Page 15 of Taking It To Overtime
“Hey,” he said, once they both had their feet under them, “Save the hip checks for the game.”
She didn’t need to check anyone during the hour they smacked a rubber ball around the cul-de-sac. The twins couldn’tstay much longer than that, anyway. Robbie carefully clipped her borrowed roller blades on her feet, velcroed her knee and elbow pads around her joints, and then hauled her upright. She wobbled like a baby deer, but she didn’t fall—something Robbie only paid attention to because he offered the crook of his arm just in case and she never took it. Her stick handling was worse than the rec league kindergarteners, but she stuck it out, even sending a sideways pass into the Corning’s driveway instead of the small plastic goal.
The hat was a non-issue once they got a hockey helmet on her, something Robbie insisted on after she got hit with the first pass.
“I don’t just like your freckles,” he said, watching her pull a purple scrunchie out of her dark red hair so the helmet would buckle. “I like your hair too.”
“Why?” She frowned. “It’s just brown like yours.”
It wasn’t brown, at least not at all like his. Her hair reminded him of cherry coke, the kind made with the bright red syrup at the diner downtown. In the right light it gleamed red. Dark like the ruby ring his grandma wore on her thumb.
The twins won, because of course they did, easy to do when both of them not only knew how to move on the in-line skates. Robbie was also pretty sure twin telepathy was a real thing. Vera had a knack for being in the right place at the right time, so it wasn’t a total wash, and Robbie didn’t mind the score because he still got to play.
“Sorry we lost,” Vera said as she handed back her gear, sweat sticking her hair up at odd angles. “Next time, maybe you can team up with Vic or Erik. If they’re willing to split up.”
It would have been a harder sell to get either of the twins to partner with Vera, especially knowing the final score would be in the other team’s favor, but Robbie didn’t care about any of that.
“Nah,” he said. Robbie slung an arm around Vera’s bony shoulder—he’d never done that before, either, just laced their fingers together, but this was nice—and pulled her in for a lopsided hug. “They can keep each other. I’ll pick you every time.”
“Really?”
He counted the little brown freckles in the center of her green eyes. One, two, three, four, five. One, two, three.
“Yes.” He nodded, never more sure of anything in his ten years of life. “You and me against anyone.”
“Areyou sure this is the right place?” My ride slows down at the turn into Shady Brook Acres. The sign is a brick monstrosity with curling gilded script and oil rubbed bronze lamps that are meant more for ambience than actual lighting. The car creeps to an almost stop.
“I’m visiting,” I say and the driver nods, honey blonde ponytail swishing against her headrest.
“Good,” she picks up speed, following the long, tree-shaded driveway to the main building. “I was gonna say I don’t think you fit the vibe here, but the suitcases had me second guessing.”
She’d referring to the gold letters announcing Shady Brook as a “Continuing Care Retirement Community.”
It threw me for a loop when my dad first told me my parents were moving in about a year ago. The apartments are technically open to anyone over fifty-five, but even at sixty, my mom and dad are on the younger age for residents. I’d told them if it was money, not to worry about cost—I’d finance anything they might need—but my dad was adamant that it was the right thing for them.
They didn’t need all the space; he said. Shady Brook would transition from independent care to assisted to nursing as needed. When that comment sent me into a tizzy about their mortality, Dad promised they were just thinking long term.Nothing to worry about, just less space to clean and a social life came included with residency. When their moving date coincided with a big shoot for Cooper Wells, I hired the best moving company I could find and promised a two-hundred percent tip if they delivered every single item fully intact and left my folks happy with their service.
I sign in at the front desk and check the time on my watch. It’s already early afternoon, so it’s likely my parents will be in their apartment. My dad likes to watch the sports network after lunch while my mom reads.
“Don’t worry,” I say to the slack-jawed woman behind the counter, “I’m not moving in, but my hotel check-in isn’t until three, so,” I gesture to my luggage. “It’s just visiting too.”
“You’re Vera Novak,” she says, the words falling out of her mouth like she was desperately trying to hold them back and they slipped the leash.
“I am?” I make a production of looking over my shoulder and around the empty lounge area. “Wow. Today must be my lucky day.”
“So Arthur and Cecilia are…”
“My mom and dad, yes. Lucky me.” I wink.
I should definitely visit more. My parents don’t advertise who I am for their own privacy and peace of mind, but it shouldn’t be this surprising to a woman who literally checks-in guests. That’s embarrassing on my account. I can pull up my big girl panties and fly out here more than once every decade and a half.
My parents’ apartment is in the back building. It makes sense when they’re more mobile than most of the other residents. The constant reminder of retirement isn’t as prominent in the annex. There’s a separate entrance, a balcony or patio for each unit, laundry and a gym. It’s more like a standard apartment building and I recognize the Aster flower wreath my mother has hangingfrom the door knocker. The same one she’s been hanging since we bought it together at the closest HomeGoods when I was thirteen. I smooth my hair down and rap my knuckles against the green metal.
“Coming,” my mother calls from inside, and my heart rate picks up as I hear her shuffle closer. The lock tumbles and there’s a faint squeak of the hinges as my mom pulls the door open and then we’re staring face-to-face.
Mom and I have the same eyes and freckles, although mine clearly multiplied when I inherited them. Her hair is cropped short, just like all my memories, the graying strands curling around the base of her ears. She has the most beautiful waves when it’s long. When I was little, she let me brush and braid it, the strands so different from the pin-straight hair I inherited from Dad.
“Can I help you?” Mom asks and I can see the realization hit her that it’s me, not a stranger, standing at her door in the middle of the day.
