Four Days Later

 

The whistle blows for the next round of fighting to start, and I hurry to wipe away the sweat running down my eyes, even though I’ve just been toweled off.

I’m in the ring at Jackson’s Gym. It’s only the practice ring, but a small crowd of people gather to watch my fight against Carl Malone. I feel like a star, but I also feel a little pressure to win this fight.

Soon, all I feel is my adrenaline pumping again. And that’s the way I like it.

It’s the third round, and I’ve surprised myself by holding my own against Carl. This is my very first fight ever, but he’s won quite a few. He is actually going to do an amateur underground fight next month, and I’m part of his training regimen.

I know Carl expected me to be an easy win. Hell, everyone expects him to win. My main goal for today was not to get too hurt. The military would be really mad at me if they knew I was fighting MMA— even in a “practice” fight— so soon before deploying.

But what they don’t know won’t hurt them. And if MMA helps them not know about my PTSD, then it’s a win-win situation. I can’t help thinking about how they don’t know about Monica, either— and wishing she was here in the crowd.

Carl strikes me with his right arm, and I snap back to reality, reminding myself that I have a fight to participate in. I quickly block him with my left arm, and then come at him for a few fast jabs.

“Yeah! Get him Ramsey!”

The small crowd goes wild, and I can make out the voices of Harlow, Whitney, Jensen and Riley, and a few of our friends as well. I can’t believe everyone came to see me. The fight doesn’t even count for anything.

The next time Carl goes after me, I duck his punch and then push him to the floor. Grappling, I wrap my body around his and keep him down.

“All right Ramsey!”

“You’re going to win this!”

“He’s really good!”

My own fans sound incredulous, which would be funny if I weren’t so intent on winning. I get Carl into a choke hold.

The referee is kneeling down close, waiting for Carl to tap out, and everyone is shouting that I’m going to win by submission. I twist my arm tighter around him, starting to think he’s invincible, but then he finally taps out, right before he engages in some strange, drunken-like swinging motions with his arms, and passes out.

“You okay, man? Carl?”

I ask, but the ref is already pulling me up, thinking I intend to keep going after Carl.

After about thirty seconds, he comes to, blinking and shaking his head as if he doesn’t know where he is. Then he figures it out, with an angry look on his face, and stands up in a huff.

“Hey man, good fight,” I tell him, but he just says “hrmph.”

He shakes his head at me, like he can’t believe I took him down. Neither can I, actually.

“And the winner, by submission, is Ramsey Bradford.”

My brothers rush onto the practice ring, disregarding the presence of both Carl and the ref. They practically jump on me, hugging me and shouting in my ears.

“Good job Ramsey!”

“You’re really good!”

“You might have a real future in this.”

I laugh. A practice fight with Carl is nothing like fighting professionally, or even as an amateur. But I appreciate their support and enthusiasm all the same.

“Now let’s go get a beer!” Jensen says.

“Not yet,” I say. “I need a shower. And we all agreed to talk to Mom, remember?”

Everyone groans, but nods. I’m just glad that we’re getting it out of the way. And that I have this unexpected victory to help keep my spirits up while we do it.

 

***

 

“So, Mom, as you know, I’ve been looking for an assisted living facility for you to stay in while I’m gone,” I tell her, carefully. “And I found one.”

We’re all gathered in my living room, although Mom was an unwilling participant.

“I know,” she practically spits at me. “You had to bring everyone here just to gloat about sticking me away somewhere for good.”

“Ma, just listen to what Ramsey is trying to say,” Harlow urges him.

“Yes, Mom. Please listen.” I keep my voice even and calm. “They are able to take you now or at any time in the near future. But. We’ve all come up with another solution, that you might like better.”

She looks at me suspiciously, but with a glimmer of interest.

“Jensen and Riley have offered to have you live with them while I’m gone,” I say, nodding in their direction.

Jensen nods.

“But, there are conditions,” I tell her.

She glares at me.

“Well, it’s nice to hear that not all of my sons want to dump me out in the cold,” she says, nodding at Jensen, which is her way of thanking him. “But I don’t like the sound of ‘conditions.’ I’m not a little child.”

“We know that, Mom,” I say. “But, as I’ve told you, you can’t just come and go as you please, staying out for all hours or for days at a time. We worry about you. You also can’t drink. You’re supposed to be in recovery.”

“You were doing so good with that for a while, Mom,” says Harlow, looking wistful. Sometimes my heart breaks for him, for the little boy he was when Mom left us, and for the part of him that will always be that abandoned child, continually let down. “What happened with that?”

“I told Ramsey,” she says, defensively. “I just needed to have a little break. A little fun, is all. I’m back to not drinking.”

“Well, that’s good,” Jensen says. “Because our offer is only good as long as you’re following the rules. Not drinking, not going out without letting us know when and returning at an appropriate hour, not yelling or cursing at us.”

“You make me sound like some monster,” Mom says. “I can do as I please. I’m a grown woman. Why would I want to live with people who treat me like this?”

“Well, that’s up to you, Mom,” I say. “You can go into assisted living, or you can go with Jensen and Riley. It’s really your choice.”

She crosses her arms and glares at us. I leave out the third option, because she already knows about it. She was already doing it before I took her in. Living on the street or with a random guy.

“I’ll give it a try,” she says, reluctantly.

“Great,” I respond, glad she’s acquiescing, albeit while putting up a little fight. “And just so we’re clear, I’ve informed assisted living that you might be coming. If you don’t follow the rules that Jensen and Riley set, you’ll be transferred there instead.”

“Ramsey, you don’t have to patronize me,” she says. “I hear you loud and clear. And I’d rather be dead on the street before I wind up at some old folks’ home.”

“Well, we look forward to your stay with us,” Riley says, smiling.

Mom glares at her, as if the feeling isn’t mutual.

Riley really must be a saint.

With that matter finally settled, everyone gets up to leave. We have plans to meet up at Elephant Bar for appetizers and drinks. It’s obvious that we all want to say, “Time for that beer!” but not in front of Mom.

I walk them out and say, “See you guys soon,” under my breath.

I open the mailbox at the front of the house and look through it as they nod their goodbyes. Harlow and Whitney get into Harlow’s car and Jensen and Riley onto Jensen’s motorcycle.

Something in the stack of mail catches my eye. It’s a plain brown package, but it has Monica’s name as the return address.

I wave at my brothers and their ladies as they leave, and go back inside.

“I hope you’re happy, with your scheming little plans…”

My mom is saying, but I wave her off.

“I’ll talk to you later, Mom,” I tell her. “I need to be somewhere.”

I sit down on my bed and open the package. It’s a CD. And a note.

Dear Ramsey,

I feel I left on less than a good note than I would have liked. I wanted to let you know that I had a great time, Just For One Weekend. I’ve put together a ‘mixtape’ of sorts, like back when we were kids. It’s a soundtrack, of our time together. I hope that when you listen to it, you will know that I’m thinking of you, and fondly remembering the time that we shared.

Your partner in secrecy and in musical journeys,

Monica

I can’t believe it. Part of me wants to throw the package away, because I have a feeling that once I listen to the songs, I won’t ever be able to forget Monica. Not that I’m so sure I could, anyway.

The weaker part of me wins. I put the CD into my computer and upload the songs, so that I can play them in MP3 version on my phone, in the Jeep.

“Bye, Mom, I’m headed out.”

“Whatever.”

She’s sniffling like a child on the couch.

On my way to the Elephant Bar, I start the music. Our soundtrack. That Monica made me.

And as the music washes over me, filling up the Jeep just like it did when Monica was riding in it with me, I think I may be starting to form my first inkling of what love is.