CHAPTER 2 | DON'T YOU CRY NO MOREFEATURING:
* Jack Shepard * Diane Shepard * Matt Shepard * Cohen Shepard * Stacy Shepard * Bronx Valesence * Makayla Moon*
I
‘One new message. Please press 2 to listen to messages.”
BEEP!
“Baby! Great match as usual. You went out there and did exactly what you said you were gonna do. You made that no good, god damn, son’bitch tap out. Looks good on ‘em. Matty, you’re making me and the ECWF proud.” Bronx Vallesence thick New York accent oozes through the receiver. “I can’t believe how much of a whoopin’ ya out on ol’ Kenny Pryce. Made him look like a chump, which he is, so good. Also, ‘got news, I’m coming for a visit. Got a string of shows in Liverpool in a few weeks so I’ll shoot by for a quick visit. Let me know if it works for ya, bruv. That’s what they say over there, right? Bruv? Ahh, forgetta-bout it. See you soon, Matty.”
I can’t help but smile when I hear Bronx’s voice. There is something about him that always perks me up; he is a slow drip pot of coffee. “Thanks Bronxy,” I whisper to myself as I hang up the phone. It was a hell of a debut. I came out looking like a star. The crowd was hot and they hated to see me punk out their precious trend setter – perfect!
I’m excited for Bronx to come visit but also deeply anxious. Bronx is the man that trained me and taught me everything I know about the business. He was the only person willing to take a chance on a thirty something year old father of one with no experience. I can’t disappoint him. I have to win this week. I have to show Brox that his trust in me wasn’t misplaced. I can't let him down. Can’t let any of them down.
“Ohh you’ll let them down, Matt. You always let the people you care about down. Me, your mother and probably Stacy and Cohen too. Loser” I can hear the doubting voice in my head. It’s my father's voice and the voice of Cash Money – my voice, but not really my voice. It’s the low growl I use when addressing the crowd or cutting a promo. The voice of a son of a bitch that hates everything except a cold glass of whiskey.
II
A woman walks into a sterile-looking room. The floor, walls, and ceiling are all white. The far right-hand side of the room has a large window that looks out over the parking lot of the hospital. A pair of saloon-style double doors cut the room in half separating the waiting area from where the receptionist’s desk is. On the opposite side of the doors lies the oncology suite, certainty, and death.
The woman is in her mid-thirties and of average height with curly brown hair and piercing green eyes. She is dressed modestly save for a hideous green bag that is hung over one shoulder. She is holding hands with a young boy of no more than three years old. The boy has short brown hair, the same color as his mother, and blue eyes that move around the room aimlessly.
“Excuse me, miss. Diane Shepard, I’m here to see Doctor Connors. I have an appointment.” Diane’s voice is wavering when she addresses the receptionist. Her thoughts and mind have been elsewhere since she woke up this morning. They’re with the sick and the dying beyond big saloon-style doors. Those doors that separate the sick from the healthy the long-lived from the dead, and her from the future.
“Of course, ma’am. Doctor Connors is right on schedule today and will be with you shortly. Please have a seat in one of the chairs over there and a nurse will be out to escort you to Doctor Connor’s office in a few minutes.” The receptionist smiles as she motions to the chairs on the right-hand side of the room. It’s a practised smile with no cheer or honesty behind it. A smile that says I’m sorry you have to be here more than it says I’m happy to see you.
Diane takes her son Matt and sits beside the large window in the uncomfortable chair provided. Matt is restless. “Of course, he’s restless, there isn't anything here to occupy a three-year-old,” Diane thinks just as Matt pipes up and says “Mom, I’m bored.” Diane has to stifle a smile as she reaches into the bag her husband and son had given her for her birthday the month before. She had planned for this exact scenario. “Well, what do we have here? Michelangelo and his brother Raphael, your favorites, right?” Matt smiles, grabs the toys, and plays with them on the floor.
Dinae watches her son as he plays. Her mind wanders and she wonders what kind of man he will grow to be. Will he be tall like his father or short like the men in her family? What will he do for work? Will he get married and have children of his own or grow old alone as her aunts all had? So many questions run through her mind in those short moments before the nurse comes to get them. There is one question, however, that she can’t move past as she turns her gaze to the window, will she be alive to see it?
