My Life, Deleted by Scott Bolzan Read Free Book Online Page A

which was much easier to watch at a distance than the one in my hospital room.
    After that we entered Taylor’s bedroom, which had beautiful hardwood floors. Her bed-frame posts were hung with about thirty purses, and her shelf was covered with shiny gold trophies topped with little figures dancing and cheering. I had picked up the word “trophy” while watching the playoffs, and seeing that these said 1st Place, I figured these were Taylor’s awards for cheerleading.
    Next came the guest bedroom, which Joan said used to be Grant’s and was the one he used when he stayed over although he, apparently, used it more than any guests. She said our nineteen-year-old had his own apartment a few miles away and worked two jobs, repairing motorcycles and delivering pizzas.
    Finally we came to one last room, which contained a bed next to a U-shaped desk that was stacked with four or five computers with their screens turned on, a fax machine, and a phone. A Ranking Arizona magazine cover, displayed on a stand, featured a photo of Joan and some other people with text that said our company, West Jet Aircraft, had been ranked number one in 2008. On the wall was a photo of a surgical team standing next to one of our jets. “This is your home office for when you don’t feel like going to your Tempe office to work,” Joan explained.
    I soon discovered that closets throughout the house were filled with file cabinets, office supplies, and boxes of aviation company documents. By the looks of it, I’d been a very busy and successful businessman.
    Also hanging on the wall was a red and white football jersey and two newspaper articles with photos from the California Bowl in 1983. When I asked Joan about them, she said I’d worn the jersey during that game, and she’d gotten it framed for my birthday years ago.
    That game must have been very important to me.
    I wasn’t interested in the details right then, but I later discovered that game had solidified my chances for an NFL draft in 1984 because I’d dominated the defensive tackle on the opposing team, helping us beat Cal State Fullerton, 20–13.
    We passed through the living room again to head into the backyard, where I admired the landscaping, including the L-shaped pool with its own waterfall, and the three-tiered waterfall, fire pit, lounge chairs and table in the secluded grotto at the other end. Even in December it was sunny and a pleasant sixty-five degrees out there, where, Joan explained, we’d spent many an evening with cocktails while I smoked a fine cigar.
    â€œWow, this is really nice,” I said.
    I truly was blown away—overwhelmed, really—by our home. But even after taking the full tour of the house and garden, which had been paid for with my hard work, I still felt like a guest in it. As uncomfortable as that felt, though, I knew that I’d better get used to the idea of living there with these people who called themselves my family because they were all I had. The uncertainty I felt was pretty intense, so it was good that I was heavily medicated because that helped me relax a bit. And because the meds made me so drowsy, I was forced to sit still and take frequent naps in those early days, which better enabled me to ease into my new surroundings and absorb new information in short, finite bursts.
    I knew in my gut that I had to start making myself comfortable around these people so they would feel like I was getting better. I didn’t know how long they were going to put up with taking care of me in my helpless state, nor did I have any concept of time to understand the duration of a marriage or a relationship. I could see from the wedding photo in our bedroom—two young kids dressed in all white and our faces stretched with sappy smiles—that I had aged quite a bit since then, so I figured they’d keep me around for a while anyway.
    The last thing I wanted was for them to leave me