To be fair, I spend most of my time at the rink. Getting a pet would be selfish because I’m rarely here. It would also probably make me spend more time at home, and I can’t possibly sacrifice that when we’re about to start playoffs. But sometimes, it feels a little quiet in here.
I’ve dated before, but it’s been a couple of seasons since I actually went out or hooked up with anyone. I don’t even know if I fuck right at this point. But it’s better this way. I spend all my time on hockey and not fucking anyone up mentally because I can’t process my own emotions before I react sometimes.
My phone chimes, tearing me from my thoughts, which I’m thankful for because I could feel the direction they were heading in and a spiral is not something I need right now.
It’s a text from my mom. It’s eleven thirty. She’s usually asleep.
Mom: Can we call quick? I saw you just got home.
Sharing my location with my mother has been both a blessing and a curse. She can see when I’m home or at the rink, so I don’t feel bad when I miss a call or text from her because now she only calls when I’m here.
The bad side is, I think she has notifications set up that alert her to my arrival at home because she’s creepily good at predicting it. Too good.
It’s late. I’m sure my dad is already in bed. Nighttime is harder on him. His memory worsens, his attitude is morepointed, and his words are sharp. My mom and I both know he doesn’t mean it when he lashes out. He’s just tired and confused, and he doesn’t understand. But that doesn’t make it any easier to live through.
I should visit more. I need to visit more … but, fuck, seeing him dwindle away guts me completely. Self-loathing rakes down my back at the guilt for not being there more for my mom and my dad. It’s not fair to her that she has to handle most of this on her own; she has the caretakers, but that’s not the same as having her son by her side.
I’ll go back soon.
You said that two months ago, my nagging mind reminds me.
I mean it this time. I’ll go back soon to visit.
Quickly, I answer my mom before I can talk myself out of saying yes. It’s not that I don’t want to talk to her or my dad, but it feels so heavy sometimes that I can’t handle it. I’d rather ignore it entirely, forget. But that’s not realistic, and it’s not fair to anyone involved.
Yeah. Now’s good.
She FaceTimes me not a second later, her and my dad appearing on the screen.
I answer it with a smile that’s nowhere near my eyes, plopping down on my bed with a grunt and groan. “Hey, guys.”
“Hey, Matty.” My mom’s face lights up, as if a fire illuminates behind her eyes. The way only a mother can look at you.
“What are you doing up so late?”
“Give me the phone. I want to talk to him.”
It takes me a second to recognize my dad’s voice. It’s harsher than I remember, dry and raspy, like he’s parched.
A hand flashes in front of the camera, fingers flailing for the phone, and my mom’s face falls slightly.
“Here, dear. Say hello.”
She lets him take the phone, and he lowers it to an awkward angle, only the top half of his face on the screen, but my mom helps him adjust it so I can see both of their faces fully.
“Hi, son!”
Excitement stretches across his mouth, a wide, oversize grin making my heart jump. There’s always a split second when I wonder if this will finally be the time. The time he doesn’t know who I am.
It’s what I’ve feared the most since his diagnosis. My mom said it hasn’t happened yet. He still has his memories, minus the last few years, which have been fading. Some days are better than others.
“We won our game tonight,” I tell him, watching his smile grow even bigger.
He pumps his fist into the air, nearly dropping the phone, but thankfully, my mom keeps it steady.
“That’s my boy! A winner!” he cheers, the excitement turning to a laugh, then cough.
My mom rubs his back, turning to look at him, and my heart shatters. The love in her eyes is immeasurable. But deep, soul-ripping pain lingers in her blue irises right alongside it.
