Page 11 of My (Not So) Perfect Plan

“Who are you and what did you with my mom?”

Mom chuckles. “Come on, Evan. What, you think your football career matters more to me than your peace of mind. Afootball career has never been my dream for you, dear. That was all your father and yourself.”

I think back over the years. My mother was always supportive, but she never pressured me to do anything. She made it clear more than a few times that whatever I decide to dedicate myself too, I shouldn’t do it halfway. But it’s not like she was all hung about football itself, unlike dad. Seemed like outside of football, and my future career as an NFL player, I held no interest for him.

“What about dad?” I ask her.

She frowns. “What about him?”

I swallow and pluck at the fibers of the hospital blanket. “He’s not going to want anything to do with me now.”

“Oh, Evan.” She scoots up next to me and draws my head in the crook of her neck and I let her. “Your father loves you. He’s just really bad at expressing it.”

I can’t bring myself to believe her. I pick up my head.

“The only thing he ever liked about me was that I was a good football player, someone he could brag to his friends about. Now, I don’t even have that.” I sigh and lean back against the pillows. I just wanted to go home and hole up in my room. “So what use am I to him now?”

She clutches my fingers, but doesn’t say anything, because she knows I’m right.

“Let’s not forget everything we owe your father,” my mother says. She chews on her lip like she’s not sure whether she should tell me something.

“What is it, mom?”

She sighs and covers her eyes for a moment before dropping her hands and clutching them around her middle.

“Okay, I haven’t told you this before because I really hoped it wasn’t going to matter, but… I don’t know. Maybe it will help contextualize some things.” She swallowed and took a deep breath. “Your father met me after I was already pregnant with you.”

My mind can’t process what she’s saying, but tears spring to my eyes all the same. “Mom, what do you mean?”

“I mean… maybe he’s always had a hard time identifying with you because technically, you’re not his child.”

“So… I’m a bastard?” I growl out.

“No! No. You were born after I was married, you grew up with a father who raised you like his own son.”

I laugh bitterly at that. “If I’m raised as ‘his own son’ it’s a darn good thing he never had kids of his own.”

“Evan!”

But I can’t stop laughing.

“Look, we are going to get you home, you are going back to school, you are going to start physical therapy and we’ll go from there. We’ll figure it out, okay? Evan?”

I sigh, and use the heel of my hand to rub away the hysterical tears that have risen there. I figure I better play along or she’s going to continue torturing me with words of forgiveness and excuses for Jack Carmichael. “Yeah, sure.”

She pats my hand. “Why don’t you try and get some sleep, dear?”

“Hey mom,” I ask before she turns away. “Who’s my biological father?”

She squeezes my fingers and smiles at me sadly. “I’m sorry, baby, I don’t even know. I was young and stupid. But I got you out of it. And I thank God for you, love.”

Getting fitted for a brace sucked. Transitioning from a drip pain killer to pills sucked. Suffering through my father’s refusal to even address the fact that I had been injured, sucked. Lounging around at home with nothing to do but read, ice my knee, and play video games sucked. Visitors were few and far between in the first week. I was surprised, considering I had a wide circle of friends. Or I thought I did. I could only assume that the extent of my injury had leaked somehow and now that I had no football career, I was more or less a nothing on the social scale. What else explained the absence of my fan following?

The day of my surgery I am surprised to hear a knock at the door. Mom is out getting groceries which means I have the house to myself and no one is going to open the door for me. Cursing the fact that I have to go around the house using a walker like an old guy, I manage to get to the front door and pull it open.

A delivery guy from Edible Arrangements stands on the doorstep holding a box.

“Evan Carmichael?” he asks, staring at a palm held device.

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