Page 117 of Ours to Lose
Mom had hardly eaten because her stomach pain had been unbearable whenever she did. There were pictures of her in the months leading up to her diagnosis that showed how thin she had become. I’d been spared the worst of it by being away. Mom had insisted on exclusively phone calls once she was in the hospital. No video calls. No mention of her pain. She only wanted to talk about me. The little I knew had come from Evan, who filled me in after Mom got too tired and needed to pass the phone off to rest.
If it was less painful for Dad to remember her not eating because of the lousy food, I couldn’t blame him for it. I certainly wouldn’t correct him.
“We’ll have to start cooking more at home again,” I said. “All that takeout isn’t good for your heart.”
He grunted. “I’m sure Evan’s already worked out a ketogenic, hypno-vegetarian, paleontolic something.”
“You mean paleo? What’s hypno-vegetarian?”
He waved a hand and pushed his empty tray aside. “You know what I mean.”
I chuckled. “Healthy? Yeah, Evan’s probably going to have a few meals in mind. I’m sure he’ll let you throw in a chunk or two of butter if you decide to help.”
He glanced at the framed picture of Mom propped beside his bed. “She was the reason I learned to cook in the first place. I ever tell you that?”
I shook my head.
“On our first date, she said she’d never marry a man who didn’t cook because she once managed to burn salad and wasn’t looking to starve for the rest of her life. The next day, I bought a copy of theBetter Homes & Gardenscookbook and started practicing. For our second date, I cooked her dinner at my apartment, complete with an appetizer and dessert. She rated it a B plus and said I could earn extra credit by cooking something else for her the next night.”
He laughed softly, his eyes still on her picture. “That next night was the first time she watched me cook. The first time she leaned over my shoulder and asked what I was doing. I made up half my replies. My heart pounded the whole time.”
It was the most I’d heard him talk about her since she’d died. The first time I felt allowed to ask him to.
“Is that why you started making grilled lettuce? Because she once burned salad?”
His laughter came deep from his belly. “Yeah. She liked that one.”
“She called you a fucker every time you made it.”
“That’s how I knew she liked it. And there was never a crumb of it left on her plate.”
He transformed when he talked about her like this. His face looked ten years younger, and I was suddenly staring at my dad again. The bold, loud man who filled the rooms he walked into with his joy.
I hadn’t seen him much since I’d been home. Mostly just the shadow of the man he seemed too tired to be.
I was afraid I’d go to Colorado and come back to even more of him missing. That his shadow would shrink to little more than a speck, haunting the home he’d once shared with Mom. Maybe he could tell.
“I’ll cook more,” he promised. “She’d want me to take better care of myself.”
“She would,” I agreed.
“Is that what you’re worried about?”
“What do you mean?”
“You haven’t sat still since you got here this morning. I know there’s a lot on your plate, and I want to make sure I’m not part of it. You shouldn’t pass on this job because of me.”
I rubbed the ache from my brow. I was getting really sick of people telling me I should leave. “Dad, you’re in the hospital from a heart attack. Of course, I’m worried.”
“I get that, and I won’t tell you not to be. But I will tell you that I’ll be fine. I mean it, I’ll be okay.”
“I’ve been told that before.”
“I know you have.” He sank against his pillows as if the past’s weight came down on him again. “I know.”
My gaze wandered to the plastic hand sanitizer dispenser by the door. The rounded edge caught the glare from the overhead lights, the sticker on the front faded. I thought of the coaching job and back to Mom.
“You know, I’m actually glad I lost that championship fight two years ago. Because winning might have felt like a justification for staying, and there wasn’t one. Nothing should have prevented me from being here.”
