Page 18 of Keeping the Score

I swallow a sigh. She’s baked. Again.

6

FORD

When I was eight, I accidentally got stoned on a pot cookie.

My parents loved me and brought me up with an emphasis on peace, love, and nature. I was encouraged to follow my own path. My path turned out to be hockey, which wasn’t what my parents had in mind. Hockey is not exactly a peaceful and loving sport.

Don’t get me wrong; I love my parents and I appreciate everything they’ve done for me. Raising a hockey player kid who gets to the NHL is never easy, but for my parents it was miserable. Practices, games, tournaments—so much scheduling! For people who live their lives moment to moment, without rules and limits, it was excruciating trying to keep track of everything. Also, as people who practice peace and love, they hated the brutishness of the game and especially the fights. Somehow, they did it, though, and I’m grateful.

Now that I’m an adult and on my own, I can keep my life balanced and structured. Which is how I like it. And they’re free to live their life the way they like it, too—footloose and freewheeling, protesting weapons of mass destruction and gun violence, and traveling. I paid off their mortgage so they couldretire and do the things they want to. When I was a kid, there was never money left for travel, after paying hockey registration fees and all my equipment and travel to tournaments (which wasn’t the kind of travel they had in mind; hanging out in cheap hotels with a bunch of hockey parents was painful for them). Also, there was never time. Even in summers they paid for me to go to elite hockey camps. They never got to backpack across Europe like they wanted to as young adults, but now they are. But I’m not letting them backpack and stay in hostels. I’m paying for hotels and air fares and car rentals so they can experience it in comfort. They’re not twenty anymore, although they sometimes act like it. They leave on their trip in a couple of weeks.

“How’s it going?” I ask my mom.

“Great! We’ve been planning our trip. We’ve been looking at places to stay in Vienna.”

“Oh, good.” I hope she’s not too high. Lord knows what she’s booking. Probably Australia instead of Austria. Or Paris, Texas instead of Paris, France.

“I had the craziest dream last night,” she says, totally off topic.

“Yeah?” She really does have crazy dreams, and she remembers them all.

“We were in Malaysia. Penang. It was kind of scary. There were ghosts.”

I look up at the sky.

“What if our dreams are just glimpses into parallel universes?” she asks. “Those ghosts could be real beings.”

“Mom.”

“Sorry. Anyway, we wanted to check with you about hotels. Some of them are expensive.”

“That’s okay. Stay somewhere nice.”

I talk to her more while I drive. When I get near the building I say, “Gotta go, Mom. I’m about to park and the cell service isn’t good down there.”

“Okay! It was good to talk to you. I love you! Your dad does, too.”

“Love you, too.”

I stop in the lobby to get my mail and notice a woman sitting there on one of the black chairs. There’s a baby carrier on the coffee table in front of her.

What’s with the babies, lately?

I look down at the envelope in my hand, then jerk my head up again. That woman… she’s looking at me now, and jumps to her feet. I know her.

“Willa?”

“Hi!” She buzzes across the lobby toward me, hands clasped in front of her. “Ford. I was waiting for you.”

Willa and I went out about a year ago. I remember it was last summer. We met at a bar one night, went out the next evening, had a night of smash and dash at my place, and never saw each other again. My usual.

Why is she here? And after all this time?

I’m staring at her speechlessly, trying to gather my wits. “Waiting for me?” I repeat. “Uh, why?”

“I need to talk to you. It’s important.”

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