“I’ve been so focused on hockey. It’s been my whole life. I didn’t think I had room in my life for a girlfriend. But…she’s in my life. Or she was.” I drag a hand down my face. “I thought she was interfering with hockey, and then this whole shitstorm happened, and I thought it proved me right. So I broke up with her.”
Mom inhales sharply but says nothing.
“What’s she like?” Dad asks.
“She’s amazing. She’s a musician. She plays guitar. And piano. And sings. She’s raised her little sister. She lost both her parents. Her step-dad is…ah, shit.” I swipe my tongue over my top teeth. “He owns the Bears. She’s Mr. D’Agostino’s stepdaughter.”
Dad stares. “Jesus Christ.”
“I know. And he’s been an asshole to her. But she’s so strong and caring, and fun to be with.”
Mom smiles even though her eyes look glossy like she’s going to cry. “She sounds wonderful.”
“And she’s beautiful,” I add. I stare across the room, unfocused. “Her name is Emerie.”
“And you chose hockey over her,” Mom says.
I close my eyes. When you put it that way… “I’m an idiot. But…that’s why I’m here. I need to figure this out. I think I’ve been trying to avoid thinking about Eric by thinking about nothing but hockey.”
Mom makes a soft sound of agreement.
“I still love him. And…” I choke up again. “I miss him. So much.”
“I know.” She reaches over and squeezes my hand. “Us too.”
“I feel crappy that I was angry at him.”
Dad’s been quiet. But now he says, “Is that why you’ve pulled away from us?”
“I didn’t realize it. But yeah. I think so. I felt guilty. I shouldn’t be angry at my dead brother. I didn’t want to talk about him. Or think about him. I didn’t want you to hate me for being such a selfish, shitty person.”
Mom’s eyes grow wet. Dad is stoic, but his Adam’s apple is moving like the bobble head players the team gives out.
“We love you and we always will.” Mom sniffles. “We always loved your brother, even after everything he put us through. He couldn’t help it.”
“I know. And that makes me feel even worse.” I pause. “Can we talk about him now? The good stuff. And the bad, I guess.”
“Of course.”
We spend the rest of the evening reminiscing about Eric, good, bad, and ugly. It’s all part of him and who he was. And it’s part of us, too.
When I go upstairs to go to bed in my old room, I walk into what used to be Eric’s room. It doesn’t look the same. I sit on the bed in the quiet darkness and let the memories run through my head like a movie…playing with Legos in here, jumping on the bed to see if we could touch the ceiling, breaking the lamp when we played mini sticks with an actual puck. I can see his face, his big grin, his wild cowlick. I never knew. When we were kids, I never knew it would end that soon.
My eyes burn and a hot knife stabs into my heart. And yeah, I shed a few tears.
32
Emerie
I’m still confused about what happened at the hockey game.
Okay, I knew Vince cared about Mom. I saw them together. He clearly doesn’t like kids, but he loved her. I guess he was going through his own shit after she died, but I still don’t totally forgive him for how he treated me. He was the grown up. He needed to be a better parent figure.
I know it messed me up, and I’ve worked on doing better. I didn’t deal well with it as a teenager—the loss, the grief, the feeling of abandonment—but I picked myself up and got back on track.
Or did I?
Here I am, alone. No boyfriend. No family.
I look around my little apartment. Lilly’s at work. I’m settling in here, but it’s still new.
I feel like my skin’s too tight. And hot. My heart is galloping.
It’s like I’m terrified. But of what? Everything is fine. Fine.
I stand and walk to the window. Spring flowers are blooming in the parks and the trees are becoming green. It feels fresh and hopeful.
I need some of that hope. What am I so scared of?
Maybe it’s time for me. Never mind that I haven’t been a priority in anyone else’s life since Mom died. I need to make myself a priority.
I go into my little bedroom and get my laptop. I go onto the internet and find the site for open mic bookings. I see the one at the Mystic Nomad in Hell’s Kitchen that Elijah mentioned. Saturday from four to seven. I can sing two songs. I can’t sign up in advance, I just have to go there.
I see Lilly’s head pass by the window and then hear her coming into the hall of the building. I close my computer and paste on a smile as I turn to greet her.
“Hi!” The auburn highlights in her wavy dark hair glow under the lights. “How was your day?” She sets a couple of full shopping bags on the floor as she takes off her jacket.
“Good. You’re home tonight?”
“Yeah. I invited Sara and Kate over to watch the game. I hope that’s okay.”
The Bears play in Pittsburgh tonight.
“Of course!”
“You can watch with us,” she says.
“Sure. That’ll be fun.”
“I got some snacks.” She lifts the bags. “And wine.”
“Need any help?”
“Yeah, that’d be great.”
I follow her to the tiny kitchen and help her arrange a charcuterie platter, cutting up cheeses and breads. We have a glass of wine and nibble cheese and cashews while we work. She tells me doggie stories and updates me on arrangements for the Paws for a Cause fashion show. We got a permit to hold it in Central Park at the end of June, and we have lots of entries, so it looks like we’re going to make good money for the shelter.
All this distracts me but doesn’t quite quell the uneasiness in my gut.
Kate and Sara arrive with more wine, dressed in Bears jerseys with their guys’ numbers on them. I don’t even have a Bears T-shirt. I guess it doesn’t matter now. I’m just another fan, not a WAG. I push down the sadness I get when I think about Owen.
We settle in to watch the opening faceoff. I’ve watched enough games now that I know some of the players and I generally don’t embarrass myself with stupid questions. Although, I do still have questions. “Why do they put tape on their sticks?”
“I think it helps grip the puck,” Lilly answers. “Because the wood—”
“Carbon fiber,” Kate corrects.
“Oh, right.” Lilly nods. “The stick is smoother, so they rough it up with the tape.”
“Okay.”
Is Owen with them? Is he watching the game from the press box again? I keep these questions to myself.
We cheer when Brandon scores for the Bears, and groan when Pittsburgh ties it up before the end of the first period.
During the intermission we take bathroom breaks and refill wine glasses.
“Can I tell you guys something?” I ask.
“Sure.”
I look around at them. “I’ve sort of kept this secret because I didn’t want my stepfather to know what I was doing, but it doesn’t matter anymore, and I want to tell you all.”