Page 43 of Sweet Girl
He’s been my cheerleader on the sidelines ever since I started playing basketball in the third grade. He’d cheer, and yell, and pump his fists in the air – smiling the big, broad, toothy grin of his that made other people around him smile, too. As we got older, it made me sad to see the way people stared at him. How they talked behind his back and made fun of him. It hurt me to know that people could be so cruel and intolerant of things they didn’t understand.
As we grew older, I became very protective of Dougie, who was two years ahead of me in school. Although he had limited mobility, he had mild cognitive impairment, meaning that his brain function was at a high functioning level so he could learn and excel at school with the help of student aids and electronic communication devices. There’s no doubt that when someone like Dougie attends a public school, there are going to be ignorant assholes who make fun of him. And they did.
I was a sixth grader in middle school the first time I got into a fight defending my brother’s honor. We were in the cafeteria and Dougie was having a meltdown at another table because his para-assistant wasn’t doing something right, so he was babbling loudly. He did that when he got over-excited. On this one occasion, his hands flapped wildly as the para tried getting his lunch set up on the tray in front of him. Dougie’s flailing hands must have hit the tray and sent the food sailing across the floor.
A boy in my grade sitting at the end of the table made a comment to another kid about Dougie being “a loud-mouthed retard” – and I just lost it. I jumped from my seat, came up behind the kid, pushed him off his chair and onto the floor, and started wailing on him. I had never been an aggressive boy and was taught by my parents to always turn the other cheek. That’s all well and good in theory, but that boy deserved to be taught a lesson. And so did the kids sitting around him at the table, all laughing at my brother’s expense.
I learned a valuable lesson that day. Thankfully, I was given leniency by the Principle because I was a good kid who’d never gotten in trouble before. My parents, on the other hand, grounded me, taking away all my TV and video game privileges for a month and in place made me volunteer down at the local mission, cleaning up the bathrooms and kitchen messes.
The lesson learned, however, was that I will never change someone else’s thoughts, actions or behavior by beating them up. That goes without saying. But I did learn that it feels pretty fucking good in that moment when you’re giving someone a bloody upper lip. Just saying.
Technically, that was the one and only fight I’d been in over Dougie. As we all grew older, the kids in our school began to accept him – especially my junior and senior high school basketball teammates. The last home game of my senior year of high school, they all made a special banner for Dougie, commemorating his contributions to the team. The coach also added Dougie to the roster that last game, threw a jersey over his head, and let me wheel him out on the court to shoot a basket. I’ve never seen Dougie smile as big as he did that day. His laughter and animated motions made it all worthwhile.
He’s grinning from ear-to-ear now, too. All our guests have gone, leaving just the four of us in front of the tree. The Christmas lights blink in multi-colored unison, the fireplace flickers its radiant heat, and the tooting sounds of the train circling underneath the tree stand gives Dougie reason to laugh. He loves that fucking train.
My dad reaches underneath the tree to the presents stashed in the back. Handing one to me and another to Dougie, he prefaces the gift by saying, “It’s not much this year. You’re both at an age now where it seems kind of frivolous.”
I nod my head in agreement, glancing over to my brother. “You go first, Doug. Let’s see what Santa brought you.”
A loud exclamation comes from his throat as he rips into his package. He holds it up like a trophy, reveling in the joy of receiving the latest video game. For having limited use of his hands, my brother can use a video game controller like no one’s business. If his body wasn’t restricted by this horrible disease, I know with one hundred percent certainty that he would have been an amazing athlete. Quick reflexes and a determined focus.
I take a peek at that labeling, even though I know what game it is, since I helped my dad pick it out. It’s an Xbox Minecraft game. He is a whiz when it comes to building and creating things. His brain has a capacity for hugeness, if only his body didn’t limit him. In some way, it’s like he can build these worlds using this game where physical limitations mean nothing, and he can actually be free from his body’s constraints.
“Nice, bro. That outta keep you busy for a while.” I wink at him and ruffle his hair in the process, which garners a grin from him.
He uses his electronic voice to respond. “Your turn.”
I give him a head nod and open my gift. My brother squeals in delight as I hold up the basketball jersey. It’s a Phoenix Sun’s team jersey with Steve Nash’s number thirteen. He was my favorite player growing up – especially because he was a Phoenix ball player. Although I don’t play point guard, Nash was an all-around dynamic player whom I admired as a kid. Whenever we could afford it and had the time, my dad would take me and Dougie to the games, maybe once a year. It was always a special event, and because of Doug’s wheelchair, we always got really good seats.
“Hold it up. Let me get a picture.” My mom cheers, pulling out her phone as I do as she requests. I bend down next to Doug’s chair and hold it in front of us. Leaning over to Doug, I ask, “Did you help pick this out, bro?” He grunts and lifts his shoulders in a shrug.
We finish up the rest of the evening and I finally crawl into bed, exhausted and happy. I had left my phone charging on my nightstand while we were having dinner, so I haven’t checked it for several hours. Opening up my text messaging, I see five or six different texts. The last one was from my mom, who sent me the pic of me and Dougie. I smile ’cause it’s a great picture of us together. My dad is photo bombing us in the background, making a goofy face. It makes me laugh.
There’s a few from my friends wishing me a Merry Christmas and asking about upcoming plans for New Years’ Eve. The remaining two are from Kylah and Lyndsay. I debate which one I should read first. I’m hoping Lyndsay’s will just be a quick one, so I open hers up first.
Big mistake.
Lyndsay: I’m sure I’m just being overly emotional. But this is the first Christmas we haven’t spent together in a long time.
Lyndsay: I miss you, Van. So much.
Lyndsay: I’m so sorry I put you through all of this.
Lyndsay: I still haven’t decided what to do about the baby. Cody doesn’t want it.
Lyndsay: I have a present for you and your family. Can I stop by tomorrow? I really need someone. Someone I love and trust.
Fuck me. My emotions reel from the audacity she has to send me these messages. What the hell am I supposed to do with this?
Good for her – she found out her baby daddy’s a loser. And what? She thinks she can come running back to me? Does she think I’m just sitting here, wallowing in misery, waiting with open arms for her to come to her senses?
She can go fuck herself if that’s what she thinks.
My perfect, peaceful Christmas Eve has bit the dust because now I’m seething with anger. And truthfully, I’m confused. If I didn’t still feel something toward Lyndsay, would I still be angry? Do I still have feelings for her after all?
I don’t think so. But she’s right. It is kind of sad not to have someone to share the holidays with like we used to together.
My brain buzzes and my blood boils with indecision. I’m not sure I should give her the opportunity to come over – but I can’t shut her out, either. I’ll feel like an asshole. Regardless of the circumstances, and the fact that she stomped on my heart, I do still care about her. I probably always will. She was my first love.
And like my parents always told me – turn the other cheek.
