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“Smart move.”
With another gentle shake and a chuckle, I nudge him towards a chair. “Take a seat. Dinner’s almost ready.”
“Need help?”
“Nah.” It only takes me a minute to transfer a bowl of salad from the counter to the table, sticky wings and buffalo cauliflower bites still baking in the oven and batons of potato still frying on the stove. “You get your homework done?”
August’s sheepish look is answer enough.
Yeah, I figured as much. I’ve witnessed the alleged ‘homework club’ the kids in my family host, and the most productive they’ve ever been was when they taught Matthias how to swear in Portuguese.
Amelia was furious. Nick was proud. I, of course, was in no way involved.
“How’s the journal?”
Again, I’m unsurprised by his response; his face scrunches with distaste. It took me a single conversation—the first time he showed me his journal—to realize the English language is not his forté, or his favorite, and a scan of his work to suspect why.
When Isaac got his ADHD diagnosis, no one was surprised—like we always say, he is his mother’s son. The dyslexia diagnosis that accompanied it, however, caught us off guard. One crash course on the learning disability later, though, and we found our feet. We figured out how to help and support him—although we’re still working out how to do it without flustering the kid because not even Izzy is completely unflappable.
It’s why I have a feeling about August. He has similar literacy challenges, definitely, but it’s the emotional reaction that reminds me so much of my nephew. The frustrated embarrassment that even a ridiculously confident kid like Isaac embodies sometimes.
I’m not sure it’s my place to ask him about it—not sure if it’ll help or hinder. For now, I’ll just keep doing what I’ve been doing; treat him with the same help and encouragement intertwined with gentle, well-timed teasing that I do every other kid in my family.
Holding out a hand palm-up towards him, I quirk my fingers in a ‘hand it over’ motion. “Let’s see it.”
It’s cute how he makes a fuss but obliges quickly. He’s like his mother that way. They’re a surprisingly dramatic pair, the Lanes, but I suppose they have to be to fit in amongst the rest of us so well. Retrieving his journal from his backpack, he slaps it on the table, fidgeting with a dog-eared corner. When he makes no effort to slide it my way, I casually suggest, “You wanna read it to me today?”
Voice a low grumble, August begins to read, narrating the past week of his life slowly but steadily. I make sure to keep my gaze low, staring at mahogany instead of right at him, and I only chime in with assistance when he really needs it, which isn’t all that often; with only a few stuttered words and a couple of pauses, August is far more capable than he gives himself credit for.
It’s a confidence thing. A comfort thing. I get that now, and why Sunday does this assignment. Whether he’s dyslexic or not, something in me says she saw her son struggling and she worked something into his everyday life that could help him but didn’t feel so targeted. She’s trying to teach him that it’s not embarrassing to struggle, and that’s exactly why, when August is done, I pick up my journal and follow his lead.
Not my actual therapy journal, of course—too many adult problems and unsavory thoughts about his mother in that one. This one is more tame. Baseball specific with a sprinkling of baby talk that always, without fail, coaxes out a furrow in August’s brow.
“I’m worried,” I recite, “that I’ll hate myself for missing things. That I’ll have to retire in a couple of years anyways so my sacrifice will mean nothing. I think about first steps I might not see, first words I won’t hear, and I’m scared shitless I’ll spend my whole life regretting missing them for the sake of another season.”
“Are you really?”
I pause. “Worried about missing things?”
August nods, and so do I. “I think terrified is a better word.” Of the regret, of the potential resentment, of the all-consuming realization that another season will never be comparable in any meaningful way.
Slumping in his seat, August stares thoughtfully at the table. “Huh.”
“What?”
He shrugs, so painfully nonchalant as he says, “I don’t think John regrets missing anything with me.”
Fuck, it kills me that I can’t even disagree. Staring at my journal, I try to think of what I can say, what’s safe to say, what wouldn’t cross the dangerous line I toe between Coach Morgan and Mama’s Boyfriend. What I decide on isn’t particularly inspired, but at least it’s honest. “I think John is a dumbass.”
The tiniest smile curls his lips. “Me too.”
25
SUNDAY
I mayor may not fall asleep in the bathtub.
I can’t help it. Cass knows how to draw a really good bath. Perfect temperature, just the right amount of scented bubbles, one of those waterproof, inflatable pillows to rest my weary head upon, and a wooden caddy on which a flickering candle, a stack of books, and a glass of water sits.
