Chapter 12 Claire
CLAIRE
“Too much space, Caldwell! Shadow her!”
The shout—the voice—is so unexpected that I nearly stumble, recovering my balance at the last possible second before pressing closer to Reyna, who’s searching for a yellow pinnie to pass to.
Otto has worked with Daniela and Kristin individually. Post-practice, the Siege goalies have reported to curious teammates (while I eavesdropped) that he wasn’t “chatty.”
Which was weird. Because the Otto I know—knew—always had a lot to say. Well, almost always.
Maybe he’s assuming a new persona as a coach. More likely, he’s too preoccupied mourning the unexpected end of his own season and stressing about his recovery to bother with small talk.
I wish I didn’t know that. I wish I’d kept running that morning along the Charles.
His problems aren’t my problems. He’s one of my coaches.
And, worst of all, he acts like our conversation never happened, essentially ignoring me ever since.
He didn’t even bother to congratulate me after Sunday’s scrimmage.
I contributed, in part, to Daniela’s shutout, letting hardly anyone past, and no acknowledgment.
He talked to Coach Taylor and Coach Green, signed a few dozen autographs, and left.
It’s what I wanted. What I asked for. And it’s pissing me off.
“Challenge Rodman, Caldwell!”
I grind my molars, fighting to stay focused and to not flip Otto off.
I was debating pressing closer to Reyna. Guarding someone is a delicate dance. Too close, and you risk fouling or allowing a fast pivot to leave you behind. Too far, and you allow them too much space and time to strategize a next move.
Unfortunately, Otto is correct. I’m not close enough, and the only reason Reyna hasn’t passed is that my fellow defenders are marking better than I am.
I strike, catching the ball and sprinting ahead as soon as I feel it settle in the sweet spot of my foot. I boot it ahead to Mallory, and she dribbles up the field to attack Kristin’s goal.
Jogging back to position, I glance at Otto. He should be tracking Mallory, but he’s looking at me. Our eyes catch, and he nods.
A nod. That’s all. No smile. No praise. But I don’t need either. I’d rather he act like this, noting what I should have done all along. Acting as if excellence is what he expects from me.
And it hits me then—I like having him here.
I look away as soon as the thought strikes, worried he’ll see it on my face. And refocus on the scrimmage, where my attention should have been all along.
Otto calls out more corrections as the scrimmage continues. I was teasing, trying to lighten his mood, when I told him he wasn’t a terrible coach. But I meant it. He’s a really good one actually.
Some players make great coaches; some struggle with instructing others.
The most talented players tend to make the worst coaches.
They have a legacy to protect, they’re accustomed to being the center of attention, and they’re frustrated by players who can’t perform at the same level they did. I placed Otto in that second category.
I was wrong, I decide, as he continues to call out feedback. By the time practice ends, he’s commented on every single player on the field.
Otto—Coach Berger—didn’t single me out again, and I try not to fixate on what it means that he focused on me first. I also attempt to ignore how this was one of the best practice performances I’ve had in a while.
I’ve always struggled with compartmentalizing. Some players suit up and are immediately in the zone. My brain has never worked that way.
Today, I was locked in. And it showed. After practice ends, Coach Taylor stops me to praise today’s performance.
In the locker room, Mallory comments, “Caldy, you were on fire today,” before tossing her sweaty jersey toward the hamper.
“Had an extra cup of coffee this morning,” I say, busy digging through my bag for my phone.
I played the best soccer of my life in Paris.
I wasn’t reckless then, but I took more risks than I tend to take now.
I’ve used being younger as an excuse for why my career hasn’t improved from that point.
Based on today, I should have given being in love with Otto more credit.
He believed in me then, more than I believed in myself, and some of that faith appears to have survived the past six years.
I want to be the player he sees, not the one who’s mediocre more often than not.
“What brand of beans are you brewing these days?” Reyna wonders, making Tasha laugh.
I smile and shake my head, finally locating my cell at the bottom of my duffel.
There are no new messages from Cassidy, so I don’t need to rush to Little Red Wagon.
Now that she’s working full-time and my soccer schedule has gotten more hectic, Cassidy hired a babysitter to pick Tommy up and watch him until she gets home. I’m simply a backup.
I don’t have anything from my sister, but I do have a missed call and a voicemail from Echo Glen. I raise the phone to my ear, gnawing nervously on my thumbnail.
“Do you think Coach Berger’s going to be like that from now on?” Savannah asks, dropping dramatically on the bench.
Whatever Tasha replies has the whole locker room laughing, but I’m distracted by the voicemail. I drop my phone back in my bag and toss my cleats on top, hastily shoving my feet into my untied sneakers.
“What’s wrong?” Reyna asks, noticing my haste.
“Nothing’s wrong,” I lie quickly. “I just forgot about an…appointment. See you guys tomorrow.”
“You didn’t even change!” Reyna calls after me.
I’m already out the door, mentally plotting the fastest route to Echo Glen.
The trip to Duxbury takes a full hour, thanks to afternoon traffic. There were closer—and cheaper—care facility options, but Mom’s neurologist recommended Echo Glen most highly.
I silently pray, as I park and rush toward the automatic doors that lead inside the main building, that I didn’t make a mistake.
Mom’s primary nurse, Maggie, is waiting in the lobby. Her sympathetic expression makes me think I look as harried and stressed as I feel. “You didn’t need to come all this way, honey.”
“I don’t mind.” The words exit in a rush.
