15. Rook
Chapter fifteen
Rook
The smell of freshly baked cookies weaves its way through the house to reach me in the den. I inhale deeply while trying to finish the last question of my math homework. I’ve been so focused on practicing my stick handling this week after the coach called me out at training last weekend that I had forgotten all about the Maths pop quiz Mrs Rider warned us about on Monday.
I spend every moment I can after school in the driveway of our rickety two-bedroom house, moving the puck back and forth. Every time I miss the puck, it slams into the wall of the house and bits of plaster flutter to the concrete. I have to make sure that it’s cleaned up before my father gets home.
Most nights, Mom will let me go until the streetlights come on, then she’ll come out, try to steal my stick and end up wrestling me into a headlock, rubbing her knuckles on my head and ruffling up my hair.
“Mom!” I yell with a small laugh. I love when she comes out and mucks around with me.
I will do whatever I have to, to show Coach I’m getting better and to not get yelled at in front of the team again. I hate being called out. It makes my insides churn and I feel sick. I get a similar feeling when my father comes home from one of his work trips. A feeling of worry, like I can’t control anything around me. I like it better when it’s just Mom and me. Those days, I can keep her safe.
“Come on, min elskling, time for supper.” Leaning around the corner of the door, her long blond hair cascades down, her bright blue eyes glittering with the mischief. She’s always looking at me like that. “You will go cross-eyed if you keep looking so closely at all those numbers.” Mom only speaks Norwegian when my father isn’t around. He hates her using another language. I think it’s because he’s dumb and doesn’t understand her.
“I have to get this finished by the morning or Mrs Rider will kick me out of class again.”
She crosses the room and crouches behind where I’m sitting cross-legged on the floor. Gripping both my shoulders and leaning her face over my left shoulder, she looks over the work I’ve sloppily completed.
“You are meant for great things, min elskling. Much more than silly eighth grade math, no matter what Mrs Rider tells you. Come and eat and then I will sit with you and we will work this out together.” She tilts my face towards hers, giving me a kiss on the cheek before jumping back up. “Come, come. It will get cold.”
I follow her to the kitchen, and together we sit at the small yellow crackled laminate table. The table is so old that the rubber foot on one leg has fallen off. My mother has wrapped it in tinfoil with some cardboard propped underneath to stop it from wobbling.
This is our favorite place to eat, her and I together, sharing whatever she has spent the afternoon making. My mother is an incredible cook and even though I pretend to complain, I will always scoff down whatever she puts in front of me and usually go back for seconds.
As I sit in my seat, she lifts the lid off the pot in the center of the table. The smell of the familiar meat and vegetable stew wafts towards me.
“Lapskaus again!” I whine, laughing when she throws a fresh bread roll at me.
“Shush, you, or tomorrow it will be Lutefisk.” Her face lights up with her joke while mine screws up at the thought of the stinky dried fish.
We finish our dinner talking about our day. I tell her all about the hockey camp I hope to attend in the fall if Coach thinks I’m good enough. I have so much practice to do before then, I’ll continue to practice night and day if I have to.
Gathering the plates off the table, I help with the dishes. Mom turns on the radio in the kitchen before making her way to the sink. Old love songs play. Washing, humming as she goes to whatever song comes over the radio. She seems to know them all. When Elvis comes on, that’s it. “Suspicious Minds”, “Blue Suede Shoes”, they all demand an immediate stop to all current activities, to be replaced with dancing and singing. “Can’t Help Falling in Love” is her favorite. She sings all the words and sometimes we dance slow like they do in the movies. She pretends to let me lead, and I try hard not to step on her toes.
When the song ends, we finish the dishes to the sound of her humming and then she joins me in the den, bringing me two cookies to eat while we work on the last of my math homework.
Mom tucks me into bed and kisses me goodnight. I lay there upset that my homework made us too late to read together like we normally do. I’m dying to finish the last few chapters of Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone . Harry is about to confront You Know Who. I tell none of my friends that Mom and I still read together each night, or that we dance in the kitchen together. They would make fun of me, but I do it because it makes her smile.
I will never admit to anyone that I secretly love it too. Drifting off to the sound of her low hums that filter up from the lounge room.
The sound of smashing glass wakes me up. It’s dark outside, but the streetlamp causes a faint glow across my room. I can see the hallway light through the crack underneath the door. Someone must still be awake.
Slipping out of bed and avoiding all the floorboards that I know creak, I maneuver my way across the room like a secret agent on a mission. Bracing one hand on the door, pressing my weight forward to help the lock open more quietly, I gently turn the doorknob. I peer through the crack, making sure the coast is clear, before creeping out onto the landing.
Skulking, I make my way down each step again, missing any that might give away my position. I pause part way when the light continues to get brighter, and I can just peek through the railing to see into the kitchen. My mother’s on her hands and knees with the dustpan, sweeping up a broken whiskey bottle, hunched over, her hair covering her face. I almost run to help her, but a voice stops me in my tracks.
“See what the fuck you made me do? Perfectly aged whiskey ruined because you can’t keep your mouth shut.”
“I’m sorry, I was just trying to ask what you needed for work tomorrow before I went to bed.” My mother’s voice sounds weak and frightened, not like earlier when she joked with me over dinner or sung as we danced.
“Now you’re going to make it up to me. Put that mouth to fucking use for a change.” The tinkle of the metal on my father’s belt has my mother raising her head, piercing blue eyes rimmed with red snapped toward me sitting on the staircase.
Gone are the sparkling, mischievous eyes that I love. What remains is only scared and hollow. A quick but small shake of her head directed at me, warning me not to save her, is all she manages before my father steps towards her and backhands her across the face.
I scream as I awake covered in sweat. Running to the bathroom, I land on my hands and knees and empty the contents of my stomach in the bowl. I fall back against the wall and lean my head back against the cold tiles, trying to get as much skin as possible to touch the cool ceramic to help bring me back to reality.
I check my watch: five am. Good, not too early to go for a run cause I know I won't be able to go back to sleep. I grab sweatpants and a hoodie out of one of the many cardboard boxes that litter my apartment, still unpacked even though I moved in months ago. I throw them and grab my keys, phone, and headphones before letting the door slam closed behind me.
I nod at the doorman before making my way through the sliding doors, slipping in my earbuds and turning on the heaviest playlist I can find. I need to drown everything out.
The Chicago air is brisk. Winter is well and truly here. The early morning air creates a fog puff with every exhale as I begin my jog through the city. I start slow, warming my muscles correctly and not relying on the adrenaline of the nightmare to push me forward. I increase my pace to match the tempo of the music, pushing my legs until they burn. Morning skate will suck later, but there’s no way I can sit in that empty apartment and wait for the sun to rise.
As the panic subsides, I glance at my watch: ten miles. I’ll definitely pay for this later. Looking around, I realize I have no idea where I am. I guess that’s what happens when you try to outrun your problems.
I use the GPS on my phone to guide me back to my apartment, which takes less time than I expect: apparently I had the subconscious thought to run in a loop. Within fifteen minutes, I’m standing under a steady stream of hot water. Resting my head against the tiles, running my brain through today’s schedule, anything to keep my thoughts off last night’s nightmare.
One more season and I can finally head home.