“I do, and thank you. I appreciate that.” I take a deep breath. “I’m just glad the holidays are over.” Moving to a chair in the lobby, I sit down.
“So how’s Zack getting along?” Nathan asks.
“Pretty well. Better than me, but I suppose he isn’t working with all the information I have, so it’s more of a normal grieving process for him. As for me, I still feel like I’m being tossed around inside a washing machine.” I stop talking and press the heel of my hand to my forehead. “I’m sorry. I’m sure you didn’t call to hear me whining about my life.”
“Actually, that’s exactly why I called.”
I laugh, and he pauses. “So you haven’t told Zack anything.”
“No. I’ve talked to him about the drunk driving because the whole world heard about that, and I told him about Alan’s cancer diagnosis but not about the affair, and I’m still not sure I ever will tell him. At least he has a good support system at school. The teachers and his coaches have been terrific.”
“That’s good to hear. Are you back at work now?”
“Yes, and it’s been good for me to get back into a routine, to have a reason to get up in the mornings.”
“It definitely helps. Just remember what I said. It will get easier. I promise.”
“I hope you’re right.”
Beyond the doors to the rink, a whistle blows, and the music blasts through the speaker system.
“Are you listening to ‘We Will Rock You?’” Nathan asks.
“Yeah. I’m at a hockey rink. Zack’s playing tonight.”
“What’s the score?”
“Three to one right now. They’re winning.”
“Good stuff,” Nathan says. “I’ll root for him.”
A few high school girls enter the community center through the main doors. It’s below freezing outside with fresh snow on the ground, but they’re wearing short skirts and ballerina flats with no socks on their feet. I watch them giggle and check their phones as they push through the inside doors to the rink.
“So you’re probably wondering why I’m calling?” Nathan asks.
“Aside from your interest in high school hockey?”
He chuckles. “Yeah. I wanted to check and see how Winston was doing. Before Christmas, you mentioned that his incision looked good, but I’d still like to see him for a final follow-up appointment, just to make sure everything’s okay.”
“Of course. Zack and I go to my mom’s place for dinner most Sundays. Are you open on weekends?”
“Not usually, but I’ll make an exception if that’s the only time you’re in town. Are you coming this Sunday?”
I pinch the bridge of my nose, struggling to remember my call schedule for the week. I’m pretty sure Sunday is open.
“Yes, that’ll work,” I say.
“Great,” he replies. “What time is good for you?”
“How about late afternoon?”
He takes a moment to check his schedule as well, then suggests I come by at four thirty.
I thank him again, end the call, and return to the game.
Late on Saturday afternoon—following a long night in the OR with a complicated hernia case—I take a nap on the sofa in the living room. I’ve just drifted off when I’m awakened by the sound of a key in the front door.
Zack walks in, but I’m so tired I don’t bother to move or get up. I continue to lie there, stretched out on my stomach with my arms wrapped around the sofa pillow.
Zack goes straight to the kitchen to get something to eat. He’s not gentle with the microwave door, which he slams shut, and then I hear the beep of the buttons and the hum of the machine when he presses start. He sets a plate down on the granite countertop with a noisy clink that echoes off the ceiling. Everything seems amplified, especially the chip bag he rips open with a vengeance. I can hear him crunching loudly.
I want to tell him to be quiet, but I let it go because I just want to keep sleeping.
He eats standing up in the kitchen, and I hear him speak softly on his cell phone to someone.
“Yeah, she’s asleep on the couch . . . no, she still hasn’t cleaned out the closet yet . . . I don’t know . . . I think she’s nuts. She won’t talk about him, and she won’t say why she hates him so much . . . he’s dead, and he can’t defend himself . . . sometimes I just want to shake her because she won’t move on. I can’t wait to get out of here in the fall. I swear to God I won’t look back.”
Stunned and hurt by how my son talks about me, I fight not to cry. I don’t know what to say to him or how to deal with this right now, so I pretend to be asleep as he leaves through the front door.
Zack doesn’t come home again that day. He texts me later to tell me he’s going to a party and plans to sleep over at a friend’s house.
I decide to give him some space until I can figure out how to deal with this in a calm way, but I’m deeply hurt and troubled by what he said on the phone. I can’t believe it. He’s never spoken that way before, with such bitter disdain for someone, at least not when I was within earshot. I feel wounded and anguished, and I worry that Alan’s death has affected him more than he’s letting on. I feel like I’m losing everything I love . . . that it’s all falling apart . . . and my house feels colder and emptier than ever.
The phone rings, and it’s Maureen. I tell her about what Zack said.
“Oh, Abbie. Teenage boys can be so insensitive sometimes,” she says, “but it doesn’t mean anything. He’s a great kid, and he loves you.”
I’m tempted to let everything spill out about Alan’s infidelity—because Maureen is one of my closest friends and so far I haven’t told her anything about his cheating—but I’m afraid Jeremy might find out, and I can’t let Zack learn about it from anyone but me, so I bite my tongue. Carla and Nathan remain my only confidants.
Maureen and I chat about other things, and then we talk about catching a movie that night with a few of the other hockey moms, since the boys are going to a party anyway.
“I’ll call Gwen,” she says, “and you can call Kate.”
“That sounds great.”
It all works out, and Maureen picks me up at six, and we meet the other gals at the theater. It really helps for me to laugh with some friends at an outrageous chick flick. It feels good to get my mind off things, at least for a little while.
Later, when I return home, Winston is waiting at the door for me. I let him out the back door, and then we curl up on the sofa together to watch the news.
Winston. Like an angel, he rests his head on my lap. I rub behind his ears.
When we finally go upstairs to bed, he jumps up and sleeps on Alan’s side, which is unusual for him, as he normally prefers his own fluffy cushion on the floor.
I like how it feels to share the bed again, even if it’s only with my dog. I suspect Winston knows how much I appreciate it, because he’s amazingly intuitive.
The following day, Zack and I get into the car to drive to my mother’s house for the afternoon. As soon as we’re outside the city, I feel ready to bring up what I overheard him say on the phone the day before, although I don’t want him to know that I eavesdropped.
I glance across at him. He’s staring down at his phone, texting.
“How was the party last night?” I ask.
He finishes what he’s doing, then looks up at me. “What?”
I repeat the question.
“It was okay. And it wasn’t really a party. There were only twelve of us.”
“I see. So enlighten me. If twelve doesn’t qualify as a party, what number does?”
He thinks about that for a few seconds. “Oh, I don’t know. Twenty? Twenty-five?”
He leans forward and switches on the radio.
“Listen, Zack,” I say, turning the volume down slightly. “I wonder if we could talk about something.”
“Sure.” He gazes out the window.
I clear my throat and dive straight to the point. “Remember when you came home yesterday afternoon and you thought I was asleep on the couch?”
He turns toward me and frowns, but I continue, undaunted.
“I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but I heard some of the things you said when you were talking on the phone, and I was really hurt. I had no idea you felt that way.”
“What are you talking about?” he asks, and I sense he’s about to deny everything.
“I heard you say that you were disappointed that I haven’t removed your father’s things from my closet, and that you think I hate him—which I don’t—and that I’m not moving forward like I should be, and that you can’t wait to move out in the fall. Is that true?”
His cheeks flush red, and he stares at me with a look of pure horror.
“I’m not angry, honey. I just want to talk about it, because I hate to think that you’re unhappy at home. Or that you think I’m nuts. If there’s anything you want to ask me, I promise I’ll answer it honestly.”
His eyebrows pull together with alarm. Finally, he speaks. “Mom. I never came home yesterday.”
I dart a glance at him. “What do you mean? Yes, you did. You made yourself something to eat, and then you left again.”