Outside the window some kids a little older than Matt are riding around on their bikes. Diane can’t help but ask herself if she will ever see the day Matt takes the training wheels off his own bike and rides bravely off down the road. She wonders how Matt and Jack will get along when she is gone. She wonders about all these things and more in the time it would take the hands on the clock to tick past a single second. A lifetime of wondering in an instant. A life lived in her mind but only ever in her mind.
Diane notices she is crying and dabs the tears away with a napkin from her purse just as the nurse comes to greet them. “Excuse me, Mrs. Shepard. The doctor will see you now. Right this way please.” The nurse gestures toward the large saloon doors and both open to greet them. On one side is blissful ignorance and hope on the other is certainty – death.
The nurse leads Diane and Matt down a short hallway to a standard doctor’s office. Desk, chairs, examination table, and pictures on the walls of all the different demons that might be lurking inside and waiting to turn your life upside down. Diane sits in one of the chairs and her son plays with his dolls on the examination table. Diane considers trying to explain to Matt why they’re there but decides he is too young to understand and too young to bear the burden of what today might bring. “Let him have just one more day of happiness,” she murmurs.
Doctor Connors is a large and imposing man. He is at least six feet tall and muscular, and his white lab coat bulges around his biceps. He sits without speaking and places a hand firmly on Diane's leg and her world shatters. “I’m sorry Mrs. Shepard but it isn’t good news.” Doctor Connors pauses a moment allowing Diane to let the initial shock wash over her. At this moment it’s Doctor Connor’s experience that one of three thighs will happen. Either the patient will break down and cry, lash out, or go nearly catatonic. In med school, they called it the flight, fight, or freeze response. Connors can see tears welling up in Diane’s eyes. He continues.
“The cancer is worse than we thought. It’s spread from your lungs to your liver and kidneys. There is carcinoma on most of your vital organs that are inoperable. There are treatment options, chemo, and radiation, but they are not cures. They will only prolong the inevitable. I’m sorry Diane, you’re dying.” Doctor Connors delivers the news clinically without room for misinterpretation.
The two let the news hang in the air for a moment. It’s a hangman’s noose. The more you think about what it is and what it means, the worse it becomes. Men on death row will tell you that dying isn’t the scary part of their sentence, the knowledge is. Knowing that your life has an exact expiration date is a fear, unlike anything the average person could ever imagine. Yet, Diane feels compelled to break the silence and ask, “How long do I have?”
Connors doesn’t respond immediately. Diane wonders if he is doing some sort of end-of-life calculations in his head but the truth is much more human than that – he is stalling. Delivering the worst news a person thinks they will ever hear, that they are dying, is a terrible burden but telling them the truly terrible news, how long they have left, is worse.”Given the speed at which the cancer is spreading, I would estimate between six months to a year. With treatment, It might be longer but the quality of that time would be low.”
“I understand. Thank you, Doctor Connors”
It isn’t the first time nor will it be the last time that a patient has thanked Doctor Connors after he delivers what amounts to a death sentence. He always finds it odd how someone who is so hurt and full of uncertainty could think to thank him at a time like this. However, his position is fundamentally flawed, this is not a time of uncertainty. No, the time for uncertainty was before Diane walked through the saloon doors. Now is the time of pure, crushing certainty and certainty is all that there will be for the rest of her life.
Doctor Connors sits with Diane a while longer partially out of sympathy and partially obligation. While they sit in the uncomfort of silence, Connors runs through a checklist of his talking points in his head. Deciding he’s covered everything and sat with Diane for an appropriate amount of time, he stands to leave and reminds Diane that she can call someone from the office if she doesn’t feel up to driving home and to take as long as she needs to compose herself. Doctor Curt Connors leaves the room to go on about his day. He has to deliver the same news to two other patients this afternoon. Connors doesn't know yet, can’t know yet, but both of those patients will outlive Diane.
III
The weight of the bar is heavy in my hands. The knurling digs into my palms making me aware of each individual spine. As the weight descends I can feel the stretch across my pectorals, a rubber band at maximum tension. I push with full force, not trying to lift the bar, but instead pushing the entirety of the Earth away. “Come on Matt, three more… one… two… three”. The bar moves up and down making brief contact with my chest and I do not think of my father or my mother, or my wife and son. I think only about moving the weight.
