Every day had been the same since he’d dropped Clare off at the hospital. Time didn’t matter, food didn’t matter… He sniffed. Huh, turned out personal hygiene didn’t matter either.
He scratched his chin. A five o’clock shadow was long behind him and it wasn’t even playoff time. For the past…however long he’d been avoiding the world…he’d done the bare minimum: gotten up at 5AM, gone for a run, shower and a protein shake, then hockey practice, hockey practice, hockey practice. Sometimes he’d spice it up with a trip to the store for more protein powder, a smattering of hockey games, and collapsing into bed.
It was kind of pathetic. He hadn’t broken his silence and messaged Clare, but Cat had told Theo who’d told him that Mason was going to be just fine, a cast for a few weeks and he’d be back on the ice in no time.
The more interesting thing was why Cat was even talking to Theo. Why hadn’t she just told Elliott directly? Unless she didn’t know that things had gone pear-shaped between him and her mom...
“Stop frowning, you’ll get even more wrinkles.” Dad stood at the stove, heating a pot of water with an egg in it.
“Dad, what are you doing? Let me help.”
Dad thwapped his hand with the silicone spatula. “I might be old and losing it, but I’m not an idiot. I can boil a goddamn egg.”
The sad truth was, he couldn’t.
“I’ve been thinking…”
“Did it hurt, old man?” Despite his exhaustion, Elliot did his best to keep both their spirits up. They’d been to see Mom earlier in the day, and she had seemed to be doing a little better, too.
Another smack with the spatula. “As a matter of fact, it did. I think I’m ready to join your mom in that assisted living place, whatever it’s called…the old people’s prison.” He brandished the kitchen tool once again. “But you’d better come visit.”
He chuckled. “Like they could keep me away.”
“I saw some flyers on the bulletin board this morning, when we were there. They have a chess club. I haven’t played chess in years, used to be a state champ though, so that could be fun. Cribbage—apparently that’s still a thing. And I think I’ll bring in a deck of Uno cards and start an Uno championship.” He grinned. “Those oldies don’t stand a chance against me and my Uno deck.”
It was such a 180 from his previous stance that Elliott hardly dared believe it. Was he testing the water? Was he waiting for Elliott to say “no, it’s okay, please don’t go”?
“It’s time, son. You need to get out of your shitty apartment. When I move out you can put this place on the market, buy somewhere closer to work, and start putting yourself first for a change.”
“Dad…” Elliott stepped around him to get a plate from the cupboard. “You don’t need to move just for me.”
Dad shook his head. “I’m not. I’m moving for me. And your mom. Maybe if I was in the same building she’d fight a little harder, or longer.” His lip quivered. “And if she doesn’t, then I’ll have people around me and I won’t feel like such a lonely old coot holding back his grown son. I’ll take whatever extra time I can get with her.”
No amount of swallowing could clear the lump in the back of his throat. “Dad…” His voice broke, but he tried again. “You’re not holding me back.”
Dad patted his hand. “You have to stop using us as a crutch and figure your shit out.”
Wow. Don’t hold back, old man.
“I know you’ve probably been thinking about moving back here, even though it’s too far from the university. It’s madness, Elliott. I won’t let you do it. I can still live a good life in one of those places, and I can see more of your mother. It’ll do me fine. It’s time, son.”
Hehadbeen contemplating moving across town and accepting the ball-busting stop-and-go traffic along the commute, but he hadn’t been able to bring himself to bite the bullet and commit.
Dad moving into assisted living suddenly felt like an unnecessary sacrifice. Elliott was a grown man. He should be able to help out his own fucking father, right?
He sighed. At the end of the day Dad needed more help around the house than he could give him, and he’d point-blank refused accepting someone else in the house to help him out. This was the best outcome.
So why didn’t it feel like it?
He’d lived for almost forty years and had nothing to show for it but a failed marriage and a handful of dusty old hockey trophies in his parent’s garage. It was kind of pathetic. When he was with Clare she didn’t make him feel like a washed up has-been, she made him feel like he still had so much to give.
His stomach had hurt ever since he pulled away from her, standing with her arms wrapped across her body, outside the hospital. He’d thought they were making progress, mending fences, moving forward, together.
He hadn’t planned on ever leaving her again, and while he knew he wasn’t the father of her children, he had intended on being a damned good friend and role model to both of them while he loved their mother. A tiny voice in the back of his head dared dream that maybe they’d even try for a little one of their own someday.
Did she really blame him for the shit going on at home?
“What about that ex-wife of yours?” Dad brought him out of his misery with a jolt with different misery. He scooped the egg from the boiling water with a slotted spoon and shuffled across the kitchen to the toaster.
