Chapter 3
CALEB
It’s surreal to stand in the living room of the house where I grew up and see my own daughter gazing out the front window at the cars going past.
My parents were only able to afford this split-level in Bluevale thirty years ago because it’s on a pretty busy street. They bought it before I was even born, mostly because Bluevale has the best hockey program in the state.
But I never gave Rose Valley Road a second thought until I came back here with Daisy a few days ago and realized how dangerous it is.
“You’ll keep the doors locked?” I ask my mom, probably for the fifth time. But I know she likes to have the front door open in the afternoons when the weather is nice. And I’m worried Daisy will figure out the lock on the screen door. Ever since she turned four, she’s been full of surprises.
“Absolutely,” Mom says. “And the alarm system chirps anytime an outside door opens. She won’t be able to give me the slip, will you missy?”
But Daisy doesn’t turn. She’s focused on the cars and the squirrels chasing each other across the front yard.
“You’ve got her bag for swimming?” I ask, turning to my mom.
“Of course,” she says, pointing to the colorful backpack on the table by the door.
“And her unicorn towel?” I ask.
“I like this careful version of you,” Mom says with a fond smile, nodding. “Just remember that I raised you and your brother, and you turned out fine. You never wound up in the middle of the street, or at a practice without your equipment, did you?”
She’s right about that, but it’s not really the same thing.
My brother and I were bigger and more agile at four than Daisy is.
We might have been able to get out of the way of a car or a bike if we’d somehow gotten into the street.
We were more wary of strangers. And if we’d had to use a different towel at the pool, it wouldn’t have been a big deal.
Daisy has her own special superpowers, but those things aren’t among them. Routine is her safe haven, and she’s in the middle of a massive upheaval. It’s my job to keep her feeling comfortable, and to do that, I need to give her as many constants as possible.
“You were great, Ma,” I tell her. “But you do have the unicorn towel, right?”
“Yes, Caleb,” she says with a sad smile. “I have the unicorn towel.”
“Thank you,” I say, striding over to pull her into a tight hug.
I remember feeling like I was being embraced by a being as big as a planet whenever my mother hugged me when I was a kid. She feels tiny in my arms now.
She hugs me back fiercely though, and as always, she pats my back three times—like a secret ritual of love and protection.
“Hey, Daisy,” I say softly, heading over to crouch by the window beside her.
I take a second to just be with her, to look out at the squirrels and the colorful tree branches moving in the wind. We watch a gray sedan go by and then a blue and white truck with a wrench on the side and the name of a plumbing company.
Will Daisy be able to read that name one day? I hope so, but I can’t really know for sure yet.
What I do know is that spending time with her has changed me down to my very core.
I used to spend all my time looking to the future, to the next practice, the next game, the next chance to be in the only place that ever really felt like home to me—on the ice.
But Daisy has given me the ability to experience and appreciate life moment by moment.
And she is my home now.
“I’m going to work,” I tell her.
She turns to me and puts her hands up, thumbs and pinkies out, her other fingers folded in, and wiggles her hands.
Sometimes, kids with Down syndrome have an easier time using sign language when a word is tough to say.
Daisy can say this word just fine now, but she’s been signing it to tease me for a long time, and it’s one of her favorite jokes. This is the sign for play.
She grins at me expectantly.
“Are you teasing me, Daisy?” I ask her, chuckling. “Are you saying my work is just playing?”
“Yes,” she says, laughing and nodding before coming in for a hug, her arms twining around my neck like vines.
I hug her back gently, patting her three times between her slender shoulder blades before releasing her.
Daisy has heard me talk about playing when I have a game, and she likes to tease me about it. It’s one of her favorite jokes. Such a pun lover, my amazing little daughter.
“I love you,” I tell her. “You be good for Grandma, okay? And have fun swimming.”
She grins.
Daisy has had every kind of therapy you can imagine, practically since the day she came home from the hospital. Some she likes, some make her scream, and all are necessary to help her grow stronger and learn to express herself so she can be part of the community.
Her absolute favorite is swimming with her physical therapist, and the new PT here in Bluevale is magnificent. We’ve already been to see her twice, and I’m relieved that this is the first therapy session my mom will have to take her to on her own.