Maggie glances at my feet. I do too. My shoelaces are snarled and stained with mud, still untied. Her expression settles into the same kind concern Mrs. Combs would display when I picked up Tommy late.
“How is she?” I ask.
“She’s fine. This is an adjustment period. There will be many more as her condition progresses. You asked me to keep you updated, so I was just letting you know she’d been asking about you.”
I nod. “Thank you. She’s in her apartment? I can go up and see her?”
“Of course. You remember the way to her room?”
“I do. Thanks.”
Maggie reaches out and squeezes my arm. “There’s the call button right by the front door if you need anything. I’ll stop by in a half hour or so to check in. Book club is at four, if she feels like participating.”
I thank Maggie, then continue down the hallway. There’s an elevator, but Mom’s room is only on the second floor. I opt for the stairs instead, pausing at the first step to knot my sneakers’ dirty laces.
The carpet that runs the length of the hallway is a cheerful blue, the exact shade as the sky on a sunny day.
Yellow walls are barely visible beneath the display of artwork created by residents.
I toured five facilities before putting Mom’s name down here.
It wasn’t just the neurologist’s recommendation.
Echo Glen reminded me most of a home. Of a community, not a glorified hospital.
Mom’s door is the last one, a corner unit. I suck in a deep breath, hating the apprehension that appears. This is my mom, the person who knows me better than anyone else. That version of her remains, always, even when she acts differently.
I knock before punching in the code that unlocks the door.
Mom has a key to use herself, but each apartment has an auto-locking mechanism that can be deactivated by staff in case of an emergency.
Or an unannounced visit. Since I can hear music playing inside the apartment, I doubt Mom can hear me knocking.
“Mom?” I call loudly, shutting the door behind me and toeing off my sneakers in the entryway.
No answer.
I continue walking, rounding the corner.
The apartment’s layout is simple. A living area connects to the dining room, then continues to a small kitchen.
The bedroom and attached bathroom are across from it.
It came partially furnished, the decoration a mix of generic and Mom’s favorites we brought from the house.
I pause by the CD player to lower the volume of her favorite Tom Petty song.
“I’m working, Claire,” Mom says, not glancing up.
“I see that,” I reply, approaching the dining room table, which she has converted into an office.
Piles of papers cover every available inch of the wood—some printed text, some handwritten.
Mom’s huddled at one end, jabbing her laptop keys with a voracity that has her loose curls bouncing in time with each tap.
She sighs when I press a kiss to the top of her head, reaching up to pat my hand with hers. “I guess I could take a quick break. Tea?”
“Tea sounds great,” I reply, lifting a couple of notebooks off a chair and setting them carefully on the floor.
Mom leaps up with an agility I’m envious of, bustling around her kitchen with brisk efficiency. I take a seat, wincing when one of the table legs connects with a bruise on my shin.
“I made you shamomalay,” Mom says, setting a steaming cup down in front of me.
My eyes sting as she purposefully mispronounces it, the same way I did when I was younger. “Thanks, Mom.”
Her nose wrinkles as she sits back down in front of her laptop. “You smell, Claire.”
I let out a watery laugh. “I know. Sorry. I came straight from practice.”
“Did you have fun?” Mom asks, lifting and lowering the tea bag in her mug.
The question she posed when she picked me up from my first summer camp and every time after. Never, Did you score? or, Did you win? A gift I especially appreciated when I called her on my way home from Paris, when it felt like I’d let everyone down. Mom never made me feel like I let her down.
I hope I still haven’t. Here, she’s surrounded by stability.
By routines and activities and specialists and other things I couldn’t provide.
Mom was adamant about this move when she first received her diagnosis.
But planning ahead was different from it actually happening. From me having to make the decision.
“Claire?”
When I look up, she’s focused on me, not her tea or her laptop.
“I did,” I answer, recalling her question. “It was the best practice I’ve had in a while actually.”
Otto’s presence during practice was a reminder of the player I’m capable of being. Soccer involves constantly shifting factors. Teammates, coaches, opponents, refs? Those can all change. But the only factor controlling how I play? Me.
“I don’t know this place.” Mom puts it out there, plain and matter-of-fact. Similar to how she shared the news about the divorce and that Cassidy was pregnant.
Except, this time, she’s looking to me for answers instead of the other way around.
I swallow hard, attempting to dislodge the lump that’s appeared. “I know. You just moved here. Cassidy and I thought it was someplace you’d like. You have a balcony to write outside on and—”
Mom interrupts with, “Cassidy is in Florida.”
“Not anymore. She’s back in Boston. She’ll—we’ll be here this weekend to visit you.” I glance at the wall beside the opening that leads into the bedroom. “You know this place. Your painting is here.”
It’s a print, technically, purchased by my parents on their honeymoon.
My father used to joke that Mom loved the piece of artwork more than him.
Not very funny now, if you compare the current state of my parents’ relationship to how I knew the print was the one item, aside from her laptop, that Mom would want to stay with her.
Mom follows my gaze.
“It used to be in your bedroom, above—”
“Above the dresser,” Mom finishes.
“Exactly,” I say, relieved. “It’s here, with your clothes and your favorite books and the squirrel feeder.”
Mom continues staring at the painting.
“It’s even more beautiful in person,” she tells me. “Make sure you go one day.”
“I will,” I promise, my throat thickening as soon as the two words slip out.
I’ve been to the Louvre. I’ve seen that painting in person.
Mom didn’t forget.
I never told her because I went with Otto. And because, after we ended, talking about the beginning or the middle hurt too much.