Page 6

I bust open the grapes, even unwashed, as I drive to my sister’s group home to deliver her microwaveable noodles. Delphine—Deen—and her three housemates live just a few blocks from me on the north side of the city.

Her neighborhood is quiet, with tree-lined streets and sturdy brick homes. I love how diverse her world is now, with people from all economic backgrounds, religions, and ethnicities living together. Staff from Deen’s house even walks her to work twice a week at City Books, where she spends her entire paycheck. Finding this group home for Deen was one of the last things my parents were able to do before they passed. She can stay here for the rest of her life, but of course I worry about worst-case scenarios.

I run my free hand through the wind chimes on the porch as I wait for the staff to answer the door. Everyone who lives here has an intellectual disability similar to my sister’s, and they have help on site around the clock.

Wendy, a very grandmotherly white woman, opens the door with a smile. “Briar! Come on in. Your sister’s watching Little House.”

I peek past Wendy’s tiny frame and smile at my sister and her friends sitting stiffly on the couch, as the Ingalls family appears to be mucking out the horse stalls in the barn. “Hey, babes,” I shout. “I brought you steamy noods.”

“Briar! Don’t say that word.” My sister doesn’t look away from the television as she waves a hand at me. I walk to the kitchen, taking in everything in its place, the countertops sparkling. I don’t have a reason to suspect anything different, but it’s nice to see it all the same.

I stow the packages in the low cupboard and test the childproof locks on the door under the sink, where I know they stash the cleaning supplies. Snug and secure.

I prop my butt on the armrest near my sister and hug her with one arm. Without glancing my way, she offers me the bag of chips from her lap, and I take one, munching happily.

I watch with the ladies for a few minutes before Wendy catches my attention, and I join her in the hall. “You have a few minutes?” she asks, gesturing to a clipboard. “I wanted to run through the April calendar with you.”

We move to the dining room table as Deen's laugh carries in from the other room, high and unself-conscious. The sound puts me at ease as Wendy opens a house calendar, revealing a sea of penciled-in appointments and activities. There are sticky notes with my name and vibrant question marks—dates the Uprising might be on the road if we keep winning. My body tenses, and I notice the sensation. Odin asked me to think about how managing my sister’s care was showing up in my body.

Apparently, scheduling my absence stresses me. A lot. For every road game, every away stretch, every playoff push, I have to hand Deen's schedule to other people and trust them to hold it. I am not good at trusting others.

"Doctor Kessler moved her follow-up to April eighth," Wendy says. "That's a Tuesday. I checked your schedule — you're in Columbus."

"I can call in," I offer on instinct.

"You don't need to call in. She's been seeing Kessler for six years; she knows the drill." Wendy says this kindly, but I sense firm resolve beneath her words. "I'll take her."

"I know you will." I stare into my mug. "I just like to be there."

"I know you do." Wendy pats my hand and jots a note. "There's also the matter of playoff tickets."

I look up.

"She's already asking," Wendy says, her smile both warm and slightly amused. "She has been asking since January, if I'm honest. We all just loved watching the Olympics together.”

I smile, thinking of the photos the staff sent me of everyone in their USA gear and holding homemade banners. “It’s bad luck to talk about playoffs,” I say with a sigh, knowing I can’t afford to be superstitious like other pro athletes. Not about this.

Wendy tilts her head. "We'd need to arrange transportation well in advance. If you want her at a potential game, I'd want to have someone confirmed before all the Access vans book up. Get Deen on the staff schedule for outings. The arena is a lot of stimulation —we'd want a familiar face, someone she trusts."

I nod. I know this, and I have been turning it over … the logistics, the variables, the thousand ways a plan can fall apart when I’m already in the locker room and the aide calls out sick.

"I'll figure it out," I say.

“You always do.” Wendy closes the tablet. "How are you doing? For real." I open my mouth to say fine. "For real," Wendy repeats.

I close my mouth. This woman does not earn enough to care for my sister and be a parent figure for me. "I'm okay. Hockey is good. Everything else is — I'm working on it."

Wendy nods. She has known me for years. She understands what I mean is that I am not currently on fire, but I am standing next to the kindling while the universe waves matches around.

"One more thing," Wendy says, and her voice adopts a careful tone. “The Circle is doing an end-of-year party to celebrate the program year, transition to summer, that sort of thing.”

Laughter rings out again from the living room, and I glance that way. My sister is high-fiving Yael on the couch. I turn back to Wendy. “That sounds so nice…”

Wendy flips a page in the calendar. More sticky notes. “The theme is families. The girls are making a booklet of photos.” She pauses. "Is there anyone new in your life you'd like me to know about? In case Deen wants to fill out her page...”

I stare at her.

She stares back with a patient, neutral expression. I think Wendy used to be a special education teacher before retiring to work part-time with the agency that runs Deen’s house.