Page 6 of Near Miss

But I’m trying to be better about setting boundaries and drawing lines in the sand instead of giving pieces of myself I can’t afford to give, and sometimes it comes out wrong.

He cocks his head to the side, and I think he’s chewing on the inside of his cheeks, like he’s mulling over something, before he gestures for me to follow him into the kitchen.

“How was your meeting?” I ask, trying to throw out a peace offering, even though I don’t have to.

At least my psychiatrist says I don’t have to. He tells me it’s okay to create a boundary people are uncomfortable with. It doesn’t mean we have to appease them afterwards.

I follow my father into the kitchen, light from the setting sun spilling across the hardwood floor through ancient wartime windows he won’t replace.

It’s a normal kitchen. More modern than the rest of the house because someone saw fit to update it before my father landed himself here. But with more pill bottles dotting the counter and more reminders for upcoming appointments than your average household.

“Good. I presented someone with their one-year medallion.”

I hear the pride in his words when he drops the bag from the pharmacy alongside the empty bottles and makes his way to the fridge. He pulls it open and grabs me one of those boxed waters I’m particularly fond of that he keeps here even though he can’t afford them.

“Cool.” I smile at him because I can’t really think of anything else to say.

I’m happy for him, and I’m happy for this stranger.

We say we’ve come so far in understanding mental health, and I do think we’re leaps and bounds ahead of where we used to be. But addiction remains this elusive thing people can’t really seem to understand.

Sobriety is rare and difficult and wonderful and challenging and beautiful.

And I’m always proud and overjoyed and thrilled for anyone who finds it.

But my father’s sobriety came at a cost I’m not sure either of us should have had to pay.

“Is your sister coming over tonight?” he asks, handing me the box.

We stand there in the kitchen, staring at one another awkwardly for a moment before I clear my throat. “No, she’s got a group.”

Stella and I somehow became the most stereotypical children of addicts you’d ever find—she spends her days trying to help people get sober and I put organs back in people whose disease ruined theirs.

It was all we knew, and I don’t think we ever left.

“Oh.” He looks troubled for a moment before he tips his too-pointed chin towards the living room. “Did you want to watch a movie then?”

They say addiction is a cycle you can’t escape. I think of all those cirrhotic livers I’ve removed and replaced with new ones. I think of all the people my sister listens to so intently, night after night, day after day, trying to help them find their own version of peace. I think of my father, soon to be practically housebound because flu season is coming up and he’s forever immunocompromised because he has an organ that didn’t always belong to him.

I think of my mother—gone before Stella and I were even old enough to really know her.

I think of all the things that landed us here, in these worn chairs in this bungalow on another random side street in the east end of the city. I think of my father’s too-frail fingers on the remote control. And mine, too-tightly gripping the twist top of my box of water because I wince when the opening credits started too loudly.

And I think they might be right.

Beckett

Pilates is fucking hard. And anyone who tells you otherwise either hasn’t tried it or is a liar.

Beads of sweat drip from underneath my hat, hitting the carriage of the reformer.

Back when I could do my job effectively and score points when the team needed me, the training staff thought it was a great idea to put the proper equipment in one of the workout rooms, so I had a place to do it after meetings on days I didn’t have practice.

It’s a popular workout with kickers. It builds length in your muscles, strengthens them, and opens up your flexibility, and I don’t have the typical body of a kicker so I need it—I’m on the taller end at six two, broader than most, because once upon a time, this wasn’t what I thought I was made for.

I’ve been doing it since college when my time as a just-fine wide receiver came to an end when I fell ass-backwards into kicking. Both our kicker and punter got injured, and in a moment of game-time desperation, our coaching staff asked theteam if anyone played soccer growing up, and they picked me because I played competitively year-round until I was sixteen.

I became stupidly good at something most people think is useless. I broke college records. People talked about me on ESPN. I got drafted when I was twenty-three even though kickers rarely do, and I got traded here when the expansion opened the first Canadian franchise team.

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