Page 17 of Back On Ice

“That sounds amazing, Mom. Thanks.” Sitting at the table, I watch as she hums along with the song that’s playing from the small radio on the counter. A minute later, she’s placing two meals in front of us.

“I’m feeling… nostalgic today,” she admits, sitting at the table across from me. “Bertha left the door to your old room open after she cleaned, and I found myself looking through your old stuff. Photos, trophies… the posters on the wall.” She gives a small smile. “Remember how you, Jake, and Tom used to come over and hang out here? It made the house feel so alive.”

“I do,” I tell her, then take a bite of grilled cheese. “You used to make us snacks and let us take over the TV with our video games.”

The lines around her eyes crease in a bigger smile. “Yes, and those boys always had such sweet things to say about my cooking. It was nice… before your father…” Her eyes get this far off, glassy look, and it’s clear what she’s remembering.

How everything with Dad was fine until one day, it wasn’t. He had always been a little nagging, a little controlling, but nothing too crazy. Then comments he made towards her started getting worse. More aggressive. Adamant that she made sure dinner was on the table when he got home. That the house needed to be spotless. One day, when I was a sophomore in high school, Mom burned dinner. He blew up in a rage. I realize that the abuse had been happening behind closed doors for much longer than I was aware, but as a kid, I was blissfully ignorant.

The meatloaf only burned because I had broken my arm at school and she had to rush to the hospital, completely forgetting about the food. Dad had come home to a burned dinner and an empty house, and ever since that night, things were different. We got home from the hospital to see a trashed kitchen. Broken plates on the floor, all the chairs at the table flipped over except for one, which he was sitting on, waiting for us.

The burned meatloaf was on the table and he was drumming his fingers on the wooden surface, staring us down. That was the first night he ever raised a hand to Mom in front of me. Hestopped himself before he hit her. I learned what could happen if we stepped out of line.

It was like the mask came off. He no longer tried to hide what he was capable of from me, realizing that I was less likely to stand up to him if I knew Mom would pay for it if I did.

In response to my broken arm, he only told me I was lucky it was off season for hockey, otherwise he’d have made damn sure a broken arm was the least of my worries.

“Mom…” My voice is rough as she withdraws further into herself, the memories of Dad’s abuse resurfacing. “You don’t need to be scared anymore. He’s gone.” I reach across the table and grasp one of her hands in mine. “Dad… he can’t hurt you anymore.”

“You don’t know that,” she shakes her head frantically, “he could be out there, waiting for me to show my face.”

“Mom, we talked about this. He hasn’t demanded money from me in over a year. He would never let me go so easily unless he was truly gone.”

Her brows furrow as my words sink in. “He hasn’t… he hasn’t asked for money in that long?” At my nod, a whoosh of air leaves her. “That’s… that’s good.”

“I want you to go out and live your life, Mom. Maybe enroll in an art class. Remember how much you used to love painting? You could catch up with your friends. You know Tom’s son, Jordan? He’s ten now, and I’m working with him on the ice. You should come to some games.”

Her eyes light up at the mention of Jordan. “Oh, I remember Jordan! He was such an adorable baby, and you and Sophie were both so sweet with him.” She seems to have instantly snapped out of her funk about Dad because she gives me a sly smile. “Have you seen her since you’ve been back? She’s only gotten more beautiful over the last nine years. Remember how I said I went to the grocery store the other day? I was leaving, but Iglimpsed her walking into the store when I was pulling out of my parking spot.”

“I—” I shake my head, opting not to tell her just how horribly our last two encounters have gone. Nevermind not wanting to relive having my balls handed to me on a silver platter courtesy of a verbal lashing delivered by Sophie. “It doesn’t matter, Mom. She’s probably moved on, and that is for the best.”

“It is not for the best, Carter Joseph Williams!” Mom looks at me with a spark in her eyes I haven’t seen before. “What you two had back then, that was true love, I know it was. You never give up on true love.”

Mom’s not wrong. What Sophie and I had… I don’t know if I could ever find something like that with anyone else. Or that I would want to.

The parking lot of the rec center is empty when I pull up at four fifty, save for a white pickup truck and rust red, beat up sedan. Sophie and the contractor must already be here. The rink closes at four on Sundays, giving us the perfect opportunity to do a walkthrough without having to dodge the rec center patrons.

The contractor, a middle-aged and balding man with a bit of a belly, is standing in front of the doors to the center, shaking hands with Sophie.

“...The manager of the rinks. Nice to meet you, Mr. Henderson.” Her voice is calm and a professional smile is plastered on her face.

“Please, call me George,” he says, then glances at me as I approach, quickly dropping Sophie’s hand. “Mr. Williams! Itreally is you! I’m a huge fan.” Sophie rolls her eyes and glares in my direction.

“Carter,” I reach out my hand to shake his, “a pleasure to meet you in person, George. Shall we?” I motion to the building, and the three of us make our way to the rinks. On the way over, I go over the scope of the project while Sophie is eerily silent. The walk-thru is… awkward, to say the least. Not that George notices. He has his clipboard out, making notes of what needs repairs, then offers suggestions for remodeling.

Sophie and I walk behind him, answering questions and pointing out things that need updating. Despite the fact that she keeps as much space between us as possible, I can practically feel the heat radiating off her.

Sometimes I sense her eyes on me, but when I turn, she’s looking somewhere else.

“How long has it been since the wirings been updated?” George asks, tapping his clipboard. His eyes are on me, but I have no idea.

“1976,” Sophie clips out, “which we didn’t know until recently.”

George lets out a surprised sound, then jots something down on his board. “You mentioned issues with the cooling system under the rinks as well?”

Again, I have no idea what the answer to that is. Thank goodness I have Sophie here with me. “Yes,” she says, not looking at me. “We have to set the temp to around five degrees, even though the ice itself is around twenty. It uses way more power than if we had a system that works, and it runs up the electric bill.”

“Might be the out of date wiring…” George muses. “Though I’m going to take a guess and say that the cooling system hasn’t been replaced since?—”

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