Page 33 of Vital Blindside

SCARLETT

I’m pushing a cart down the pasta aisle of the grocery store when Mom halts in front of me. She turns to the wall of pasta bags and boxes and cocks a hip.

“Spaghettini or spaghetti?”

“Is there a difference?”

An audible gasp. “Don’t let your grandfather hear you speak like that. You know how he loves our Italian roots.”

“That’s a stretch. I’m like an eighteenth Italian, Mom,” I point out, heaving a sigh.

She looks at me over her shoulder and scowls. “That’s because your father muddled your blood.”

That gives me pause. The ground shifts slightly beneath my feet.

We don’t speak about my father—ever. Scratch that, I wouldn’t even refer to him as my father at this point. As far as I’m concerned, he’s nothing more than a sperm donor. How else would you describe a man who knocked his girlfriend up and then took off only a year after she had the baby? We’re better off without him.

However, I’m not sure if I should be concerned about her sudden slip of tongue. My mom would rather drink dish soap than speak about him.

When I don’t answer, she looks back to the shelf, humming. “What about lasagna? I could put the leftovers in the freezer. You can never have too much lasagna. Right, darling?”

“Right.”

She picks up a box of lasagna noodles and places them in the cart before continuing down the aisle. I follow behind her with the cart.

“Tell me how work is going,” she says while grabbing a can of crushed tomatoes. It falls into the cart with a clang. “How is your shoulder?”

“Slow down. Which question do you want me to answer first?” I chuckle.

“Work first.”

“Okay. Willow is amazing. But we’ve spent most of this week in the gym on the treadmills, and I know she wants to get back on the ice. She’s a great sport, though. Barely ever complains about anything.”

Endurance training is definitely not her favourite—nor is it anyone’s—but she knows how important it is. It won’t matter how fast she is if she’s down for the count too early.

“She sounds like you.” She says it so casually, like it’s obvious.

“She’s going to be better than me. She nearly already is.”

Mom scoffs so loud I worry the shoppers on the other side of the store heard her. “Nobody is better than you. You’ve always been far too humble.”

“It doesn’t matter how good I was, Mom. Can we talk about something else?” Preferably before I burst into tears in the middle of this store?

The cart almost catches her heels when she stops in front of me. This time, she flips around and glares at me with a ferocity that makes me wince.

“No, we can’t. You are as stubborn as a mule, Scarlett darling. That shoulder of yours might have been the end of your career, but you are the only thing keeping you from still having a successful future. You were meant for far more than just hockey. I wish you would stop thinking less of yourself because you’ve lost that.”

My fingers tingle from how hard I’ve been squeezing the cart. Her words sink into me, claws splayed, but I shake them off before I lose hold of my emotions.

“We need milk, right? I’ll go get it,” I say in a rush. Mom starts to protest, but I’m already leaving her and the cart behind.

My head is in shambles as I stalk through the store, keeping my eyes on the floor. I will away the burn behind them.

It’s easy for my mother to say all of this. It’s easy for everyone who has never felt this kind of loss before. Like a piece of you is just gone, disappeared into nothingness, leaving you empty and questioning where to go from here.

It isn’t as simple as it seems to just move on. Her heart might be in the right place, but it doesn’t really matter.

I quickly grab the milk before heading back. Worry is a prick in my stomach on the way. Mom has been doing fine on her own so far, but the potential of something happening to her when I’m not there is starting to become an issue. I’m half in my head all the time, questioning whether or not she’s okay.

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