I Liked My Life(83)

Newly finished runners swarm me. Some are jovial, slapping my back, saying things like “It’s all over buddy!” or “You did it, man!” I lay there, blanketed in sweat, sobbing.

There’s a soft kick at my side. Pamela stands over me, arms extended. I reach for them and she pulls me up. “Where are you staying?” she asks. I point down the street to the Hyatt. “Okay, okay, I’ll get you there. Walk with me.”

She props her small frame under my shoulder, leading me through the maze of people. Her height is misleading; the woman is solid muscle. I lean on her in a complete haze, emotionally and physically spent.

She brings me all the way to my room. I collapse on the hotel comforter that Maddy always took off right away because you never knew what foul things had taken place on it, and fall asleep.

It’s dark when I wake. The humiliation of my finish line debacle wakes with me. A thick film covers my body like a wet suit. My eyes are swollen, my head is throbbing, but mostly, I’m thirsty. Savagely thirsty. Kill-a-man thirsty. I drink both of the four-dollar waters on the dresser, then hit the minibar for apple juice, orange juice, pineapple juice, and iced tea. When I finish, about forty dollars later, I enjoy the primal sense of survival. I stretch, smelling myself with disgust, and head to the bathroom for a shower.

The water has an almost spiritual quality. It’s roasting hot and I welcome the burn. I soap and then soap again, scrubbing away the memory of my mental breakdown. I can picture Dr. White correcting me at my next session: “Brady, what you’re describing is a breakthrough, not a breakdown. Your core is finally admitting the magnitude of its loss. That’s progress.”

I stand under the scalding water so long my body acclimates to it. Is it progress? I’m mortified by my lack of composure, but damn it, I do feel lighter having gotten that out. When I finally call it and turn off the shower, the steam is so thick it seeped underneath the bathroom door into the bedroom.

Refreshed and donning only a towel, I call Eve at the Cape. She picks up on the first ring, worried I hadn’t called sooner. As soon as I tell her my time qualified, she forgets her anxiety and cheers with genuine excitement. “I’m so proud of you, Dad. You worked so hard.” I might be the only man to ever hear those words from his seventeen-year-old daughter.

“Thanks, Bean. I’m sort of proud of me too. How’s the Cape?”

“Good. We miss you. Uncle Dan says there’s too much estrogen in the house, and if I ever come without you again, he’s staying home.”

“Tell him I can only imagine. I won’t let it happen twice.” I have no intention of sharing my “breakthrough,” so after I hear about their gorgeous beach day we say good night.

I’m starving.

The lobby bar is hopping with runners. I’m eager to blend in with the crowd and knock back a few celebratory drinks, until I see her. Apparently, escorting me to the Hyatt wasn’t out of Pamela’s way. I try to duck out, but she taps my shoulder as I turn to leave. “I was about to call and check on you. I’m glad you came down.”

I want to disappear. I’d banked on the fact that, statistically, I’d never see this woman again. Yet here we are, five hours later. I improvise, determined not to lose any more credibility. “Um, I’m actually getting room service. I’m here to snag a menu because there wasn’t one in my room.”

She smiles and I remember why I was initially attracted to her. “Well, I’m glad you seem to be feeling better. And congratulations on qualifying.”

“You too. Listen,” I start, but what can I say? Sorry I completely lost my shit earlier? I clear my throat. “About before, I don’t know what came over me.” I grab a menu off the bar with the intent to excuse myself.

“No, I’m sorry. I have a big, fat mouth and it gets me in trouble sometimes.”

“You couldn’t have known. I don’t know why I still wear the ring.”

Pamela adjusts the clasp on her necklace. “I only wish I could take back my reaction. It’s the last thing you needed.” A nice, simple response. I let it sink over me.

“It felt good to let it out, actually.” I tell myself to stop talking, to get upstairs, to jump off the bar mezzanine, anything to end the embarrassment of putting such raw vulnerability on display. But there’s nothing waiting for me in my room or anywhere else. And that smile.

“Let me buy you an appetizer,” I suggest, “as payment for your courier service. I’m not a light load.”

“Great. Anything without shellfish. I’m allergic.”

I flag down the bartender and order two martinis, chicken wings, and a nacho, then turn back to Pamela. “So where in Boston do you live?”

Three martinis later the crowd has faded and Pamela gets the courage to ask about Maddy. “Was it cancer?”

“No,” I say, shaking my head. “I wish. God, that sounds terrible.” I slug back the rest of my drink. It’s none of her business, and yet I want to confess, to get it over with so she can plan her exit. “She took her own life.” I look her right in the eyes as I say it, shocked to find only compassion.

“I’m so sorry.”

The only reason she hasn’t bolted is because she doesn’t understand. “It was my…” I can’t say fault. I didn’t suggest it. I didn’t push her. “I was working too much, traveling all the time, and I think—I don’t know—I can be cold, distant.”