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Dad’s throat cleared, making me retract it.
“Please. Eat the pie, Cullen,” Mom said, every word clipped as she moved around the table to my chair. She placed her hand on my shoulder and directed her words at Dad. “You’ve deprived him for long enough, don’t you think? He works hard each and every day. Does more than you ask. Has never let you down.” She lowered her voice, seething through her teeth. “He’s gotten the team to the final and yet you still don’t let him celebrate. And youpunish himfor seeing his best friend.”
Dad scoffed. “Discipline,” he said. “It’s all about discipline. The road to fame and glory is paved with hard work. Cullen knows that. You take your foot off the pedal and someone will overtake you.”
I stared at the scoop of ice cream, gently melting. Yes, I knew that discipline and hard work were how goals were achieved. That had been instilled in me.
“When will you celebrate, Abe?” Mom asked, the sarcasm back in full force. “When we win the state championship? When Cullen gets a college scholarship? When he gets drafted for the NFL?” Her quivering fingers were pressing into my collarbone. “Or will it be when he wins theSuper Bowl?”
“This is about following through,” Dad snapped back. “Setting a goal and seeing it through to the end. You want us to give up now? Shrug our shoulders and say whatever will be, will be?” He was returning the sarcasm, throwing up his hands in mockery.
Mom released her grip on me, and I thought the drama was over.
But Mom was nowhere near finished. Her hands flew to her hips and she inhaled deeply.
“My father had a heart attack and I didn’t tell you until training was overbecause I didn’t want to interrupt practice.”Her words were hissed out in disgust, in utter self-loathing. “Can you believe it? My Dad has a heart attack and I choose not to tell you until football training is over? Do you know how sick that is, Abe?” Mom’s voice cracked, making my own throat tighten. “That’s how obsessive, how controlling you’ve become. And we’ve been going along with it for so long that we think it’s normal. Abe, it’s not normal. All this excessive exercising and rigid diet. None of this is normal. Let him be a boy, let him enjoy his senior year with his friends.” Mom’s eyes were misty, filling with tears and her arms swept across the table, before landing back on my shoulder. “I’m sorry, Cully. I should have said something sooner. Should’ve done something.” She was shaking now and the tears were sliding down her cheeks, yet her voice was clear and direct, “Please, Cullen, eat.”
With trembling fingers, she slipped the spoon into my hand and nudged me, like eating the pie was the crucial thing. But I knew this was never about a slice of pie or ice cream, and I dipped my spoon into the soft crust, bringing a spoonful of pastry and apple to my lips. The sweet taste should have been divine, but I wasn’t able to enjoy it.
Dad shoved back his chair and stood, flinging his napkin over his uneaten pie. His ascent of the staircase was slow and heavy, much like my heartbeat.
I wasn’t sure what had happened. It was too much to fathom. I’d never seen Mom angry and in tears before, and she and Dad never fought. This seemed out of my jurisdiction, but at the same time, it was totally about me. I had no idea what I was supposed to do.
Mom busied herself clearing away plates, trying to stifle her sniffles as she did. I carried on eating, believing that the best thing I could do was to finish the pie. Maybe it would blow over. Maybe Dad would come back downstairs and everything would be normal again.
With my plate empty, I looked over to see Mom wiping the counter. I pushed my chair back, not knowing what I should do or say. I didn’t want to have to approach my teary-eyed mother.
Homework! That’s what I had to do. I had to get up to my room and finish my homework.
Standing, I walked over to the dishwasher, actually I tiptoed, maybe hoping Mom wouldn’t hear me. That I could sneak up to my room.
Of course she saw and heard me. She forced a smile onto her face.
“Great pie,” I said.
“Cully,” she said, and I instinctively wrapped my arms around her, a good move because it meant I didn’t have to see her red, watery eyes. “I’m sorry,” she said.
“It’s not your fault,” I said, even though I didn’t know what she was sorry about.
“I didn’t want it to be like this for you,” she said, her voice muffled by the front of my hoodie. “I don’t know why I didn’t see it earlier.”
“It’s okay,” I croaked out, looking over at the row of spice jars in perfect alignment. That’s how the Mercer household appeared to everyone, to be in perfect alignment. The revered coach who had taken the lowly ranked football team all the way to the championship final, with his son as the star quarterback. A dynamic duo for all to see, but in reality it was a relationship based on domination and fear.
“It isn’t okay,” Mom said. “It’s like I’ve turned a blind eye. And because we were winning, it was like it made it all okay.” She released herself from my hold and dabbed at her eyes. “He wants this so badly...but it shouldn’t be like this for you.”
“Really, Mom, I’m good,” I said, because I didn’t like hearing all this, and strangely, I didn’t want Dad to be the bad guy. Dad had taught me everything, he’d devoted all his time to me. I was the star quarterbackbecause of him.
“No,” Mom said. “He shouldn’t treat you like this. This isn’t what I wanted for you.”
“She’s right.” The faint, raspy voice was hardly recognizable and it sent both Mom and me spinning around. Dad filled the doorframe, not imposing like a giant, but like someone who had lost their way. “Your mother’s right,” he said, his right hand scratching behind his ear.
Mom pulled me toward her as if to protect me. My little mother who barely came up to my shoulder, stood next to me like she was a fierce warrior. It reminded me of Sierra—ready to save me.
“I have pushed you.” Dad’s hand ran over the stubble on his lower jaw, his downcast eyes lifting in regret. “I’ve pushed you too far. I’ve been desperate. Desperate to prove myself through you.” Mom’s hand squeezed tighter around my waist as Dad carried on. “Your talent is remarkable,” Dad said, “and your work ethic is—” he paused, seeming to choke on his words, “—it’s extraordinary, yet I make you do more, always more.”
Okay, now it was disconcerting to hear Dad on the brink of breaking down. Abe Mercer was a hard man, gruff and authoritative, a fastidious man who had planned every detail of his coaching program. He didn’t tolerate laziness, apathy or weakness. You gave everything, more than a hundred percent, because that was the path to success. That’s what he’d always told me.
“No one pushed me,” he said, his hands slipping into the front pockets of his pants and his head hanging, his vulnerability exposed. “My father didn’t care. He didn’t care about anything I did. Whether I scored a touchdown or was MVP. He never came to watch any of my games. Ever.”
