So, not a good day. Her face is lined with irritability, and my heart fissures to see her like this.
“Hi. My name is Mackenzie.”
This isn’t the first time I’ve had to introduce myself to the woman who gave me life. Sang me to sleep with the melody of “Hush, Little Baby” while gently rubbing my back. Cheered for me from the sidelines of all my soccer games. Taught me how to drive. Cried at my graduation.
Her face softens. “Mackenzie. I’ve always liked that name. I want to name my daughter Mackenzie. If I ever have a daughter, that is.” Her lips purse as she eyes me. “Do you like football? You can come in and watch with me if you like.”
I give her a small smile. “I love football.” The fact that she’swatching a game on a Tuesday tells me a lot, since no live games are played today in the NFL.
The staff at Heritage Hills have discovered that football has a calming effect on my mom. Well, the Green Bay Packers, specifically. We moved to Wisconsin from Alabama right before I started high school, and Mom became a big cheesehead right away and has been ever since. For some reason, even though her brain occasionally steals her memories of me, her love for the Packers has always stayed intact. She must have become a little difficult earlier in the day, and someone on staff found an older game to replay for her.
“Who’s playing?” I ask as I move toward the small settee positioned in front of the TV.
“The Packers versus the Bears.”
A rival team. Not ideal if the goal is to calm her. She paces the length of the room—which isn’t much space—perturbation making her hands shake.
The television goes from a dog food commercial back to the game. It’s the second quarter and the Packers are down seven points, but that just means they need a single touchdown to even the score. The leaderboard wouldn’t make her upset. It’s still early in the game, and Aaron Rodgers has possession of the ball, the offense going into formation at the line of scrimmage.
Mom is muttering under her breath about idiots and morons and what are they thinking.
The ball is snapped, but one of the Bears’ linemen gets around the Packers’ right guard, and Aaron Rodgers goes down. Sacked.
An animalistic sound comes from my mom, and she stops pacing. She throws her arm at the TV. “Why is the backup quarterback playing?” she yells at the screen. “Put in Brett Favre!”
It might not be the best time to tell her that Brett Favre retired in 2010 and Aaron Rodgers has been the Packers’ starting quarterback since 2008.
She marches to the TV and pokes at it with her finger. Hernail practically decapitates Matt LaFleur. “Who is this clown?” she demands. “Where is Mike McCarthy?”
I probably also shouldn’t tell her that Mike McCarthy coaches the Dallas Cowboys now.
“I gotta pee,” she announces and then turns on her heel and stalks away.
I have exactly the length of time it takes someone to empty their bladder to find another Packers vs. Bears game where Brett Favre is quarterback and Mike McCarthy the head coach.
Or maybe Mom will come back out and forget she was even watching football to begin with.
Better not take the chance.
I count it a miracle I’m able to find a game on YouTube from 2005 with the same two teams playing. Will Mom notice the quality difference or the fact that the game is now in Lambeau Field instead of Soldier Field in Chicago?
The toilet flushes, and then the water in the sink runs before the bathroom door opens.
“Who are you? What are you doing in my room?” Mom blinks at me.
I can’t tell if she’s scared or mad. I don’t like either option and hate that I bring those feelings out in her.
“I’m Mackenzie. We’re watching football together.”
“Oh.” She takes three steps closer. “Who’s playing?”
I guess I could have found any game and been good. Oh well. “The Packers and the Bears.”
She nods. “Who did you say you were?”
My chest pinches. “Mackenzie.”
“I like that name.” She sits beside me but hugs the armrest like she’s afraid to get too close.
