Page 76 of Off Sides

Clearing the knot from my throat, I look out the window so I don’t have to face her when I say my next words. “I can’t give up on him.”

Mom’s car is in the cracked driveway when we get to the house. The porch light is off but it’s probably because the bulb is burned out. The grass in the front is mostly brown dirt with some patches of weeds and the porch is starting to droop in the center. It’s depressing. Grief soaked into every crack of the foundation, anger poisoned the air, and failure rusted the pipes, turning my home toxic. There’s nothing good here. Not anymore.

“You can stay with me, if you want,” Char offers. “Wait to face her until you have Matt as a buffer.”

“No,” I sigh, soul weary. “It’s better to just get it over with.” I open the car door and grab my duffle from the back seat. I wait on the uneven sidewalk until my sister has driven off and I can’t see her taillights anymore before I walk across what used to be the lawn to the wood steps. I learned how to play street hockey out here with my dad. He taught me to play goalie, how to read people and anticipate their next moves before letting me play another position. It wasn’t long before we had a whole team of kids out here being coached by him.

Raising my hand to knock on the door, I freeze. I don’t think I’ve ever knocked on this door before and I don’t know how to feel about it. Am I welcome? Probably not, but when was the last time I was in the last decade?

The TV is on but I can’t tell what’s playing. Mom is probably sitting on the left side of the couch with a folding table in front of her with her dinner, a beer, and the remote. That’s where she settles after work. Always has. Dad used to joke that she would die in that spot, now I kind of hope she does.

Does that make me a bad person? I shouldn’t wish that about my own mother. A grieving widow who lost herself when she buried him. Since I’ve never been in her shoes, I shouldn’t judge her, but what about us? What about her kids? She may have been physically here, paying for groceries and clothes and the mortgage, but mentally, she abandoned us. She left us in the ocean during a storm and told us to sink or swim.

I knock on the door and wait. Seeing if she’ll open the door or just yell from the couch. Does she expect me to be here tonight? I texted her that Char was going to pick me up at the bus depot but she didn’t respond.

The door opens and the yellow light from the lamp on the half-circle table in the entryway spills out. She looks older. Gray hair and wrinkles and gaunt. Like there’s no life left in her. No joy.

“About time.” She turns around and heads to her spot on the couch, dismissing me and my existence. I guess I should have expected it. The only time she remembers me is if she needs to yell at me for messing something up. If she had to deal with Matt or Char, she remembered me.

All I’m good for is keeping her responsibilities out of her face.

With a sigh, I come inside and close the door. The house hasn’t changed in years. The couch is sagging on the side she sits on every day, the carpet is worn from the furniture being in the same spot for decades, and I no longer remember what the original color of the walls was but it’s dingy and dusty now. The house isn’t piled with trash but I doubt it’s been deep cleaned since I moved out.

“Do you know what time Matt is supposed to be released tomorrow?” My voice is quiet and calm. A hope she won’t snap and rip into me but at this point I’m not sure which is worse, being completely ignored or yelled at. At least if she’s yelling at me, she sees me.

Mom huffs like me asking the question is the biggest inconvenience. It makes me drop my head toward the floor, looking at my feet instead of at her. I may be six-foot-two and a defender for a college hockey team but right now, I’m a gangly teenager who hasn’t grown into his body yet.

“It depends on what the doctor says during rounds tomorrow. You’ll have to answer your phone when someone calls you.” The harsh tone of her voice tells me exactly how annoyed she is that sometimes I’m not able to answer when she calls.

I nod and step past her to head up the stairs to my room. At least, I think it’s still my room. Since nothing else in this place has changed, I doubt she did anything with it.

I’m halfway up the stairs when she speaks again. “Get some rest, wouldn’t want you to be too tired to go pick up your brother from the hospital after he fell off a roof and had surgery.”

The condemnation she throws at me is another weight on my shoulders. I should do better, do more, try harder. Matt is like this because of me. It’s my fault. I’m a failure.

In the dark, I pass Matt’s and Char’s rooms on the way to my own. There are no shoes, crumbled school papers, or jackets on the floor. There’s no cologne and perfume scents fighting for dominance. The pictures on the walls show us as little kids, but nothing past it. Sometimes I think Mom has been frozen in that era all these years. Back before I became a teenager. When Matt still wanted to be the baby and coddled. When Charlotte would beg for girls’ days with Mom and sleepovers.

Opening my door at the end of the hall, I’m surprised at how easily it opens. It’s been over a year since I was here. Has someone come in here since then? The air is musty and when I flip the light on, dust dances in the space. It looks just like I left it. Hockey posters still up on the walls that I got from Dad right before he passed. The corners have been ripped a hundred times so pins are a good inch from the edges which are curling with age. The bed is stripped down to the old mattress but at this point, I don’t care. I put my duffle down on the dresser that no longer holds clothes and is missing half of the knobs and sink down onto the floor.

I don’t want to be here. Every breath is tinged with pent-up emotions I was never allowed to have, building up in my lungs. Soon I’ll suffocate on them. Anger, guilt, shame, worthlessness, grief, sadness. Ugly emotions that no one ever wants to talk about or feel. No, just shove those into a little box and pretend to be happy. Fake it till you make it.

I didn’t make it. I went numb. And I can feel myself sinking into it again.

32

Nick

Islept like shit last night and even Neal is avoiding me this morning. Usually he likes pushing my buttons but I guess one look at my grumpy mug was enough of a warning for him to fuck off.

I don’t know how many times I’ve checked my phone but Joey hasn’t texted me or called. He did open the messages from yesterday but hasn’t said anything. Brent was probably right and he’s dealing with some kind of family emergency but I just want to know that he’s okay. That his family isn’t fucking up his head. Since he’s been radio silent, I assume they are and that’s why he won’t talk to me.

I open our thread and send him a message even though it’s early and I don’t expect him to be awake.

NICK:

Good morning, baby.

Dragging my ass out of bed, I take a piss and stand in the middle of the room. I should probably go eat breakfast. Or get drunk. It’s five o’clock somewhere.

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