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“The boys stopped by the hospital today and signed autographs, took photos.” There’s a heavy pause as I take her words in and turn them over to see if they are as sharp as they feel. We try to avoid both cancer and hockey for now. We can’t do that forever, not if we’re both serious about finding our footing, but for now both topics are too sensitive as we fumble our way back to normal. These words feel tender, but it’s like poking a week-old bruise instead of a fresh one. An ache I can stand.
“I’m sorry,” my mom says, “I didn’t mean…”
She sighs and I know that this is where I need to say something, anything, to bridge the gap.
“It’s okay,” and it is. Her son plays in the NHL. He moved her in with him. She leveled up to be the ultimate hockey mom, and it’s okay that she’s proud of Vic. Underneath the hurt, I am too. “I bet the kids had a great time. Did anyone beat Robbie in arm wrestling this time?”
Another pause. We’re the champions of awkward silences, and I know she’s wondering where I heard that Robbie Oakes likes to throw the competition so that the kids win every time.
“You’re talking to Vic?” she asks and I can hear the tremor in her voice. God, we’ve all done a hell-of-a-number on each other over the last decade and a half.
And while I never stopped talking to Vic—he’s my twin, we used to live in the same city—it feels like there’s been a shift between us, too. Probably since the night he lied his way into my hotel room and we watched British baking shows together while I tried not to think about a gorgeous, hesitant redhead.
“Robbie told me that one,” I say, and I can hear the sniffle through the speaker because she gets what I’m trying to tell her. Robbie was the third in our trio. He’s half the reason Vic was interested in playing for the Arctic. If we can’t play together, at least I have Robbie. That’s what Vic said all those years ago as I lay in the over-starched hospital sheets and wished everyone would just leave me alone. There were days I hated Robbie almost more than cancer, because my terrified teenage brain told me he swooped in and stole my spot right out from under me. I was wrong.
“Oh baby,” there’s another sniffle, and I grab sandwich fixings to distract myself from the itchiness I feel at my mother’s distress. It isn’t my job to fix this for her. It isn’t her job to hide this from me. “How’s Loki?”
“Your grand cat is good.” I grab a loaf of bread and a knife, debating whether I need a plate, too. “I, uh, hear you got some houseplants.”
“Anna told me her greenhouse is her baby, so I figured I should sink into my role as grandma. Get some practice.”
I pause, closing my eyes as the tension leeches from my body. We made it through a minefield and are finally back on safer ground.
“And just think,” I try to keep my voice light, teasing, “No dirty diapers.”
“Anna did tell me about this great fertilizer she likes to use—”
“No,” I cut her off. “Lack of shit was a perk.”
And there it is. A little watery, weak, like a muscle straining after months of disuse, but my mother laughs into the phone and I smile into my ham and cheese. Baby steps. Each day this will get easier until we won’t even remember it was hard.
“How’s Quinn?” My mother asks, and the pain from that question is worse than when we try to talk about hockey. Or cancer. “She’s such a darling. Her students made cards for all the kids. It was so sweet.”
I want to tell my mom that Quinn is good. That’s she amazing, wonderful, everything. That I probably love her, am in love with her, would give her forever… but the reality is staring me in the face. Not literally, that’s Loki eyeing my sandwich, but the reason I started calling my mom, the reason I started texting my brother, is almost entirely because of Quinn. Half of that is watching her relationship with her dad. Cancer or not, I’ve never seen a closer bond between parent and kid. Parent and adult kid. We used to be like that. I want that back.
The other half is that I couldn’t keep staring at my silent phone without fabricating a reason to be checking it. Every time I couldn’t resist wanting to talk to her, I texted Vic. Every time I started dialing Quinn’s number, I backspaced and dialed my mom’s. I thought nothing of calling my mom if it meant Quinn was happy, if her dad was happy. She’s the reason I’ve made it this far, and as much as I want to tell her that, to thank her for that, it’s more important that I tell my mom the truth.
“You know we aren’t together, right?” I ask and feel the pinch in my chest at the words. The silence spreads again and I prepare myself for the rebuttals I know are headed my way.
But you love her… I do.
But she was good for you… yes, she is.
You don’t want to be in a relationship?… With her? Yes. But I can’t.
Wasn’t the sex good?… Okay, that question has Vic’s voice behind it and yeah, the sex was phenomenal.
“Long-distance relationships are tough,” my mom says instead, “Maybe if your job wasn’t there and hers wasn’t here…” she trails off and I let her.
I’ve thought about that too. In fact, I have an email flagged in my inbox. One specifically offering me the solution to that very issue…
The email doesn’t matter. I’m not taking the job with Grace Hospital. I’m not moving my practice a thousand miles away to a new state. I’m not selling my condo or packing up my trickster cat. Because… well, I was a lot more sure of my reasoning before this phone call. I think it had something to do with her pulling back. Quinn is already struggling with cancer and her father. She doesn’t need me to add my own variables to that equation.
“Oh,” my mom’s voice is soft, “I’m sorry. I thought…You two fit so well. You had so much in common.”
Did we? Or did we share chemistry and attraction and cancer? Did I go from being the man she fantasized about to the man causing her more heartache?
“It’s just complicated, Mom.” I scrub a hand down my face and nudge my plate closer to my cat. He can steal whatever parts of it he wants. I no longer have an appetite. “I’m pretty sure I scare her.”
