Still, on a night like tonight, it would be nice. Not just to relax, but to celebrate and commemorate. It truly is the end of an era.
Since Jake was small, our lives have run in seasons dictated by sports. Football, basketball, baseball, repeat. But Jake has already announced he won’t be playing baseball, and even though he’ll play college basketball, it won’t be the same. His uniforms won’t be washed in our machine, and games will require more travel—more expense, more time off work—than we can afford. So no more rides with Luke. No more watching the way even opposing fans sigh at the perfection of Jake’s fadeaway.
Before Jake was born, I didn’t know what a fadeaway was. But when you love somebody, you learn to find the beauty in the things they love as you see the world through their eyes. Or you try, anyway. You do the best you can.
I swallow both pills.
As I pull my hair back and close the medicine cabinet, the staccato of a knock sounds at the front door. I pad toward the entry, wondering if Jake has lost his key.
Coach Braithwaite’s wife. Gentle and smiling and holding a platter with a small cake on top, coconut flakes sprinkled across its whorls of icing.
I push open the screen door, searching my memory for her first name, heavy with guilt at the way I immediately identify her only in relation to him.
“Come in, come in,” I say, hoping repetition and a warm tone will somehow compensate for the lack of a first name.
“I can’t stay,” she says. “It’s far past my bedtime. I just wanted to drop by and offer congratulations.”
She holds out the platter, and I take it from her, smiling and grateful and certainly not about to tell her that Jake hates coconut. “Thank you,” I say. “He’s not back yet, but I’ll make sure he gets it.”
“Oh, no,” she says, her eyes wide with surprise. “The cake is for you. You deserve to celebrate tonight. I’ll be quite pleased if you don’t share a bit. It’s only big enough for one, and that’s not by accident.” She pulls her coat tighter around herself. “I know what it’s like to wear yourself out making someone else’s dreams come true. You’ve been the support staff for the town hero. And, my dear, you have always done it with remarkable patience and grace.”
I am struck nearly speechless. I never realized how invisible I’d become until this tiny old woman stood before me and actually saw me.
“Thank you,” I say again, knowing there are no other words that will be close to enough.
I stay at the door until her taillights disappear around the turn. Then I sit at the kitchen table with one fork, one glass of milk, and the whole cake on its beautiful platter. If I have carried the stress of all those seasons, maybe a small part of the celebration does belong to me too.
Soon I find myself scrolling through the photographs on my phone and watching the video clips I’ve recorded, marveling at the beauty of this boy of mine playing the game he loves.
It hurts to see the worry on his face in so many of the shots. No denying it’s been a rough year. Slipping grades, inconsistent on the court, tired and irritable at home. There have been days when I barely recognize him. I study the screen, wishing I could wipe that worry away, waiting for the moment when he will come through the door and we can celebrate this together and maybe even have something of a fresh start. He may not like coconut, but there’s chocolate–peanut butter ice cream—his favorite—in the freezer.
But the whole team was invited to a party at Seth’s, and all the parents agreed there’s no curfew for state champions—especially if they’re safe at the coach’s house. So I wrap the other half of the cake to save for tomorrow and leave a note on the counter for him.
So proud of you. I hope you had fun tonight, because you deserve it. Wake me up when you get home, okay?
Love,
Mom
I stop by Luke’s room and snap off his lamp but not before noticing what he’d been reading until he grew too tired to turn off the lamp himself: Astrophysics for People in a Hurry.
I smile to myself. Luke is a good athlete, but he will likely never receive the same kind of recognition Jake got tonight. He may never excel in an exceedingly public arena. But he too is bright and beautiful, and in that moment it is okay with me if I’m the only one to see it.
There are few nights I can fall asleep without the nagging presence of tasks left undone or the lingering worry that as a teacher or a parent I could have done more. But tonight, I fall hard and fast into a truly deep sleep, undisturbed by dreams in the wake of the one that has come true.
—
By the next morning, though, the glow of victory has given way to the forgotten relics of reality: the sooty remnants of melted street snow from the bottoms of our shoes, a sink full of dishes, and an inexplicable sheaf of blank notebook paper strewn across the table.
Of course Luke is up, mouthing along with an episode of The Clone Wars he’s watched so many times that even I can recite half the lines.
“Luke,” I bark. “Come clean up this paper and start on the dishes. I’ve got to mop the floor.”
“It’s not my mess,” he says, not even looking away from the screen.
“Doesn’t matter,” I say. “I asked you to clean it up, so come clean it up.”
He turns off the TV and starts gathering the papers in a neat pile, grumbling about Jake owing him.
“You worry about you, and I’ll worry about Jake,” I say, even though I’m not the least bit worried
