“Anything, sweetie.” She doesn’t touch her sub either, but instead uncaps her iced tea and takes a small sip.
“Why didn’t he slow down? Why did he keep working all hours of the day?”
Aunt Carol’s eyes soften as she takes in her brother on the hospital bed, the silent beep of the machines connected to him filling the silence. I watch as she slowly scans her similarly weathered eyes over his aged body. Wrinkled skin, crow’s feet, sun spots, he’s only fifty, so he shouldn’t look like he’s seventy. Finally, Aunt Carol softly says, “He has a lot of debt, honey.”
“From what?” What could he possibly be in debt from? He always said we were fine, especially when I asked about certain field trips with my team to different events in high school, where he’d pull a twenty out of his wallet and tell me to have fun. If he was in debt, would he really do that?
Aunt Carol nervously wrings her hands together, staring at her lap. “I don’t know if I should tell you this, as your dad was always very secretive about his expenses and I’m sure he didn’t want to share any of it with you. He didn’t want to burden you with his troubles.”
What troubles?
I’m so confused and maybe I’m being naïve, but he never indicated there was any trouble. I think back over the last few years, my childhood, growing up with everything I needed—baseball was expensive, I knew that because I saw the worry in my dad’s eyes whenever I came home with a new invoice from my coaches. But he always took care of it . . .
I chew on the inside of my lip and ask, “Does it have to do with baseball?”
That’s when she shuts her eyes and tears slip down her cheeks. From her crocheted purse, which I’ve always known her to carry in the crook of her arm, she pulls out a white embroidered handkerchief and dabs at her tears.
Fuck, was it baseball? Did my sport do this to my dad?
“It was a lot, sweetie.” She answers on a deep breath. “Your mom’s medical bills were a giant burden accompanied with the baseball expenses. He took out a loan to help ease the burden, thinking compiling the debt would ease his wallet, but he didn’t read the fine print, and is paying so much interest that it’s more than the payment itself. He’s in way over his head.”
What? How is that even possible? My dad is a smart man, and I thought he had always ensured his affairs were in order. It’s one of the things he always stressed: make sure my bills were paid before I had fun. All Brentwood baseball players have full-ride scholarships and when you live off campus, you get a giant check at the beginning of every semester for room and board. Since Brentwood is an expensive school, we received a hefty check. When Dad helped me open a bank account for the first time, he stressed to me to save as much as I could. To have fun, but not to waste my money on frivolous things. And because I lived off campus for three years out of the four, I saved a really nice chunk of change thanks to splitting the grocery bill with a bunch of guys, low rent with utilities included. Because my dad filled out the financial-aid packet, I was granted extra money for clothes from the NCAA. I learned from him, so why didn’t he learn from himself?
“Wh-why didn’t he say anything? I could have given him money, taken on another job at school, done something to help. Why did he keep sending me ‘fun’ money when he didn’t have any for himself?” My heart plummets considering all the times Dad texted me to tell me he’d put some more money in my account and to go have fun. He made it seem like everything was okay when in fact, he’s been slowly killing himself to provide for me. I never needed that money. He did.
Not hungry anymore, I put my sub to the side and bury my fingers in my hair, trying to comprehend this new information.
“He loves you so much, Carson. You’re his pride and joy, and I know he has a hard time expressing that sometimes, but you should see how proud he is, the newspaper clippings he had me put together in a scrapbook for him, the pictures he’s printed of you online, the articles. There is nothing that makes him happier than seeing you happy.”
“But I was happy, I didn’t need him to—” My throat tightens and I quickly stand. Fuck. Why? Why do that, Dad? “I, uh . . . I need to take a walk.”
“Carson, sweetie, please don’t be upset.”
“What’s there to be upset about?” I ask, sarcasm laced with every word. “My dad had a stroke so I could be happy. How could I possibly be upset over that?”
Guilt consumes me. I leave the hospital room and turn down an empty hallway where I crash against the wall and fall to the floor, knees propped up, my head buried in my hands.
He kept sending me money when I didn’t need it.
He kept working when he could have asked for help.
He had a stress stroke trying to keep me happy.
It’s too fucking much.
Why the fuck did he do that?
Had I been so fucking entitled that he felt he had no choice?
I stifle a sob, but I can’t do anything about the tears that start to stream down my cheeks. Why, Dad? Why?
And for the first time since my mom passed away, I cry.
Holt: Hey brother, I’m thinking about you. If you need anything, please let me know.
Gunner: The team sent some flowers. I told them whiskey would be better, but Coach wouldn’t go for it. Thinking of you, man.
Knox: Fucking hell, Carson. I can’t stop thinking about you and your dad. Please let me know if I can do anything. I’m stapled to my team right now, but even if you need me for a second, I’ll be on a plane faster than you can blink and back in time for my game.
Jason: Badcock wants to send you a text. I told him to write you a card and gave him the address to a local Dunkin’ Donuts. You’re welcome. Miss you, man.
Romeo: Room check. It’s all clear. No motherfucker has even stepped a foot near your door. I’m on the prowl, don’t worry. I got your back. Take care of Pops.
Cory: It’s not much, but I sent some catering (Tex-Mex) to the nursing staff on your dad’s floor. I told them it’s for taking care of Carson Stone’s dad. Please make sure you grab yourself a plate. Hang in there, brother.
Milly: How’s it going? I don’t want to bother you with texts, but I also want you to know I’m thinking about you. XOXO
Milly: The boys are prepped and ready for regionals. I caught a practice today thanks to Jason. Badcock wasn’t terrible, but he wasn’t Carson Stone, that’s for damn sure.
Jason: BADCOCK strikes again! The motherfucker hit me in the head with his bat in the dugout. Thank fuck I was wearing my helmet. Coach told him to pull his head out of his ass and pay attention.
Milly: I miss you. All you need to do is give me the go-ahead and I’ll be there in a flash.
Cory: Analysts have you in top ten draft picks for the first round. You’re going places, dude. Thought you might need some good news. Let me know if you need anything.
Milly: I ate a package of pretzel M&M’s today. I know, sad face, but I can’t have caramel without you. Even though pretzel is good, it’s just not the same.
Romeo: I saw a freshman look like he was approaching your room and I ran into his ankles with Gunner’s remote-control car. He screamed bloody murder and fell to the ground, saying he was going to the bathroom, but I didn’t believe him. He was going for your goods.