Page 48 of How We End
“Long story.”I put it back in the pocket.“Do you know where this list is that Morgan was talking about?”I knew what the next topic of conversation would be with my father.“I should get going before they sell out of Cool Whip.”The kitchen was a mess of dishes, water bottles, unopened mail, and whatever else it took to run a family of five.The trash was full, and pizza boxes were stacked alongside it.So much had changed, and yet so little hadn’t.
“Check the fridge.You going to stop and see your mother?”
That was the conversation I didn’t want to have.“I hadn’t planned on it.”
“Why not?She’d like to see you.”
I picked up a couple paper plates and pushed them into the trash.“She didn’t even recognize me last time, Dad.I don’t think it matters.”Morgan said Mom was getting worse.My father was in denial.He thought she’d get better.
“She’s still your mother.”
“Is she?”The last time I saw her, she’d gotten up and walked out of the room.When the nurse tried to get her to come back, she said she didn’t have any children.That she was a famous model that lived in LA.That was what my mother had always wanted to be.What she had wanted for me.
“Yes, Wyatt, she is.Just because she gets a little confused doesn’t mean she is not your mother.It’s good for her to be surrounded by people who love her.”
That was a bold statement for my father to make.My mother and I had a strained relationship.Not because I left, but because I had wanted to come back.I cried on the phone, begging her to send me some money.She said I would hate myself if I came back.If I didn’t try harder.“Then it’s probably best if I stay away from her.I found it.”I plucked the list from the pile of unopened mail and math worksheets.
“Wyatt,” my father called.“We raised you better than this.She raised you better than this.”
I looked down at the list.Cool Whip, butter, half and half, coffee, frozen rolls, and cornstarch.Such simple things, and yet it read like a page from my childhood.Morgan had gathered all these things up to make a Thanksgiving dinner while my parents worked at Halliday’s.I looked up at my dad, so old and worn down.“No, you didn’t.”I turned and walked back up to my room.
CHAPTERTWENTY-FOUR
JULIAN
November 26
“Right there, see?Damn it, Julian, you can’t pass a puck like that.Not with the other team on your ass.You need to hold on to it.Watch.”My father pressed rewind.“Right there.You did this during the game against DC too.And keep your damn head up.You are always looking down.That’s why you don’t know who you’re passing to.You did that as a kid too.Up!”he shouted at the TV.
“Got it.”I had almost gotten out of spending Thanksgiving with my family, but then the Coyotes invited my father to tonight’s game.They were going to interview him and give him all the fanfare that came around Quinton Silver.So here they were.Staying with me.
“And what the hell was that?”He pointed to the TV.“You and Anders think you’re cute with your fancy passing.One of you needs to shoot the fucking puck.Even the fans are yelling at you to shoot the puck.That’s why you lost that game.In my day, my coach would have chewed me out.And that’s the problem with players nowadays.Everyone is worried about feelings.There is no room for feelings in hockey.Or extra weight.You need to cut a few pounds.”
There had been no room for feelings in my childhood either.We couldn’t feel too sick to practice.We couldn’t feel the pain of overused muscles and sore joints.We didn’t feel the pride of our father.I learned at a young age my feelings didn’t matter.
I sat back on the couch and let him get it all out.All the ways I had failed him and myself.I had offered to get them a hotel room on the Strip.They could make a vacation out of it.See a show or two.But my mother asked how she would cook Thanksgiving dinner.I suggested take-out.
“There’s another missed opportunity.Right fucking there.”My dad pointed to the TV.“One goal, Julian, is that too much for you?One goal, and you would’ve won the game.I would’ve scored.Twice if it was a good game.”
“Yeah, I know.”This had been going on for hours.My father replaying every one of my games and pointing out everything I had done wrong.Just like my childhood.Hudson, Beckett, and I all crowded on the couch, watching our mistakes in slow motion.Mom in the kitchen making a dinner we’d eat in silence.
“I’m going to talk to Murry tonight.And that damn trainer of yours.230 a good weight for a winger?Since when?Look how slow you are.That Hulton kid can skate circles around you.In my day, anyone over 200 was told to cut weight.”Quinton Silver motioned to the TV as he sat back on the couch.
“I gotta go.”I stood.
“Keep your head up.”My dad didn’t even look at me.He watched the TV, mumbling about how when he played, that would never happen.For once, I was going to be glad to be at the arena.Murry would bitch about the same things, but at least I wouldn’t have to listen to how well he played back in the day.
My mother was fluttering around the kitchen.“Mom, I sent Dad the tickets.Anders’s and Graham’s parents are also in town, so you’ll sit by them.The team is putting you guys in a box.And I told you we could order one.”I nodded to the pie crust she was making.
“Oh, it’s fine.I don’t get to bake much with your father’s diet.And you look so thin.Are you eating enough?”
“Yeah, Mom, my trainer says I’m fine.How are Hudson and Len?”
“They’re good.Lennon had to work, so it’ll just be the two of them for Thanksgiving.I asked her if she wanted me to make rolls or anything.But she said she had it covered.She hasn’t been around much.She didn’t come to Sunday dinner last week.Your brother said it’s because she’s been working a lot.They furloughed a bunch of people.”My mother shrugged as she placed the pie crust into a glass dish.“You should call him.He seems a bit out of sorts.”
My older brother Hudson and I weren’t close.We didn’t call each other whenthings were a bit out of sorts.“Heard from Becks?”And I had less in common with my younger brother, who hated everything hockey.We were good at playing the happy all-American family for the newspapers and documentaries.The truth was my mother was the only American, and none of us were happy.
“Not since he told us he was photographing lions in Namibia,” my mother said, brushing flour from her hands.“Why he had to go all the way over there is beyond me.”
