Chapter 46 Otto
OTTO
Opa’s sitting outside in one of the chairs that matches his kitchen table when I pull into the driveway.
I climb out of my car, spinning my keys around one finger as I approach the trimmed section of the front yard, where he’s reading. “Hallo, Opa.”
He glances up, saying nothing. But he smiles, the corners of his eyes wrinkling, and that expression alone makes it a warmer reunion than we’ve had in a long time.
“What are you reading?” I ask.
He flashes me the cover. “I read it last year,” I tell him.
He nods. Approving almost. Reading is one of the only interests we share. When I returned from the academy on breaks, I’d work my way through most of his extensive collection.
Opa closes the book and stands, setting the novel carefully on the chair. “Should we take a walk?”
“Sure.” I smother my shock.
It’s a reasonable suggestion. Today is a beautiful day, sunny and warm. But my grandfather has never, not once, suggested we walk together when I’ve visited Tannfeld.
I watch carefully as we head down the street, but my grandfather doesn’t appear to be having any trouble walking. He’s carrying a cane, but isn’t putting weight on it. Holding it seems more habit than anything else.
I speak first. “I was cleared by the club’s medical team. I’ll resume normal training next week, so I’ll be ready for a charity match we have in a couple of weeks.”
“That’s good.”
“It is,” I agree.
“Who are you playing?”
“Ludlin,” I answer, taken aback again.
Our conversations about football usually consist of me talking and Opa—maybe—listening, with the animosity of our previous disagreements on the topic of me and football a rocky current running beneath any exchange.
“You expect to win?”
I smile. “I always expect to win.”
“They must be happy to have you back.”
I nod. “I’m happy to be back.”
We continue walking in a silence that’s surprisingly relaxed.
Sections of Tannfeld have cobblestone streets, including the original area near where Opa lives.
And we’re headed toward the oldest portion of the village, the spire of the slate-roofed church visible past whitewashed houses.
I typically take the longer route into town to avoid driving past that church.
My one and only memory of it is attending my mother’s funeral there.
But that seems to be our destination now. My grandfather attends services here every Sunday.
It’s a beautiful church, despite my negative association with it, painted white with yellow accents. It glows in the afternoon sunshine, the cemetery sloping behind it a stretch of immaculately manicured grass.
We pause by the black iron fence that separates the church from the street.
“Should we head back?” I ask, preferring that to lingering.
“I’m ill, Otto.”
I stare at my grandfather. I don’t see him often enough to catalog daily changes, but he looks the same as I recall from my last trip here. Improved, I thought when I first arrived, more color on his face and better balance.
“What-what do you mean?”
The solid stone I’m standing on seems to be sloping all of a sudden. I’m five years old again, watching my grandfather stare into space with an empty glass in one hand.
“I’ve been wanting—needing—to tell you. Mila has been badgering…
” Opa sighs, glancing at the graves. “I should have told you a while ago. I kept putting it off. We don’t see each other often.
And when we do, it’s…” He looks at me, then away again.
“I owe you an apology. Lots of them really. After Lina died… I didn’t handle it well.
I know that, and I know you know it too.
And I’ve spent all these years too embarrassed to—”
“Opa,” I interrupt, “you don’t have to—”
“I do.” He turns his head, fixing his steely gaze on me.
“I’ve been stubborn and prideful and allowed it to interfere with the only meaningful relationship I have left.
I didn’t agree with your decision to play football professionally.
But I never should have allowed that to become a reason you wouldn’t come home. ”
I exhale. “I could have done more too. I got swept up in being on Kluvberg and what being part of the club meant, let it become everything to me. I realized, when I got injured and lost it for a little while, just how much I’d relied on it.”
“That wasn’t your responsibility. No matter what you chose to do with your life, I should have supported it. Your-your mother would have been ashamed of my behavior.”
I hardly remember my mom. I have no sense whether she would have wanted me to play football or not. But she and Opa were close. I’m not certain she would have told me to choose football over him, which is essentially what I did.
“What do you mean, you’re ill?” The question comes out slowly. I’m dreading the answer.
Opa isn’t one for dramatics. Him telling me means it’s serious.
His grip on the cane tightens. “They found the tumor a few months before I fell. It’s part of why I resisted the hip surgery—it seemed pointless.
But Mila said she would tell you herself if I didn’t have the operation, and I wanted to tell you.
And then you came for the surgery, and I still hadn’t decided what to say. ”
“You’re getting treatment?” I ask, hating the hope in my voice.
Opa wouldn’t be saying all this, bringing up my mom, if he thought he’d be around on the day I did retire to ask what I planned to do with the rest of my life.