It occurs to me that the reason I love weightlifting is the same reason I love wrestling. The ninety minutes a day I spend in the gym and the twenty minutes a night I spend in the ring are the only times I feel truly free. Free of my trauma, free of obligation, free of inhibition, and free of shame and fear. When I am running on pure adrenaline and instinct, I am my truest self.
I rack the weight after squeezing out a fourth unplanned rep. My chest and arms are on fire, screaming out in pain, begging to be rested. I don’t ignore the burn, instead I embrace it because I know it means I’m making progress. Growing and getting stronger. I notice something move out of the corner of my eye and crank my neck in that direction while removing my ear buds.
“Hey”
“How many sets you have left, big fella?”
“Uh, that was the last actually. All yours. You want me to strip it off for you?”
The woman standing slightly to my right is wearing purple gym shorts and a matching sports bra top that does not leave much to the imagination. Her curly hair is dark brown, nearly black and bounces just above her shoulder as she talks.
“You or the bar?”
“What?”
“I said, you or the bar, mate? I mean, if something is gonna get stripping it might as well be you,” she clarifies with a wink and nod.
“The bar. I meant the bar,” I stammer, looking at my feet in a vain attempt to hide my blushing cheeks.
“Man of few words, I see. Good! That’s how I like ‘em. Big, silent, and good for a ride.”
I try to say something but I can’t get my lips to make words. This sort of thing does not happen to me. Sure I get recognised sometimes but I don’t get hit on. Who is this woman.
“Names Makayla, Makayla Moon and I’m one of the trainers at this fine establishment. I noticed ya workin’ out over here and I figured I would introduce myself. I haven’t seen you around before and you look too big to not be a gym regular. Ya new in town or wah?” Her accent isn’t thick but also impossible not to notice, Irish, I think but don’t know enough to be sure. It reminds me of the redhead off touched by an angel.
“Yeah, I just moved here a few weeks back. I’m working for Hart over at IIW. Have you heard of it?”
“Can’t say I have. What is it, MMA?”
“Fucking wish, Id get my clocked cleaned. No, it's professional wrestling.”
“G’wan! Me and my friends used to watch that on the telly back home in the 90’s. Loved me that Hogan fella. Absolute unit. Chyna too. She's one of the reasons I got into fitness. Always amazed me to see her tangle in the ring with those huge lads and hold her own.”
“Is that right? Well, I can leave some tickets for you at the gate if you wanna come by sometime and see what it’s about. I promise you things have changed since Hogan and Chyna’s times.”
“Fuckin’ eh! Might as well not have a lot to do ‘round these parts most Monday nights.”
“Cool, cool, cool. Look, ugh… Makyala was it? I gotta get going but It was nice meeting you. I’ll make sure there are two tickets waiting for you at the gate this Monday . Enjoy your lift.”
“I appreciate the sentiment, ugh?”
“Matt Shepard.”
“I appreciate the sentiment, Matt. I’ll see you on Monday.”
“Can’t wait.”
As I'm walking away I realize that Makayla may have gotten the wrong idea about me from our interaction. She was flirting pretty hard and I may have flirted back without even realizing it. Oh god, I even invited her to a show. Fuck! She is totally gonna think I’m into her.
Brrring…. Brrring…. Brrring
“Hey babe.”
“Stacy, what's up?
“Cohen got in a fight at school today, can you talk to him when you get home? He is pretty upset about it.”
“Got in a fight? He’s five. What kind of fight are five year old getting in?”
“Apparently some kid at school got on his case about you being an asshole at work and Cohen socked him.”
Fuck. Alright. I’m getting in the car now. I'll be home soon. I’ll talk to him.
“Thanks. Love ya.”
“Love you too.”
CLICK
IV
“Jackie, can you come pick us up?” Diane Shepard whispers into the phone.
“Why, didn’t you take the wagon over?”
“I did, I’m just not feeling up to driving home. I’ll come back and get the car tomorrow. I just really need to see you.”
“Everything okay Diane?
“No baby. Everything is not okay. Doctor Connors gave me some bad news. It’s cancer and it's terminal. I'm scared, Jackeie. Please come get us.”
