10. Declan
Declan
Always remember that you are absolutely unique.
Just like everyone else.
~ Margaret Mead
I’ve spent the majority of today alone. Winona isn’t officially scheduled to come in today. She texted this morning to make sure I took my meds.
It’s been two weeks since I broke my ankle. Two weeks to the hour. I’m on the couch, watching the Thunder play in Denver. The motor on my compression cuff whirrs in a steady rhythm. I managed to set it up without Winona.
I didn’t take my vitals. I heated my lunch in the oven.
I can do a lot of things without her. I’ve just gotten used to her doing them for me. In only two weeks’ time, I’ve grown accustomed to her.
The gate alert sounds. I mute the game and pick up my phone, running my fingertip along the smooth wood of the box she got me.
When I open the security app, I smile. Winona’s pulling into the driveway.
What’s she doing here?
I push the buzzer to unlock the door. A minute later, the sound of the latch opening echoes through the hallway.
When she rounds the archway and comes into view, I stare.
Is this some sort of joke?
Is she trying to make me laugh?
I don’t say anything at first.
When I find words, I say, “I didn't expect you. You're not scheduled ‘til tomorrow.”
“I had a commitment in town. Just thought I’d check in to see if you need anything before I head home.”
She looks me over, her eyes landing on the cuff and then on the muted game.
“You’re wearing your reading glasses,” she says.
My hand goes up to my face. “Oh. Yeah. I forgot to take them off.”
I remove the glasses and set them on top of the book I was reading before the pregame commentary. I’m not a real reader. Not like my brother, the bookworm. I read a few books a month. Mostly stuff related to leadership and excellence, usually books written by coaches and players.
Winona stares at me and I can’t hold my tongue any longer.
“What’s with your face?”
“My face?” she turns and looks out at her image in the hall mirror.
“Declan!” she shouts. “Why didn’t you say something? Oh! My! Gosh! I’ve still got my makeup on.”
Still? And makeup?
Her face is made up like a clown. Winona’s a clown?
She runs from the room and out the front door. I hear the solid clunk of the door shutting forcefully behind her.
I immediately pull up her number and dial.
Did I embarrass her?
She doesn’t answer.
I send a text.
Declan: Don’t worry about having clown makeup on.
I delete that.
Declan: Come back.
I delete that.
Declan: Are you okay?
I delete that.
The front door opens again.
“Winona?”
“It’s me!” she shouts. But she doesn’t come into the family room.
I wait. And wait.
She’s gone long enough that I shout her name, and when she doesn’t answer I pick up my phone, open the intercom app and say, “Winona? Are you still here?”
“I’m here!” her voice carries through the house from somewhere far enough away that it’s muffled.
A few minutes later, she comes back into the room, her face is the kind of red that comes from scrubbing. But the white makeup, oversized red lips, and black around her eyes is all fully removed.
“So … are we talking about the clown makeup? Or …?” I ask her.
“I was a clown today.”
She gives one firm bob of her head as if her statement explains everything.
“Hence the makeup,” I say.
When a smile spreads across my face, I realize it’s the first one I’ve smiled all day.
She did it again—made me smile.
“Can we not?” she asks.
But then, her eyes crinkle. She lets out a soft huff and then she starts cracking up. My laughter joins hers. The sound fills the room.
“I can’t believe I forgot to take off my makeup!” Winona covers her face with her hands.
“I’d really, really love to know the story behind the clown makeup.” I wave to my leg. “I’m stuck here on the couch, watching a game I should be playing in. Humor me, Winona.”
She shakes her head softly, walking over to the chair next to the sofa.
“I’ve got this thing I do,” she says. “It’s called …” She pauses. I hold her eyes, still smiling from the way she just made me laugh. “It’s called Winona for Hire.”
“Winona for Hire?”
“Yeah. I do odd jobs. The oddest jobs, really. Like … goat sitting. Planting potatoes. Walking five dogs—all at once … things like that.” She smiles a bashful smile. “... And being a clown at a five-year-old’s birthday party.”
“But you’re a nurse’s aide,” I state the obvious.
“I have school loans, bills … My hours aren’t consistent and the pay isn’t amazing.
I love what I do, don’t get me wrong. And, if all goes well, in less than a year I’ll be a nurse.
Then I’ll make a lot more. But for now, to make ends meet, Daisy came up with Winona for Hire.
I posted fliers at the deli and the bakery. People have been calling ever since.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. I have something almost every day.”
“So you come here and then you go around Waterford babysitting goats and dressing like a clown?”
“Basically.”
She looks down into her lap.
“Hey,” I say.
She looks up, meeting my eyes.
