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After we leave the hospital, we head to a bar for a few beers to decompress.
At a high top with a shared bowl of peanuts among us, I ask, “How often do you visit the hospital?”
He shrugs. “Once a week, sometimes more.”
Drake shakes his head. “I don’t know how you do it, man. I’m drained after seeing those sick kids for just a few hours.”
“But don’t you feel good in your soul?” Boone asks with a grin.
“I do,” Drake admits.
I do too. I’ve felt like such a shit for all the stuff I’ve done to Simone, this was a bit of a balm to make kids smile all day.
“Kids are resilient as hell,” Boone says. “We have a lot to learn from them.”
“That’s God’s honest truth,” Drake says. “My ex-wife has put my kids through hell and I still marvel at the way they’re able to deal with it. Far better than I did.”
This gets my attention. “What do you mean?”
I’ve come to know a little about Drake by talking to him and others on the team. I also remember when it was hot news, his wife accusing him of betting on games. All untrue, of course, but it was a lot of shit he went through.
Drake takes a sip of his beer. “She’s a drug addict, so you never know what you’re going to get with her. Whether she’ll be high as a kite or in a depressive state or totally normal. My kids were always walking on eggshells around her. Always worried about what kind of mom she’d be. The last time she showed up, they were afraid of her.”
“How did you protect them from that?”
Drake shrugs. “I realized pretty quickly I just couldn’t shield them completely, and to be honest, I’m glad I didn’t. I had to guide them and teach them how to cope.”
That seems impossible to me. “And how did you do that?”
I get a strange look from Drake as he grabs some peanuts. “You talk honestly to them. I kept it age-appropriate but I was transparent with them about the issues surrounding their mom. I guess I just taught them that they have no control over what she does and says—they can only stay true to themselves. They can only control how they react.”
I’m stunned by how stoic he is about all this. It’s horrific thinking of his boys dealing with a strung-out mother.
“It can’t be that simple,” I mutter, staring down at my beer.
“Fuck no, it’s not simple,” Drake says with a laugh. “It’s hard work.”
“But don’t you worry about your kids being screwed up over the things they’ve seen and heard?”
Drake exchanges a look with Boone and it seems to convey that they both know my questions go beyond simple curiosities.
With his gaze coming back to me, Drake crosses his forearms on the table. “Let me tell you something, my friend. Children are the greatest gift any human can hope to have in their life. But it’s a nonstop ride of worry that you’re doing the right things, saying what they need to hear, protecting them when they can’t for themselves, and letting them fall because they need to learn what that feels like, and even more… how to get back up again. Even as hard as it is, it’s the absolute best thing you could ever hope to have in your life. It’s worth all the pain and worry just to tuck them into bed at night and have them sayI love you, Daddy.”
My entire body flushes with warmth, a strange flood of regret mixed with a sudden awareness that I’ve just been clued into something very fucking important. So monumental, it could make me a happy man again.
All this time spent obsessing over the worst, I’ve never considered it could be okay. Or that there was a way to guide children through tough times. I never really had that. I mean… Etta… she just whisked me away and my life with her was idyllic. It never occurred to me that with the right parenting, a child could indeed handle ugly things.
I’m still not quite sure I’d be any good at talking to kids the way Drake does, but the one thing I know is that he’s made me a bit more open-minded. It’s not just black-and-white anymore.
“Sorry,” I say as I rise from the table and nab my wallet from my back pocket. I drop a hundred-dollar bill on the table. “I gotta go. Drinks are on me.”
Boone and Drake don’t know the details of my woes with Simone or why we’re separated. But I’m sure they’re both smart enough to figure out that I just had an epiphany of some sort.
It takes all my effort not to speed on the thirty-minute drive to our house. I don’t even bother parking in the back but slide into the parallel spot that Simone’s car normally occupies. I make a mental note I need to find out the status of her car—whether it can be repaired—but that’s not what’s important right now.
I fly up the steps, fumble with the key in the lock and practically crash through the front door. I’m yelling her name as I disable the security alarm.
“Simone,” I call out. She’s not in the kitchen or living room. I bound up the stairs. “Simone.”