“There’s nothing they can do.”
I was worried it was coming, but it still knocks the wind out of me.
Burns in my chest and behind my eyes. I assumed my moving to the States would involve seeing him as often as I do now.
Maybe more, depending on the length of my trips home.
I even thought the change might improve our relationship, jolting us out of a routine we were too accustomed to.
And now, I’m not even sure I can leave. There might have been no point in telling Wagner or Beck a thing if leaving Kluvberg next year will also mean abandoning my grandfather when he needs me most.
“How long?”
“Six months.”
I glance down, blinking rapidly, absorbing the impact of another hit. My grandfather just told me he’ll be dead in less than a year, and I can’t even look him in the eye. I’m so swamped in regret and anger and uncertainty that it feels like drowning. I can’t breathe. Can’t move.
“Otto.” Opa grips my shoulder, his hold surprisingly strong.
I sniff, rubbing a palm across my face. There’s hardly anyone around.
The nearby vineyard that attracts tourists is on the opposite end of town, and it’s not a Sunday that draws locals to this location.
But I feel on display anyway. Out in the open, during one of the moments I feel most vulnerable and most alone.
I lift my head, finally meeting his gaze. “And you decided to tell me this at a cemetery?”
Opa nods. “I wanted to show you where I’m moving.”
I stare at him.
One corner of my grandfather’s mouth lifts. Mila often comments how funny Opa is, and I’ve rarely seen any evidence of it. We’re not comfortable enough around each other to joke around. But I guess I inherited the playful part of my personality somewhere after all.
“You’ll get everything, of course. It’s not much, but—”
“Stop it,” I say. “Just…stop.”
“We need to discuss it.”
While there’s still time, he means. Before there’s no time left. Because, in some contexts, six months is a long while. But in others, like our relationship, it’s an average amount of time for us not to see each other.
“I know. I’ll come back soon, and we can talk about it. Not…now.”
I expect him to argue—he normally does—but today, he nods.
“Okay.” His hand drops from my shoulder as he turns back toward the street, appearing ready to head back to his house.
Suddenly, I’m scared to. I don’t want to revert to the heaviness that house contains. None of the memories there are particularly happy ones.
“I’m moving too,” I blurt.
My grandfather turns back to face me, a quizzical frown on his face as he says, “Where?”
“Boston, hopefully. The details are still—I’m under contract with Kluvberg for another season. It won’t be…before.”
“Can I meet her?”
When I aim a questioning look his way, Opa has the temerity to roll his eyes at me.
“I know how you feel about that club. Only a woman could have prompted such a major change.” He glances at the graveyard. “I was the same way about my Ella.”
Opa mentions his late wife even less often than my mom.
She died during a rare complication following childbirth, and it occurred to me, years after she passed away, that my mom’s death must have felt like losing all he had left of his wife.
And also like history repeating itself, leaving him with a child and a whole lot of grief for the second time in his life.
“I’d love for you to meet her,” I say.
Opa nods like the matter is settled. I don’t mention, as we walk the blocks back toward his neighborhood, that my future is far less firm than I made it sound.
Not only have I not told Claire that I intend to swap leagues, but I have nothing certain to tell her.
I can’t guarantee I’ll wind up in Boston or anywhere close to Massachusetts—only that I’ll be closer than Germany.
My grandfather has enough on his mind without me burdening him with the details.
When I first started playing professionally, retirement was the furthest thing from my mind.
Now, I’ve realized that day will come, and I might not be able to pick it.
If believing I have something—someone—in my life aside from football will offer him some peace, then I fully intend to give that to him.
Halfway back to Opa’s, a young boy—probably about ten—runs out of his front yard with my jersey in hand. I talk with him for a few minutes before signing the shirt with the marker he shyly offered.
Opa leans on his cane and watches, an inscrutable expression on his face.
He’s seen me interact with some fans before, but not many.
I haven’t invited him to a match since I called him with the news that I’d been named the starting keeper for Germany’s team at the Paris Olympics.
When I offered tickets, he said he’d rather watch from home, but I’m not sure he ever did.
I’ve resented his indifference toward football plenty of times, but I don’t hate it.
It protected this escape, provided one place—one person—I was simply Otto to.
I’ve had teammates who were berated by family members for poor performances or constantly asked for money.
I was never treated as anything more than ordinary, and it was a pocket of normalcy I should have appreciated more.
The boy runs back into his yard, his mom calling a thank-you that I respond to with a wave, and we continue down the street.
“I remember when that was you,” Opa says quietly.