Page 40 of The Keeper
Maybe your life really isn’t worth anything,I thought. It was only fleeting. But it was there. And it scared me.
That interaction dictated my every decision from there on out. I did everything Frank asked me to. I never talked back. I never made excuses. When he called me worthless, I agreed. When he said I was a whore, I didn’t say a word, allowing him to come to whatever conclusions he wanted to. I kept my head down when I was home and stayed out of his way.
It was horrible.
It was degrading.
It made me feel as worthless as my dad believed I was.
I lived through that for another two and a half years before escaping. I hid the bruises on my skin from my teammates in the locker room. I didn’t tell Jeremy.
It wasmyburden to carry.
The fact I believed anything my dad said is what made me think I had to hide it. Something about the abuse was my fault, so I had to deserve it, right? It wasn’t until my world fell apart that I really understood how destructive his fists and words were to me… and not just on the outside.
My memories shift away from the past and bring me back to the present, to the game looming closer as the bus speeds us along the freeway to San Diego.
My past is coming back. I haven’t seen my dad in-person since my trip home during freshman year of college to collect the last of my things. He had been drunk, alone in his chair, staring at the TV. When he realized I was home, he took his last chance at beating the shit out of me. I choose regularly to push that night to the back of my mind. I’d done everything I could to avoid having to see him again after… well,after.
As we pull into the USD parking lot, I stand and stretch, wincing slightly at the reminder of the injury on my torso, trying not to let my concerns and fears show on my face. I give a small smile to Erin as she grabs her backpack off of the overhead shelf and walks past me. I follow her out and grab my gear out of the carriage, scanning the people wandering around the area.
And that’s when I see him, standing outside of the gates to the soccer field, glaring in my direction.
I quickly turn my eyes away, refusing to acknowledge him, and follow the team through the parking lot to USD’s athletic facilities. We split off from the men to go into the ladies locker room, each of us throwing our bags down next to empty locker stalls.
As the girls begin to change, I head into the restroom and into a stall. Once I’ve locked the door, I take a seat and bend forward, dropping my head between my legs, willing the calmness to return.
My old therapist told me that I am the only one who gives him power over me. He can’t take it away anymore. I am independent, and free. I am strong and he can’t touch me.Idecide who gets to put their hands on my body, always.
After a few deep breaths, I step into the main locker room and begin changing with the team. The words of my teammates are muffled in my ears, my mind still unable to fully focus on the immediacy of my surroundings, instead staying firmly rooted in my past.
The breathing helps with my anxiety attacks, but not with focus.
I catch a few curious stares as I stand in the back of the group while Mack and Coach Johnson address the team, but I don’t catch any of what they’re telling us. I nod when everyone else does and follow the hooting and hollering girls out of the locker room and onto the field, where I keep my eyes averted from the bleachers.
The game moves quickly, and I can’t stay on point. Several of my teammates ask if I’m okay, and I just nod and give them tight smiles.
I don’t even know the score or how we’re doing when halftime arrives, apart from the fact that I’ve let in two goals and botched the majority of my saves in one way or another.
As we exit the field for halftime, I do myself the disservice of looking up into the stands, allowing my eyes to roam the dozens of jovial friends and family of my teammates and competitors.
When I spot him, sitting on the bleachers front and center, a paper bag covered bottle clutched in his hand, the same war wages in my brain as every other time that I’ve seen my dad wasted in public.
I want to go to him and help him out of the stands and into a car so that I can drive him straight to a rehab facility. But I also want to slap him, and kick him, and scream at him for how he has failed me and hurt me in so many different ways.
I do none of those things, though, as I jog behind my teammates to the locker room. I’m drinking water, leaning up against a wall, still mentally checked out, when I realize everyone is looking at me.
Wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, I scan the group, unsure what I missed.
“What?”
“Are you going to join us? Or are you going to continue to stare off into the distance like you don’t give a shit about this game?” Gina’s voice cuts through the group and my eyes whip in her direction, where she stands next to Mack.
“Gina, language.” Mack’s response is firm and controlled. “Rachel, your head is obviously not in the game today. I’m pulling you out. Erin, you’ll GK for the second half.”
My head drops, my eyes stinging. I’ve never been pulled mid-game. I’ve had to sit out before. Injuries happen. But I’ve never fucked up and been benched. I hear Mack give a few encouraging words to the team, then everyone is walking out of the locker room, but I sit briefly on a bench, staring at my cleats.
“Looks like the golden girl isn’t so shiny and perfect today,” I hear from above me. I know the voice is Gina’s. No one else can pull off that particular brand of bitchy as well as her. I hear her laugh before she follows everyone else out.
