Page 58 of Pickled
I tiptoed into the coach house. Olive was perched on a barstool, the light from the iPad flickering on her face. I hoped she wouldbe too into the show to notice my red, puffy face, but as the door clicked shut, she glanced up.
“Mommy, why are you sad?”
It was time for the truth, something I’d skirted these past few weeks.
“Oh, Olive.” I sighed. “Sometimes grown-ups make mistakes. And sometimes those mistakes hurt people.” My voice shook.
“Did you make a mistake?” She shut off the show and opened her arms. I scooped her from the stool, and she wrapped her legs around me like she did when she was a toddler.
“Yeah, sweetheart. A big one.” I kissed her soft neck.
“Did you say you’re sorry?”
“I tried, but sometimes sorry isn’t enough.”
She bit her lip, like she was thinking about it. I’d taught her apologizing was important. “Miss Wilson says when you hurt someone, you have to keep trying until they feel better.”
Out of the mouths of babes, as Judy would say.
“Maybe you’re right.” I kissed her forehead. “Maybe I should try again.”
But as I squeezed the best thing in my life, I wondered if there would be a next time or if I’d just blown the second-best thing that had happened to me in years.
19
GIDEON
The neurologist’soffice smelled like disinfectant and ruined careers. My brain scans glowed blue and green, the screens casting a glow onto the wall of diplomas. While I sat on the paper-covered examination table, I tried not to analyze the scans. What the hell did I know? Was the red good or bad? Because there sure as hell seemed to be a lot of it.
It had been two days since I’d discovered everything I thought I knew about Piper was a lie, and I still felt like someone had reached into my chest and punched my heart.
Dr. Maurice flipped through my chart. My attention flickered from his face to the scans while I waited for him to say something.
“Your cognitive tests look good,” he finally said. “Reflexes are normal. But your balance is still off, and you’re reporting ongoing headaches and light sensitivity.”
“The headaches aren’t that bad.” They were. “And the light thing is getting better.”
His poker face faltered, and for a second, I saw what he was really thinking: bullshit. He didn’t believe me. “Mr. Bailey, I’m going to be direct with you. Your continuing symptoms need to be monitored. I’m extending your medical leave for another month, minimum.”
The words hurt more than taking a stray slapshot in the ankle. “A month? Come on. It’s not that bad. The team needs me. We’re having our best start in years.”
“The team will survive. Your brain might not if you rush back.” He set down my chart. “I’m referring you to a physiotherapist who specializes in concussion recovery. There’s a great one downtown and another good one at the Azalea Bay Club.”
“I live in Rosewood Estates. I might as well get in a few rounds of golf while I’m there. If golf is okay.”
Dr. Maurice looked at me over his round glasses. “Golf is fine. You can do pretty much everything except—”
“Hockey,” I grumbled.
“Skydiving and football are off the list too.” The doctor gave me a little smile. He worked with athletes; he had to know his news was as welcome as finding a water moccasin in my swimming pool.
“Maybe I’ll take up boxing, then.”
The doctor rolled his eyes. “Just take it easy. We’ll monitor your symptoms and see where we’re at in a month.”
“But I’ll be able to play again, right, Doctor?” Going into his office, I had anticipated getting a green light, not a monthlong benching. It wasn’t until that moment that I realized it could be way worse.
He sighed. “I wish I could give you that promise. But I can’t.” He set the clipboard on the table. “Stay out of the boxing ring, learn how to meditate, and enjoy the sunshine for thirty days.”
