Page 75 of The Fall
Should I even open it?
My phone vibrates, and the screen tells me what I already know: Dad.
I know what’s coming.
He calls back, of course.
I can’t ignore it forever. I answer.
“Torey.” My father’s voice is a blast through the receiver. He’s always been larger than life. When I was a kid, he was my Superman. When I got older, I learned he was human. He never realized I was, too, I think.
“Hey, Dad.” I barely recognize my own voice.
“Coach benched you? What the hell is that about? How are you supposed to contribute to the team if they don’t give you the ice time?”
I swallow. The truth fights to surface, but it’s easier—safer—not to breathe a word of it. “I’m not—” My tongue stumbles, trips over a lie. “I’m fine. I just had an off day.”
“Is it your head? Are you sure you should be playing right now? Maybe you need more time to rest.”
“I’m fine. 100 percent cleared, Dad.” Physically.
“Well, then, your coach needs to wake up, put you on the ice where you belong. Youbelongon the first line. Hell, you’ve always been the best. This coach of yours…” He trails off in a long, heavy sigh. “This is on them, Torey.”
Here’s my dad’s problem: he believes, to the center of his entire self, that I am the best hockey player he’s ever seen. He spent eighteen years boasting about every one of my achievements, chronicling my rise through mites, bantam, and juniors, proudly posting my sports photos and game shots on every wall of our home. He believes I was born to raise the Stanley Cup.
I used to think he was my biggest and best asset. I had unfailing and unflinching support. He’d drive me to the rinkat 4 a.m. to practice, or across Saskatchewan to a weekend tournament, a thirteen-hour trip there and back. I wanted for nothing: hockey sticks and skates and training gear, a home gym, a custom meal plan. My dad, my secret weapon.
He is the sum of every late night on the road, every morning practice, every beaming, fresh-off-the-ice smile, every ounce of expectation I built, polished, and set on my shoulders, proud to carry it. He believes I can do everything. I know I can’t do anything.
He hasn’t caught up yet.
“It’s not...” My denial fizzles out. I’m too tired, too fractured to argue. What’s the point? If he knew the truth, if he saw the wreck of the son he used to know?—
No, there’d be no patching that up. To him, it would be like shattering a priceless jewel or losing stardust from a burned-out solar system. Once gone, never repaired, never replaced.
So I let it hang: my failure, our silence.
“Are you sure you’re all right, Torey? You live for this. You’re better than this.”
I stay silent. The truth is a monster caged inside me, and if it gets out—if I admit I’m not what he thinks I am, that I’m a disaster waiting to happen, that I’m heartbroken over a relationship I made up, with aman—there’ll be nothing left of me. I’ll be a pile of dust that he’ssodisappointed in.
“Dad, how’s Singapore?” I choke out. I’ve never fully understood what my dad does. He’s an executive, that much I know, and he rakes in the cash—we never wanted for anything—but he spent a lot of years traveling, more and more when I was a teen, even more when I was billeting. Now he’s based full time overseas. He streams my games wherever he is and sends me commentary by text.
He’s a talker, my dad. Shifting the subject works. He can’t wait to tell me about Singapore: where he’s gone, what he’s upto, how much he thinks I’d like this or that. He’s so effusive. He’s the exact opposite of me. I don’t remember my mother—she left a while ago—but I must be more like her than I am like him.
Eventually, the needs of the world catch up to my dad. I hear his assistant interrupt, reminding my dad about his next appointment, his next meeting, and the need to prep for the prime minister. “Torey, I have to run. But listen, call me, okay? Doesn’t matter the time, call me when you can.” A pause. “I love you.”
“Love you too, Dad.”
The call ends. I slump against the counter, phone still cradled in my palm. The screen goes dark; the room feels darker.
The package waits, and the secret it holds burns in my veins. I shouldn’t have done it. I know, I know how crazy it is, but maybe it’s better if I’m crazy.You’re circling the drain.
I rip through the tape. The cardboard splits, exposing its sinful innards: Blair’s jersey, his name and number 24 stitched in bright white across midnight-blue. I cling to it as if holding it could bring him back. If I squeeze hard enough, maybe something of him will bleed over and I’ll have him again.
But it smells like plastic. There’s no sunshine, no Key lime ache, only the sterile, factory-produced scent of mass production.
I crumple, falling to my knees on the cold, hard floor.