I rise and grab my own bag, feeling like I’m about to walk out of the house without my heart.
When I turn to head for the door, Mom has taken my place by Daisy’s side and she’s pointing to something. I assume it’s a bird, since my mom loves birds and has two feeders in the front yard.
I instantly feel a little bit calmer, and I give them a wave as I head outside.
It’s cold and crisp and the trees are on fire with color. For a second, I could be in high school again, heading down these same porch steps to practice.
But a lot has changed since then.
I get in the car, a sensible Volvo SUV I bought with the fun idea that maybe one day I’d be driving Daisy around town with her friends.
As I drive, I think about her at the diner this morning, laughing and talking with that cute waitress, and I have to smile. Daisy is a social creature, and moments like that one help me remember that my dreams for her are reasonable.
It’s a shame the waitress got called away, I was going to give her a massive tip for being so human with my kid.
People are always looking at Daisy and me like they feel sorry for us, or like she’s one of God’s angels, or whatever.
The waitress just treated her like she was a cute little kid. It was refreshing.
It’s not until I’m almost at the intersection of Rose Valley and Route One that I fully take in that I’m going to my first practice with the Stallions. I’ve been so focused on Daisy’s transition that I haven’t had the time to worry about how practice would go until just this moment.
I haven’t been out much, but the reception around town seems to be pretty warm so far. That guy at the diner certainly seemed glad to see me. It’s a far cry from the cold shoulder I was getting back in Philly.
And I worry about more of the same from my new teammates. They know what happened with me and the Liberty Bells. They know I’m the local boy who wrecked his big shot.
And if I could do that as the star player of a big-time team like the Bells when I had my face on a Wheaties box, what’s to keep me from wrecking my comeback with the smalltime Stallions?
But that’s no way to think on the way to the arena.
So I inhale slowly through my nose for eight counts, and exhale through my mouth, counting to ten before holding for four and then inhaling again.
The sports therapist my dad took me to back in high school taught me the breathing technique while he was working with me on flexibility to make me a better shooter.
It’s gotten me through some bad moments, and some moments I only thought were bad at the time, before my priorities got straightened out.
I visualize the arena, the feeling of the ice under my skates, the sound of my breathing. This is what I was born for. When I’m on that ice, I’m allowed to forget everything else and go into pure hockey mode. It’s almost a relief.
When I finally arrive at the Bluevale Arena, my first reaction is surprise at just how rundown it is.
I don’t remember all these cracks in the empty parking lot, or the blue awnings being so faded and torn in places.
Maybe it was always like this and I’m just spoiled from playing as a pro in some of the most beautiful stadiums in North America.
But there’s no time to overthink things now, so I park and grab my gear, then jog to the entrance. We’re getting a late start today. There was a fire at the apartment where we were all supposed to be staying, which meant that there was extra admin to do this morning.
I’m just glad Daisy and I decided to stay with my parents for a few days and avoided being in the apartment building during the fire. No one was hurt, but it would have been really upsetting for her to be dragged out of bed in the middle of the night with the sound of sirens all around.
“Stone,” Coach Nelson barks out, appearing in the shadows just outside the dressing room as I approach. “A word.”
I believe him when he says a word. Bud Nelson was an iconic defenseman in his day, and he’s still as big as a bear even though he hasn’t played in decades. By all accounts he’s a great coach, but he’s famously quiet and never one for big speeches.
I follow him around the corner and he fixes his blue eyes on me.
“You lose your temper, and you’re on the bench, no exceptions,” he says. “Understood?”
I guess we’re really not wasting any time.
“Yes, Coach,” I reply simply, making sure not to let him see the bubbling frustration this interaction is causing me.
We already talked about this in our video calls. Extensively.
“Good boy,” he says, nodding once.
He’s heading back down the hall before I can reply.
I continue to the dressing room. Deep voices and laughter reach me before I get to the door, and the sound is instantly comforting. I’ve missed being part of a team.
But the moment I open the door the room goes silent. Everyone’s looking everywhere, but none of them are looking at me.
So much for a warm reception.
Whatever.