Page 23 of Moms of Mayhem
I sat there frozen, the rest of the room blurring at the edges, words floating around me like static.
Parkinson’s.
She hadParkinson’s?
My brain scrambled, searching for evidence—something, anything—that should have clued me in. The tremors. The stiffness in her shoulders. The way she’d trailed off during a phone calls like she was trying to find her words. I thought it was just age. I thought she was tired. Hell, I thought maybe she was bored up here in the mountains alone. But this?
She never told me.
Not once.
She had Parkinson’s Disease, and I didn’t know.
My stomach dropped, a hollow, sickening weight settling behind my ribs. How had I missed it? How had I not asked more questions? Why hadn’t I seen it?
This woman raised two sons on her own, taught middle school English for 25 years, and still found time to bake pies for the church bake-off. She was tough as nails and always had been. The kind of woman who didn’t break, who didn’t bend. And now she was sitting in a hospital bed, hiding her shaking hands in a blanket and swallowing pain behind a smile, while I stared at her like a stranger.
I barely heard Dr. Navarro as she continued, flipping through her notes with practiced calm.
“For now,” she said, “I’m willing to clear you for inpatient rehab to work on your balance. Let’s give your ribs a week to heal before I release you into Beckett’s care.”
I blinked. “Wait, what? Into my care?”
She looked up, pushing her glasses onto the top of her head with a calm, too-knowing smile. “Yes, Beckett. I know exactly who you are and what’s going on. NHL vet. Big comeback. Busted hip. Crutches today, walking in a week if you’re lucky.”
I opened my mouth again to protest, to explain that I wasleaving in two days, but she kept going, steamrolling right through my stunned silence.
“In fact,” she added, “I think these next three months together could be good for you both. Mobility is top of mind for you, Beckett, so you can make sure Lori here is doing all her exercises right alongside you.”
Three months?
I was supposed to be rehabbing in Denver. Getting cleared for playoffs. Fighting for one last shot at the Cup.
But as I looked at my mother—her hands trembling beneath the blanket, her face turned toward the window like she couldn’t meet my eyes—something shifted.
I hadn’t been there for her. Not really. Not for a long time. And when I finally showed up, I’d missed the signs.
I’d completely missed everything.
She’d always been the strong one. The reliable one. The steady ground beneath everyone else’s chaos. And she hadn’t even told me she was falling apart.
Suddenly, the list of things I’d get to after retirement glared at me like a giant to-do list written across my eyelids, unable to be cleared. And top of that list had always been,take care of Mom.
No more excuses. No more running.
I nodded, my jaw tight as I swallowed the guilt and the heartbreak and the sharp burn of anger, mostly at myself.
“Yeah,” I said quietly. “We’ll figure it out.”
Because we would. Because I couldn’t leave. Not now. Not when it was finally my turn to be the one holding her together.
Mom sucked in a breath, her blue eyes shining with unshed tears, and Dr. Navarro barreled on like she hadn’t just upended both of our worlds. They continued talking aboutwhat the recovery process would look like, and I pulled my phone from my pocket to fire off a text.
Beckett
Change of plans. I’m staying in Linwood.
Gavin
