Page 31 of Hat Trick
“Hi, Sweetie. I was just calling to check on you. Haven’t heard from you in a while.” My mom’s soft voice fills the truck, and I can’t describe it, but it instantly puts me at ease.
She’s been my safe space for as long as I can remember. My soft place to land. My constant. Even when everything fell apart around us she was there. Ever present. The way she cared for me never wavered.
I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to repay her for everything she’s done for me.
It’s the least I can do.
Especially after everything she’s already been through.
“Sorry, Mom. It’s been a crazy week since we got back from Turks and Caicos.”
“Don’t apologize for having a life, Sweetie. I know you’re busy. I just wanted to do a quick check-in. How’s school? Oh! How’s work been? Numbers been good?”
My mom knows what I do. I don’t hide this from her, and I’m not embarrassed of my job. When I told her, though, my one condition was that under no circumstances can she ever, and I mean ever, listen to any of it. Nor can she share it with any of her friends. I think I would literally combust from mortification. Hell, I went as far as making Googling my voice acting name off limits.
I’m taking no chances.
“School is good. My senior year classes are hard, but not impossible. I actually am enjoying a bit of a challenge this year. And work has been really good. I’ve seen a steady increase in subscriptions, and I’ve been making well beyond my means, so that’s all a guy can really ask for.”
I can’t see her, but I know she’s smiling on the other end of the phone. “That’s so good to hear. I watched your game last week, by the way. Sometimes I still can’t get over how you and Emerson play so well together. I’m so proud of you both. For everything you’ve been doing. Not just hockey. This is a hard season of life, andyou are navigating it beautifully. I’m glad you have each other.”
If she only knew.
“Thank you, Mom. Have you been okay? I know this is always a hard time of year for you.”
Guilt nags at me. I should have been better about calling her. But I’ve just been so swept up in everything. In Emerson. In Lil. I need to do better. Mom deserves better.
She sighs softly. “I know it is for you too, Sweetie.”
I fidget nervously with the seam of my shorts. “It’s not me I’m worried about, Mom.”
Her silence speaks volumes. She wants to push me more but knows it’s no use. Finally, she says, “I’m doing okay. Every year, it gets a little easier. I will never be able to fill the hole that your father left. But slowly, other things I love are making the vastness of his absence hurt a little less, like stacking bricks around the side of a well. Soon, I’ll be able to lean over and see the hole he left and admire it with love and longing, rather than falling into its darkness. That’s all I can hope for. And for you too, Dominic.”
As I round the corner of my block, memories of my dad flash through my brain. I was twelve when he died. One night, he peeked through my door to tell me goodnight, and the next morning, he just didn’t wake up. But I did. And Mom did. And the sounds of her screams as she woke next to his lifeless body are what woke me.
Those screams have followed me. They’re impossible to forget.
Like a constant reminder that no amount of love can keep a person in your life.
Because if that were the case, my dad would have lived forever.
Tears sting at my eyes, and I bite the inside of my cheek to keep them from falling. This isn’t about me. This is about Mom. Every year, as we near the anniversary of Dad’s death, I get a pit in my stomach. I worry about her constantly. I lost my dad, but she lost her person. The love of her life.
But she’s right. Every year, it gets easier and easier for her. I know it will never go away, that kind of pain never does. But for her, it seems as if it’s morphed from an all-consuming pain to a dull ache. One that sneaks up on you from time to time, rather than constantly being at the forefront of your brain.
I wish that were the case for me. I wish I could think about him without hearing those screams.
I wish.
Clearing my throat, I simply respond, “Hey, Mom, I’m about to pull into the parking garage, but I promise I’ll be better at checking in. Okay?”
And just like I know when she is smiling, I don’t need to see her to understand the look of concern that covers her face. But once again, she doesn’t push. “Okay. I love you, sweet boy.”
“I love you too, Mom. I’ll call you soon.” I end the call using the button on my steering wheel before she says something else that will make the tears finally fall.
I can’t do this today.
I don’t want to fall apart today.
