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He didn’t give a shit about hockey. He gave less of a shit that I liked it. My father told me every day my little hobby wouldn’t amount to anything. He laughed in my face when I started cutting lawns to save up money for the hockey club. I had to walk six miles in the snow for games and practices because he didn’t think his gas money was worth the trip.
This hockey stick, made out of sticks and tape and spite, is a testament to how much I didn’t care what he thought about what I did.
I set it aside.
Nothing fuzzy warms up in my chest as I push further into this pit of despair. Where are the good feelings? The triumphs? I have pictures of me at games, with my team. There’s an old jersey, faded to an ugly gray and mottled with the brown splotches of the first bloodstains I’d ever put on a uniform.
I should be elated. Normal people see stuff like this and laugh as they remember the good times.
All I can think about is my father and how much none of this mattered to him.
I let out a frustrated growl and kick the box away from me as hard as I can, though the wet cardboard catches on the garage floor, so it doesn’t go very far. I feel like that kid in the pictures all over again. Scared eyes. Gaunt cheeks. And angry. So, so angry.
I’m thinking too much about that man today. He and the hell he put me and my mother through are years behind me.
So let it go.
I can’t. I never have.
The first step is getting rid of this shit, I decide. I pick up the box and shove that makeshift hockey stick back inside, then drop it right beside the door on my way in. Trash comes tomorrow, so I’ll lug this shit out there and get rid of it forever. Some memories deserve to rot and burn.
Satisfied with that, it’s time to face-plant.
But when I get to the top of the stairs, I stop. My room calls to me, comfortable, safe. My own space away from all the memories I can’t wait to purge.
So why is it Violet’s room I end up in?
Olivia isn’t there. For the first time in a while, Violet and I are alone. I always try to have someone else with us. Being alone with her makes my heart leap in my throat. It’s like I’m waiting for myself to fuck up when I’m with her.
I approach her crib cautiously. It’s as if she could jump up at me at any time. Sink her claws in me. End me.
Violet is just a baby. She’s not a sleeping beast. When I look at her in her crib, she gives me this little head tilt. It’s like she’s asking, Who are you?
“I’m your father,” I whisper.
I don’t know why I answer a question that was never asked. Still, I pick Violet up. She’s so light and soft. It’s almost like she’s not even there. I hold her close. Velvet and porcelain in my arms.
I expect her to start crying. Why wouldn’t she? No baby should want to be in my arms.
Then Violet does something I really don’t expect: she breaks into a smile.
It’s a slobbery, gum-filled little thing. I can see the faint peek of teeth trying to push through. Her first teeth. Is it supposed to feel this exciting?
She giggles at me. I can feel my face soften immediately at the sound. I brush my finger over her chubby little cheek.
This is the longest I’ve ever held her. I never want to let her go?—
“Oh! Reese.”
I startle and reel around. Olivia stands in the doorway, holding a bottle in her hands and a small blanket tossed over her shoulder. Surprise widens her eyes as she looks between me and Violet.
“Sorry, I had to use the bathroom and then made a bottle for her.” She purses her lips. There’s a giddiness about her, a smile she’s biting back hard. “Do you want to feed her with me?”
All at once, I feel that panic welling up once again. I can’t do this in front of her. I can’t let her see that I’m not the father that Violet needs.
I plop Violet in her arms and leave before she has the chance to say anything.
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