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The quiet of Nelson Road Stadium early on a weekday morning is something that Jamie has come to feel at home in. He used to find it creepy as shit – the smell of damp turf and concrete, the echoes, the silence where there should be cheering and jeering – but now he appreciates these moments. It’s been a long twelve years with the club, and he’s pretty sure his hip flexor issues are going to take him off the pitch before too much longer, so the little moments matter more.
As he’s walking along the top in the stands, Jamie spots the back of a familiar puffer jacket several rows down. He takes a deep breath, then marches down the stairs.
He takes the adjacent seat without asking for an invitation. It’s shaping up to be a clear day and the dew on the concrete under their feet is quickly evaporating.
“Eerie in the mornings, innit?” Jamie asks, plastic chair creaking as he leans back.
“You think so?”
“Reminds me of when I was a wee little lad,” he says with a smirk. “Training before school, running laps around the youth club stadium. Always hated it. Hated it more when me dad was around, skulking around the pitch, making note of every little thing I fucked up.”
Jamie notices him stiffen at the mention of James Tartt Sr., and realizes his mistake. Idiot . He should’ve thought about what day it was. He’d noticed it this morning – September 13th – but he hadn’t connected the dots with why they were sitting here at this particular place and time.
“Piece of shit. I don’t think about him much anymore. Sorry I brought ‘im up.”
“It’s all good, Elijah Wood.”
Jamie winces like he’s been punched in the gut.
"Thought you weren't coming to visit until next month."
A shrug.
They sit in uncomfortable silence for a few moments.
“Hey, uh, it’s alright, you know. If you wanna talk about your dad,” Jamie offers.
There’s another pause.
“Or I could call Rebecca for you, or Coach Nate or somebody,” Jamie offers. “Or Beard, prob’ly,”
Beard is off doing some weird shit now – training stunt animals for movies, or maybe it was voice acting as animals for movies, Jamie can’t keep that man’s 3,000 careers straight. He's not been doing too well, Jamie gathers. Higgins and Nate worry about him. But Jamie knows he’d answer the call in a heartbeat on today of all days. Beard will know what to say better than he does. He’s already unlocking his phone to make the call when his train of thought is interrupted:
“My dad came to a lot of my practices and stuff, too. Not that he was ever hard on me like that. When I was, like, twelve, my lacrosse team made it to states and he made the dorkiest sign. I absolutely forbid him from bringing it, but he did anyway. Made the local news. He was so happy, even though we lost.”
Jamie chuckles softly.
“He was kind. To everyone except himself, most of the time.”
“Harder on himself than anyone else, yeah?” Jamie echoes, a decade-old conversation from the Crown and Anchor rising readily to his mind. Crazy how that afternoon is still burned into his memory, because it was silly, wasn’t it? For him to be so nervous to ask Ted for a second chance? The years make it feel trivial now.
Jamie sighs. “Shit, mate, I dunno what to say.”
“It’s okay, Jamie.”
Jamie pulls Ted Danson the Army Man out of his fanny pack and sets him on the arm of the seat. It earns him a baleful look.
“Just don’t feel like you’ve gotta keep it all inside, all the feelings and shit.”
That gets him a nod. “To be honest, I think I’m still a little mad at him.”
Jamie nods.
“For the years that he wasn’t around. Even though I know he tried so hard for me. And I know now that he was sad a lot, and scared a lot, even though he didn’t let me see it. I’m not sure I made it easy for him, either.”
“You were just a kid.”
“I’m mad about the years after, too. When he was there, but he wasn’t himself. I don’t want to be, but I am. And I’m mad that he let it get so bad that he felt like he had to–that he–”
A deep breath.
“My dad committed suicide. He killed himself. He’s dead. My dad is dead ,” he says the words experimentally, as if trying them out to see how they sound in the light of day. Solidifying them in reality. As if he has to mark the date out loud.
“I‘m sorry,” says Jamie.
“My dad killed himself. That’s a thing that happened to me. Happened to my mom. Happened to everybody he loved.”
Jamie reaches out a hand, but he chickens out and rests it on the back of the plastic seat instead of making contact.
“He’s…gone.”
“‘m sorry,” Jamie repeats. “Fucking shit thing for a teenager to hafta go through.”
“Doc Sharon reached out to me this morning. ‘Cause of the anniversary.”
“No kidding?” says Jamie. Last he heard, the good doc was somewhere in Ireland, working her magic with a team for some sport he’s never heard of. “Wise lady. Helped me a lot, with the stuff with my dad. And last year too, after…well, yeah.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Jamie nods. “You should call her, if you want to.”
“I just,”
Uh oh, those are tears, and Jamie has no idea what to do when people cry.
“I wish I could talk to my mom about it, but it was complicated for her, too. I just – it feels like it could swallow me, sometimes. I’m so angry that he’s gone. I’m angry at my mom and my stepdad, f-for moving on, I guess, even though I should want them to be happy. He’d want that too, I think. And I’m angry at myself ‘cause I know he was hurting, and he must’ve been so scared.”
He’s leaning over, and they’re hugging now. Okay, Jamie’s got this. He can give hugs. He squeezes tightly.
“Hey, whatever you gotta feel, I think you gotta just let it out. Let it flow through you, like pipes.” ( like poopy , Jamie thinks). “Your dad taught me that.”
“He did?”
“Yeah. I’m so sorry, Henry. We all miss him so much.”