIP! (Absolutely assume I’m shouting. You would NOT be mistaken!)

It seems that this big thing of mine is going to happen with or without him. I suppose I’ll have to function under the guise of what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger and become the Hulk, or something equally ambivalent to emotion and then muscle my way through this mess one mêlée at a time. During the most stressful moments in my life Ashton has always stepped up to the plate and taken on the role of referee for me. He’s always been the guy who blew the whistle and aided me in the ring when I was getting it handed to me from some invisible opponent, which more often than not were my own thoughts. And now I’m alone, hoping that for the first time I can be the arbiter of my own circumstances without being knocked out before that damn dreaded whistle blows.

The marathon of waiting for his return text has kept me up for the remainder of this already long night. When the sky starts to throw some bright colors around my room, Master decides it’s time to call it a night. He jumps up onto my cozy bed and throws his giant skull down on my open laptop, slamming it shut in the process. Whether he meant to do it or not he did and his point is taken, it’s time for sleep. We’ve got a big weekend ahead of us and as I look into Master’s big brown eyes I can see my own pain reflected back at me.

“I get it.  I miss him too buddy. I tried to text him, but I think I’ve dug a bigger hole for myself than I originally thought. But don’t you worry. Mommy’s going to figure this out. First, though, we’ve got to get through this whole I-have-a-mom thing, okay? Then we deal with Ashton.” His head pops up and he franticly looks around the dark room as soon as Ash’s name is whispered from my lips. If he only knew how much I understand the desperation he feels at the idea that Ashton could be here in this room.

As we lay here staring into each other’s eyes, all nestled up in the warmth of my bed, I try my hardest to transmit to Master through eye contact alone how serious I am about getting us our guy back. The quiet of the room is doing nothing to hush the panic I’m transmitting to him.  So I open the laptop back up, click on the playlist full of Ashton’s original recordings and listen. Master sighs with relief the moment he hears the sound of his best friends’ deep voice reaching out to him through the small speakers.  Before his big brown eyes close I see peace spill itself across his strong, squared face and I lay perfectly still praying that soon the same peace will show mercy and come for me as well.

***

Hours later the shrill and unexpected ringing of the landline jolts me from my restless slumber. My cell is out of batteries, having been on my bedside table all night instead of its docking station and I’m instantly flooded with hope that it’s Ashton calling, dying to hear all about the unexpected news of me having an actual mom. I clear my voice so I sound like I’ve been awake for hours when, OH MY GOSH, I finally see my clock and it’s four freaking o’clock in the afternoon! Quickly and still in the middle of clearing my phlegmy throat I answer the phone.

“Hello.” Still clearing. Damn phlegm!

“Hey sis? You okay?” Connor?

“Where are you? I thought you didn’t get in til’ later tonight?” Suddenly I’m worried so I talk quicker. “I’m fine. What is it? What’s happened?”

“Slight problem.” I knew it. “Don’t panic (HA!). But, due to bad weather, we’re stuck in Charlotte for the night.  There appears to be a monsoon on the other side of this window and it’s not called to let up until sun-up tomorrow.” Crappity, crap, crap! I’m never getting a good night’s sleep again. “Anyway, I’ve already switched our flight out to the very first one in the morning, so as long as it leaves as scheduled  we should get to town in plenty of time to make visiting hours at the prison.” Finally his nerves are showing.  My brother never speaks this fast.

“I’m not worried.” That’s always just assumed, but I need to be a better sister and think of him and how he’s the one that’s sucked it up to go meet this mother character, Charlotte. Does anyone else see the irony that he’s currently stuck in Charlotte? Yah, me too.

“Right, and I’m Hugh Hefner,” I wish he were because he’s on my list of “to-meets”.

“Okay, fine, I’m worried. I was trying to be supportive.  There’s a slight chance I may be feeling a tinge of guilt for not putting on my big girl panties and doing this with you. Okay?” I’m terrible at admitting my extremely obvious faults. It’s actually kind of narcissistic now that I think about it. Hmmm….?

“I appreciate that sis. I know how hard it is for you to admit that, but lucky for you and me, Liddy’s here so you’re off the hook this time. She has this amazing way of making anything tolerable. Even meeting our long lost jailbird mother seems ordinary with her next to me.” His love sickness is gross. Gag, gag, heave.

“Aw, baby. I love you so much.” Yep, those would be kissy noises in my ear… Retch, retch, choke.

“Hello? Hello?! CONNOR CALDWELL, I AM STILL ON THE PHONE AND I CAN HEAR YOU FRENCHING YOUR GIRLFRIEND… I’M YOUR SISTER FOR CHRIST’S SAKE!” More slurping and then a humming and… they’re done…

“Sorry Cee. What I was saying before this hottie here distracted me,” I hear a slap, then a whispered, “stop Connor,” and finally a giggle.  Lord help me and give me strength, “…was that this is going to work out.  Liddy had a dream last night that our mom looked like that Victoria Secret model you showed her the other day, you know the one with the big boobs?” He’s an idiot. More slapping and this time no giggling.

“No way can she have big boobs considering my bra size. Aunt Joanie has the dream tata’s so I obviously didn’t get these beauties,” heavy on the sarcasm here, “from dad’s side. Forget it, we’re off topic, this is gross. You’re my brother. Listen, I don’t care what you have to do (I do), just call me when you get there and then again when it’s over and please tell Liddy I said thank you. Oh and be safe.”