“Fuck baby, I’ll be right there. I love you”
‘Love you too, Jackie”
“Babe we’ll figure this out it's gonna be o..”
Diane hangs up the phone before Jack can reassure her. She knows it’s not going to be okay. She knew before she came into the office today that she was not going to be okay. All doctor Connors did was tell her what she already suspected. She had been sick and tired for months. Barely able to stand long enough to wash the dishes after dinner. Deep down she had known for a while, she just needed to hear it from an expert to be sure.
Diane looks across the room at her son playing quietly on the bed with his Ninja Turtles and can no longer hold back her tears. She practically leaps across the room and wraps her arms around her son. She breathes him in. Committing the smells of no tear shampoo, sun screen, and Oreos to memory.
“I love you, Matty. I will always love you,” she whispers between sobs.
She can feel Matt shift a little under her and she loosens her grip only for him to tighten his own. “I love you too, mama. Are you okay, why are you crying?” Diane wants to answer but can’t. Matt isn’t old enough to understand and even if he was what good would telling him do? He would be devastated. It would consume him and there is no way he would be able to enjoy the time they have left together, not with all that t\on his little mind. So Diane says nothing, choosing instead to hug her son a little bit tighter and a little bit longer.
When Jack arrives, he loads Matt into the backseat of the car. Jack and his wife drive home without speaking. There will be time to talk about it all after Matt goes to bed. For now, Jack just drives with one hand on the wheel and the other on his wife's thigh to let her know he is there with her, that she isn't alone, that he is ready to listen if she decides she is ready to talk.
When Matt pipes up from the back seat and asks if they can get McDonalds for dinner, Jack overreacts and hollers at his son to be quiet. He feels bad about raining his voice but it’s a lot less than his own father would have done in the situation. Jack Shepard's father, Matt’s grandfather was a grade A son of a bitch that loved hitting his wife and his kids. Jack swore he wouldn’t end up like his dad but that rage was inside him too and he had to fight constantly to keep it at bay.
When they got home it was already late. Jack and Diane were both emotionally and physically exhausted. Diane got Matt ready for bed and sent him on his way telling him that she needed to have a talk with dad and when she was done, she would come tell him a bedtime story. Diane and her husband talked, cried, and hugged long past the time that Matt finally fell asleep but she still crept into his room and sat on the edge of his bed. Diane rubbed Matt's back while he slept regretting not coming in sooner to tuck him in and tell him a story.
As she sits on the edge of Matts bed, Diane bows her head and pays for the first time in her entire life. She prays that Matt and Jackie will be okay when she is gone, that the time she has left will be filled with joy, and that when the time comes she will go out of the world peacefully. Diane Shepard doesn’t think there is a god and doesn't much care if there is or not but she would do anything to make what’s coming not so bad on her family.
Diane leans down and kisses Matt on the forehead and whispers in his ear all the things she wants for him. Matt smiles, he’s having a good dream. He’s dreaming of riding a two wheeler around the hospital parking lot with his mom and dad watching.
V
When I walk through the door Stacy is on the sofa with Cohen. The television is off and neither of them are speaking. Cohen is sitting with his arms crossed staring at the back screen while Stacy is looking at him with eyes that are begging Cohen to open up. I walk up to the two of them and sit on the opposite side of Cohen I motion with my hand for Stacy to leave the room and she obliges. Sometimes it’s easier for just one parent to tackle a situation at a time.
“Hey pal, Mom told me you got in a fight at school. Wanna talk about it?”
“No!” Cohen is shaking his head.
“Look buddy. You can’t go around punching people. Even if they’re mean to you. You should tell a teacher or adult. Hitting is never okay.”
“He called you an asshole, dad. He said you were mean and everyone hated you!” Cohen starts crying and throws himself against me. I Squeeze him, letting him know I’m there.
“Who did?”
“Some kid in my class. He said his dad took him to see your show and that you were really mean. He said that the whole crowd hated you and that you’re gonna get beat up. I don’t want you to get beat up and I know you're not mean. I don’t want anyone talking about you like that.”
