Page 71 of Goalie Lessons

Kayla, the sister I’ve never met—hardly even heard Josh talk about—is going to try and use hisgraveas leverage to take the girls away from me? After she was the one who lost them in the first place.

I don’t realize I’ve brought my hand up, rubbing it in circles on my chest, until a shot of pain shoots through the bone, which is tender and sore from the pressure.

“So…what can I do?” I finally ask, thinking Ms. Clearing is waiting for me to say something.

“Well.” She pauses, and the moment hangs heavily between us, my heart thudding into the space between this and whatever she says next, the anxiety washing up and leaving behind a sticky, greasy residue over my lungs.

“I suppose that depends on what you want, Mr. O’Connor. I’m not going to lie to you—custody battles are never a pleasant experience. And the state typically chooses to side with family, keeping the kids with their blood relations. However, given the circumstances, if you were to fight for it, you may have a decent chance of winning.”

My throat bobs, and the phone feels slick in my hand, starting to slide against my ear. I reposition it, try to picture that hike with Astrid again, but it’s slipping away, too weak to keep front of mind. The anxiety in my chest pushes up against the bottom of my heart, which starts to thud along a little more erratically.

“If I fight for it,” I say, lips feeling numb. “If I fight for custody. Against their aunt.”

“That is correct,” Ms. Clearing says. “I’m under hire from Joshua Welch, not his sister, but it would be pertinent for you to find another lawyer, should you wish to file a motion against Kayla Welch. My primary goal is to best support Calliope and Athena, but I wanted to alert you to the movement here, in case you were interested in knowing your options. I have some legal contacts I can send over to you, if you’d like to speak with counsel about your next steps.”

Maybe I’m reading into it—maybe there’s really nothing under the cold, professional shell of her words—but it almost feels like shewantsme to fight for the girls. Like she might also secretly believe the girls going right back to Kayla would be a bad move.

Pushing up off the wall, I realize an anxiety attack is settling in. I hurry to get the words out before I’m too sick.

“That would be great,” I push through my teeth. “Because I definitely plan to fight.”

***

“I’ll be taking some observations on the effectiveness of sensory intervention on anxiety,” Astrid says, glancing over at me. The way her eyes catch on me, I wonder if she can tell that I had an anxiety attack in my hotel room this morning, slumping down against the wall while breathing hard.

It was like the harder I tried to stop it, the harder and faster it came on.

We’re standing in the center of an indoor Minneapolis farmer's market, people bustling around us, laughing and carrying canvas bags along with them. Astrid is wearing another thick, knitted sweater, and this time, I don’t resist the urge to touch her, wanting to clear my mind of the thoughts from my attack this morning.

I reach out and pinch the sweater between my thumb and finger, catching Astrid’s eyes as I do. Our gazes hold for a second, and I ask, “Like this?”

“Yeah,” she says, and I don’t miss the slight hitch there, the weight to her gaze. “Exactly. Tactile.”

We turn together and enter the flow of other shoppers, stopping to look at the booths. Inside the warehouse, it smells like roasting nuts—cinnamon and cloves, straight Christmas, even though it’s not quite Thanksgiving yet. We pass an area filled with tiny pine trees decorated for the season. We walk quietly, going by candle makers and stacks of wreaths, bottles of dried spices, hand-knit clothing.

“Where did you find these sweaters?” I ask, darting a glance at her. The one she’s wearing today is a deep emerald green, featuring little trees in a line across the front. It’s snug against her chest but looser around the waist. She’s wearing the same beanie from last night, and her hair curls slightly where it peeks out from under the cap.

Every time I look over and see her beside me, I just want to loop my arms around her waist, haul her up against me.

“Thrifted them,” she says, side-stepping around a woman with a huge stroller. When she meets my eyes again, she adds, “Why, you want one?”

“Sure.” For some reason, the idea of matching with Astrid makes my chest do something funny. In fact, nothing in my body can act normally around her. “I’d like that.”

“Thrifting could be a good outlet for touch, too,” Astrid says, as we approach a stand of winter vegetables. “Pick up that spinach.”

I dart a look at the farmer on the other side of the stand, talking to someone about the stacks of ruby red pomegranate. Slowly, I pick up the spinach, then look at Astrid.

“You have to really dial in for it to work,” she says. “This week, I’ll have you focus on tactile intervention, and we’ll gather information the same way, checking in each night. So?”

“So?” I parrot, raising an eyebrow, not really sure what I’m supposed to do, but feeling silly with the bundle of spinach in my hand.

“What does itfeellike?”

As if her words have shifted my brain, my consciousness moves into my hand, and suddenly, I’m dialed into the greens in my hand. “Waxy,” I say, shaking it a bit. “A little wet, but still firm. Crunchy.”

“That’s good. We’ll move around here, and you can practice with different items.”

Before we go, I flag down the farmer and buy the spinach, as well as two pomegranates for the girls. I wonder if they’ve ever had them before, if Josh’s family served them around the holidays. My mom used to make a fruit salad with the little pomegranate pearls inside.

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