“I love you, Cee.” He really does.

“Yah, I know. I kinda love you too, you Neanderthal.  Please come home safe,” and then I follow up quickly with, “you’re all I have left you know?” He reassures me once more for good measure before we hang up and then I finally head to the kitchen to have my morning/evening chocolate and cream coffee.   

***

If I ever take the time to look back on this night of my life (not a snowball’s chance in hell) there will be only one word appropriate enough to describe it, and that word is: manic. There is a laundry list of reasons why I will not be sleeping tonight, reason number one; I slept until FOUR PM! From there you just have to work your way backwards through my current and past life issues and the rest of the inventory becomes pretty obvious. 

Mania is a fickle state of being simply because the product of it can often times be both positive and negative.  For example, as I methodically clean my house, a positive, I am able to see more clearly all of the things I’ve missed before. The results are my kitchen becomes more hygienic, the bathroom sparkles, and the bed sheets end up both washed and ironed. IRONED, people! (Once I heard Oprah say that she has people on staff that do this for her every day and that she truly believes that this is the only way one should ever sleep. Uhmmm? Okay? And this was the people’s person?). 

After frantically cleaning I move on to the more menial task of manically organizing the junk drawer (I do have the one), then I put my video games in alphabetical order (why have I never done this before?), and rearrange the several throw rugs I have around the house. I love it.  When I finally take a moment to brave a look at the clock it is barely FREAKING NINE PM!

I suppose now would be a good time to harness all the creative energy vibrating through me and try to produce some quality designs. So I sit down and draw hoping to help time move along and after I’ve got half a dozen new amazing ideas down on paper I close my pad, look up to the clock and see…ELEVEN! It’s only eleven PM!  Tick…Tock…Tick…Tock…

Now we come to the portion of the night where my choices take a turn for the stupid, questionable at best.  We all know not to drink to deal with stress, this is like AA 101, but it doesn’t stop me from implementing the very dim-witted, unrealistic, carefully-crafted plan of I’ll just have “the one”. I mean really? One drink should not be a problem. I’m a grown ass woman (who’s stuck inside).  Alcohol should NEVER, I repeat NEVER, be the recommended course of action when dealing with life-changing events, but clearly I’m not thinking straight and will soon initiate the sequence of events that will spiral me into the adult version of The Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad…
Night
.

***

“Master, let’s have a drink buddy.” He follows me over to the liquor cabinet that Ashton keeps well stocked with all of his favorites, hence giving me lots of liquors to choose from. Since I’ve made the very wise decision to only have “the one” drink I need to make sure that it packs the needed punch I’m after. When I open the miniature fridge that’s been built into the lower half of the cabinet I see a couple of cola’s sitting lonely on their wire shelf and immediately know what I want. I’ll be making the heavily alcohol-infused Long Island iced tea, soon to be known as the destroyer of my life. 

To the bottom of my tall glass I add only a splash of soda before mixing in the main ingredients (the destroyers themselves): equal parts rum, tequila, vodka, gin, triple sec, and sweet & sour all go in until I’ve crafted what could very well be the best cocktail I’ve made to date (also the stupidest).

About half way through “the one”, I think to myself I’ll just “top it off” and this way it still only counts as “the one”, only now it’ll taste better and have a little bit more of a kick.  This charade I’m playing with myself goes on until I’m down two cans of soda, the rest of my rum, and a good portion of most of all the other aforementioned spirits.  (The use of the word spirit is both an accurate and intentional word choice because mine has left the building.) 

While still having the ability to walk I decide to go  change into my new handmade lingerie set from Liddy. It makes me feel so pretty and feeling pretty could lead me to having other positive thoughts which clearly I’m in need of. Lingerie = pretty = happy thoughts = happy me.  This plan is really coming together.

As I’m leaving my room I decide we need some jams. That brand new docking station Ashton got me is going to be put to good use tonight because Master and I are going to have a dance-off like it’s nobody’s business! Selecting my first tune, Brittany Spear’s classic dance track Toxic, I move the coffee table off the area rug in front of the sofa and assume my dance-off starting position (I always start with the same move. Arms criss-crossed over my head, one knee bent to the side, head thrown back). You’d be right that this move is awesome when I’m sober; unfortunately it’s not so easy to pull off with one full, topped off, Long Island Tea under my belt so I’ll just have to drop my starting pose and hope Master doesn’t dock me any points. 

After I finish dancing to my first song I turn on Master’s favorite, Doggy Dog World by Snoop Dog and he starts jumping around and barking giving me his classic ‘I’m-having-so-much fun’ response. I take this opportunity to have some soda (without the booze) and then, since I’m still sober (not so much) I wonder how could having another alcohol-infused drink possibly hurt me if the first one was able to bring me so much relief?

Before I know what’s happened we’ve (I’ve) had two and a half more drinks, danced to
SexyBack
, Who
Let the Dog’s Out?
(Maybe whoever they are can come take my dog out?), Shakira’s
Hips don’t lie
(How do we really know they don’t lie? Just a thought to ponder.), the classic
Hound Dog
by Elvis himself (Is he really dead?), and then one of my personal favorite’s of all time,
Don’t Cha
by the Pussycat Dolls (They could be PlayWoman for sure. I should see if they’d like to wear our lingerie for a show.  Good advertising strategy. I’m really an innovative thinker while drunk.)