“I think that’s pretty resourceful. And I don’t know many people who could pull it off.”
“Literally anybody could pull this off,” she says.
“I couldn’t,” I admit.
“Riiiight,” she says, her tone filled with disbelief.
“No. I’m serious. I’m a one-lane guy. I play ball—very well. But I wouldn’t know the first thing about babysitting a goat.”
She chuckles softly. “Well, I can’t say I’m an expert at this point. The goat definitely won that day.”
“Winona for Hire,” I say, looking her in the eyes.
“Don’t get any crazy ideas.”
“I’m not. I’m just thinking.”
“Well, stop thinking.” She stands. “Do you need anything else, besides my dignity on a platter?”
“You didn’t leave your dignity anywhere. I’ve got mad respect for your entrepreneurial spirit.”
“Mad respect, huh?” she tucks a piece of her blonde hair behind her ear.
“Yep. Mad respect.”
“Okay. Well, if you don’t need anything else, I’ll leave you to watch the game. And I'll see you tomorrow for the big day.”
“Big day?”
“You get your cast.” She looks elated on my behalf.
“Oh yeah. The big day. Right.”
“I’ll be here to take you to the practice facility after lunch,” she says.
I look around, hunting for a reason to ask her to stay. But she’s already spent her morning dressed as a clown. She probably has plenty to do.
“Thanks for dropping by when you didn’t even have to.”
“You’re welcome.” She pauses as if she might not go, but then she says, “See you tomorrow,” and walks out.
Just as she promised, Winona pulls into my driveway right after lunch. I’m on my crutches for our trip to the practice facility.
Winona hops out of her car, a big smile on her face.
“Are you excited?” she asks, twirling her keys on her finger.
“Excited?” I look into her eyes. They’re practically sparkling in the sunlight. “I don’t know if I’d call this exciting.”
“Declan,” she rounds the car, opening my door for me. “You’re getting a cast. That puts you this much closer to being back on the field.” She pauses. “It is called a field, right?”
“It’s a field.”
“Also, a cast means you’ll be using these bad boys more.” She taps my crutches.
“Woo hoo.” I say the words without any enthusiasm.
She rolls her eyes. “Well, I’ll just be excited enough for the both of us.”
I maneuver myself right up next to the car, handing Winona my crutches one at a time while I hold on to the roof of the car, then I carefully lift my leg and lower myself into the car. She puts my crutches in the back seat and gets into the driver’s seat.
“Buckle up, buttercup!” she says, turning on the car.
I Ain't Worried by One Republic comes on the radio. She turns the volume up and starts singing along.
“Come on, Declan. Sing the chorus.”
“I’m good,” I tell her. I don’t sing in front of people.
“Suit yourself,” she says, belting out the song like she wrote it herself. She’s not a great singer. But she makes up for the lack of being on key with massive enthusiasm.
By the second chorus, I’m singing softly along with her and the radio.
She pops her hand up to her ear. “What’s that? I can’t hear youuuuu.” She laughs and keeps singing.
I’ve never been one to back down from a challenge, so I belt the song out with her and that’s how we drive from my house to the practice facility about twenty minutes outside town as one song flows into the next.
I lose myself in the music, in her carefree presence, in the feeling that this is all I need.
That last thought catches me off guard. I’ve never felt that way off the field. I’m always itching to get back. And I am. Counting the days. Practically counting the hours.
We pull into the parking lot and Winona hops out, grabbing my crutches and handing them to me one by one. She follows behind me, her eyes wide. She’s transformed from wild and free-spirited to cautious observer.
I maneuver up the steps. Winona wasn’t wrong about the crutches being better than the scooter. She catches up to me, holding the glass door open while I swing my way in.
“This way,” I say, turning right and walking down the wide hallway, our shoes squeaking on the tile.
Winona’s gaze drifts up to the high ceilings to the display cabinets with trophies and retired jerseys to the floor where the Thunder logo is embedded into the tile.
We pass a few people I know—trainers and office staff. Each one greets me, saying things like, “Good to see you back.”
I don’t stop to introduce Winona. We’ve got an appointment. I just nod my head, say hi and keep propelling myself forward.
I pause in front of the main door to the treatment room. It swings open and our left tackle, Brady Keller, walks out.
“O’Connell!” he shouts, smiling broadly.
His attention shifts to Winona and his gaze travels over her, down her wavy blonde hair, over her casual T-shirt and jeans, to the Converse on her feet, and back up to her bright eyes. His gaze is simultaneously appreciative and respectful. Definitely flirtatious, but that’s just Keller.
“Well, hello there,” he says with all the charm of a big brother teasing his younger sibling by flirting with the girl his baby brother likes.