Page 44 of Goalie Lessons

From the shower, there’s a soft shuffling sound, and I realize it’s Callie, crying. I look up at the ceiling, ignore the wave of tears behind my eyes, and speak.

“You know,” I say, “I was a late bloomer. Didn’t get my period until I was sixteen.”

“…Really?”

“Yeah. I was. I was so afraid that it wasn’t going to happen for me. That something was wrong. Can you believe that the day I finally got it, I cried because I was so happy?”

She snorts. “No. My mom always said it sucked.”

“It does.” I toe at the bathmat, flipping it up and watching as it rolls back flat. “Itdoessuck, but that’s like a lot of stuff in life. You know like, when you get a stuffy nose, and you realize you should have been happier when you could breathe okay?”

Callie says, “Yeah. I get what you mean. I just—”

She stops abruptly, like she’s keeping herself from saying the rest. I shift, wait, let the silence stretch between us. Even without a counseling certification, I know I have to wait for her to come to it herself. If I push, it might just send her right back inside herself, bottling it up.

After what must be several minutes, Callie says, her voice quiet. “I miss my aunt.”

It’s not what I was expecting to hear—but it makes sense. Callie is old enough to understand that her parents are gone, that there was nothing they could have done.

“I bet she misses you, too.”

“No,” Callie says, instantly. “She doesn’t care about usat all. She gave us away. Made us come toWisconsin.”

I press the back of my hand to my lips to keep from laughing at the venom in her voice. After a second, I say, “Can you tell me more about how she gave you away?”

“She got in trouble. She was doing drugs.”

I set my chin in my hand. “And you’re mad at her for that?”

“Yes. Mad and…I just wish…” Quiet again, another pause. Then, “I just wish she cared about us more. Enough not to do it.”

“It may not seem like it.” I cast my eyes to the ceiling, trying to find a way to explain addiction that might make sense to her. “But your aunt…she’s sick. It doesn’t excuse her actions, but I bet she really, really loves you guys. I bet she misses you a lot.”

Biting my lip, I wonder if I’ve gone too far. Asking Callie to have some empathy for the aunt who did, from her point of view, send her off to Wisconsin.

There’s a knock on the door.

“Hey,” Grayson says, her voice sounding stilted, awkward. “I—uh—I got the stuff. Should I…?”

“Just leave it outside the door,” I say. There’s the crinkle of bags, then the sound of his feet retreating again. Opening the door, I grab the bags, bring them inside, and rip into the new package of underwear.

“Callie,” I say, swallowing down how strange this situation is. “Would you like me to show you how to use a pad?”

The curtain rustles, then she pulls it back just enough to peek out. Her eyes dart from the package of underwear, then roam over the various packages laid out on the counter.

Her face goes slightly pale, then she looks back at me.

A moment passes, and I feel it—what my mother felt the day I announced I’d gotten mine. A passing of the torch. Again, I have to choke back the tears that build up behind my throat. The last thing Callie needs right now is to have to comfortme.

“I can leave,” I say, dipping my head. “Whatever makes you most comfortable.”

“I want you to show me,” she says. “Please.”

So I do, giving her a little tutorial while she stands in the shower. I demonstrate the importance of lining it up right for when you’re going to bed. I show her how to roll it up and wrap toilet paper around it when you’re done.

Grayson retrieves a pair of her pajamas, and I leave them folded on the counter.

“I’ll be downstairs if you need me,” I say, as she starts up the shower.

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