“Bud,” I reply while squeezing a little tighter. “It’s okay. I mean, it’s not okay that you hit someone but I understand how you feel.” Cohen pulls away and wipes his eyes. “At my job I am kind of mean but it's just a character I pretend to be, it's not real. It’s acting like on TV or in movies.” Cohen sniffles and rubs his nose on his sleeve.
You mean like Thanos?”
“Not exactly but sorta.” I straighten up and look at Cohen face to face. “Wrestling is a little bit like those superhero movies. There are good guys and bad guys but when the show is over we're all just guys. Were friends, co-workers. Understand?”
“I think so?”
“I play a bad guy for the show but I'm still your dad and I still love you and mom. I just say mean things to get the crowd interested in the match so they buy tickets to see me wrestle.”
“Does that mean you’re not gonna get beat up?”
“Well, I might get beat up a little but I’m a pretty tough guy. I can take it.”
“I don’t want you to get beat up!” Cohen cries out and wraps his arms around me again. I have to stifle a laugh.
“I know, buddy. I don’t want to get beat up either but that's the job. I promise, it’s all part of the show.”
“Okay, dad as long as you promise.”
“Speaking of promises I want you to promise me you won’t be hitting anyone else at school, mister. Even if they call me names. Okay?”
“Fine. What should I do if they keep bullying me?”
“You know Cohen, when I was your age I had a bully that used to beat me up all the time. He was the worst . He would call me names, hit me, throw things at me. It was like I couldn’t escape him.”
“What did you do, did you tell the teacher?”
“I told a bunch of teachers but they couldn’t really help. It was a different time back then. So I just took it. I let him beat on me and call me names until It didn't bother me any more. Eventually it was like I was somewhere else when it would go down, like I was watching it happen on TV.”
“You want me to just get beat up!”
“No! God no. I want you to tell your teachers. If they won’t do anything you tell me and mom and we’ll make ‘em do something about it. I just wanted you to know that I understand how you feel but that violence isn’t gonna make it better.”
“Ok.”
“Look at it this way. If you go around beating up everyone that means to you then the number of bullies has just doubled.”
“Yeah, I guess. I don’t like bullies, dad.”
“Me neither buddy, me neither.”
VI
“I don’t like bullies.” The words roll off my tongue slowly, over enunciated, dripping with contempt and irony. “I don’t like the guys on the top that see a rising star like mine and decide they need to snuff it out before it takes their shine.” The cameraman gives me an okay sign with his finger to start walking. I move slowly, methodically across the room and maintain eye contact with the lens of the camera. “I don’t like the feeling I’m getting from the brass here either. The feeling that I’m bucking the system too much and that I might disturb the status quo and need to be put in my place.” I’m slowly moving across the room getting closer and closer to the camera.
“Kenny Pryce tried to bully me last week. He went on television and said the word that he was going to beat my ass. How did that work out for him, eh? On the other hand I delivered exactly what I said I was going to. I took KP down to the mat and made him stay there. I made him beg, I made him tap out, I made him look like an embarrassment in front of his fans and father. I bullied the bully.”
I’m still inching towards the camera man. Get closer millimetre by millimetre. I’m moving so slowly that it’s almost unnoticeable. “This week I have to contend with not one but two opponents. This week IIW is making sure to stack the odds against me, to bully me, to ensure I lose. I don't like bullies!” I start to move and talk a little faster.
“Max Stone and Aiden Cain, it looks like you two have finally bitten off more than you can chew. You guys think they can push me around and get away with it? I don’t fuckin’ think so. Let me tell you something. I hate you both. I hate everything about you I hate the way y'all act, the way y’all talk, and the way y'all are expecting to walk over me this week. But you wanna know what I hate even more than that? The assumption that I’m just going to let you.”
I run up to the camera, closing the remaining distance in a blink of an eye. I grab the camera from both sides, tearing it from the cameraman's grip. “This isn’t fuckin grade school boys. No teacher is going to swoop in at the last minute and stop us from throwing down. No. Monday night the three of us are gonna go to town on one another and I’ll be dead and in the dirt before I let them raise someone else's hand other than mine. Monday night I'm not just gonna bully the bullies. I'm going to take you to big guys down a peg or two. I'm going to show you both what it feels like to be on the receiving end. Monday night I'm gonna put you both in your place and move one step closer to making myself the top dog of IIW. Woof woof, bitches."
(fin)