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I sigh. Much as that frustrates me, I also have to admire him.
Doesn’t mean I’m letting him out of dressing up as Scrooge McDuck, though.
Before we go up on the floor, I grab him by the arm—well, wing. “Listen. It literally kills me to admit this—I mean, I think I’m about to lose ten years off my life from the shame— you can be kind when you want to “Rowan James, are you trying to flirt with me? Is it the duck costume? It must be the duck costume.”
“Most definitely not,” I say severely.
“I’m learning so much about you.”
Don’t let him make me laugh, don’t let him make me laugh ... “Don’t make me punch a duck. Because I will punch a duck. Right in the beak. Mason, I’m making a point. These kids have been through it, and they deserve your absolute best. I’ve seen you greeting kids outside of the rink, and you did great. When you deal with the public, you’re able to turn on the charm when you want to. Channel that energy, please.”
Ten minutes later, we are at the children’s leukemia ward floor, where Mason is greeted with whoops and cheers.
After the obligatory media pictures, we move on to the good part—greeting the kids. This time, Mason is a natural. As I sit off to the side, he shows them some of his best hockey moves, and makes sure to fall over and do pratfalls.
A ten-year-old boy named Antoine raises his hand. Antoine is dark-skinned and still has his hair, but has the same port that many of the other children here are sporting.
“Yes, Antoine?” Mason says.
“Your costume’s lame, dude.” Antoine shakes his head. “It’s 2000-late.”
“Yes, it is. And you know who picked it out for me? This lady.” He points his wing at me. “So let’s give her a big round of applause.” And he makes a quacking raspberry sound.
The rest of the kids razz me and boo loudly. I stand up and bow. “Thank you, thank you.” I wave and blow kisses, and they laugh. I do an exaggerated curtsy, and they laugh even harder.
We follow it up with swag bags and autograph signing.
Just as he’s finishing up, his phone rings. Instantly, his mood changes. His face darkens.
“Got to take this,” he says, his voice gone harsh.
I nod at him, and he hurries off. As he does, he passes a nurse who is headed straight for the bed of an eight-year-old girl named Mariah, holding a package. Mariah has lost most of her hair and looks like a little bald baby chick.
“It’s my wig.” she cries. “It’s my wig.” She looks hopefully at the nurse. “Can you braid it for me?”
“Oh, honey, I have to make my rounds.” The nurse looks dismayed. Mariah’s face falls. “It’s okay,” she says, looking sadly at the package.
“I can.” I say. “I am the braid-master.”
I walk over and sit down next to Mariah’s bed. Together, we open the package and carefully fit the wig on her head. Then, I set to work.
It brings back memories of me and my younger sister Ruby, sitting on my bed late at night, braiding each other’s hair using magazine pictures as inspiration, speaking in quiet voices so we didn’t wake our mother. Mariah glows with happiness as I keep braiding.
By the time Mason comes back, with a face like a thundercloud, I’ve created a beautiful French braid crown.
“Very nice,” he says to Mariah, forcing a smile. “You look like a princess.”
From the look on his face, I can tell it’s time to go. He isn’t someone who can hide his emotions well, and I don’t want the negative vibes to spread.
Mariah gives me a hug. I blink back tears, tell her she looks beautiful, and Mason and I make our way to the front of the hospital, with me lugging the costume bag.
“Do you want to talk about it?” I ask, as we head for the town car.
“Nope.” He bites out the word.
“Does it affect your public image in any way?” At his dirty look, I sigh. “I’m sorry, I have to ask, Mason.”
He shakes his head again. “It does not.”
