Chapter 23 #2
Instead, there’s a full layer of black hair making a dome on her head.
It’s plastered down, which only makes sense because she didn’t take the wig off last night.
Possibly not even the night before, what with Joss going into labor.
It doesn’t look very thick, like she keeps it cut short, but that also makes sense.
I’m still not sure why she felt she needed to do it.
Until she scratches it with her fingertips to fluff it up.
“Oh.”
That’s all I can say. It’s not quite the texture of my hair, which really just wants to be fluff if it’s not contained in some way, but once hers loosens from the mold it’s pressed into, I see the frenetic curls fighting to form. I recognize the zig-zags.
She finally opens her eyes with a quiet but imploring sigh.
“I think I saw your father,” I tell her, my throat going dry. It’s one thing to know her father is there; it’s another to realize he was that man who was watching TV but didn’t really look there, like he was a body that no longer had a soul within it. “I’m so sorry.”
The hurt in her eyes, it makes sense now. I’ve been a total asshole to her when she’s really just been trying to survive. I tell myself I would never blackmail someone to the degree she did me, but how would I know unless I was in her situation?
“You don’t want me anymore, do you?” she says, already looking defeated.
I shrug. There’s nothing else I can do. I can’t keep being angry with her for doing desperate things to make her father as comfortable as possible. “You did what you had to do. I get it. Just don’t do it again.”
I never cease to be thrown off by anything Tilly says or does, but I’m definitely not prepared for her to say, “It’s not like I was deliberately, uhh, tricking you into thinking I was white.
I mean, I figured you knew I wasn’t. My mom’s white, my complexion is closer to hers than Dad’s, but look at me. ”
I cough out a laugh, feeling stupid because yeah, a lot of her features make more sense now.
I should have probably figured it out long ago, but it’s not like it mattered to me.
I definitely should have figured it out the second the doctor told us Donovan has sickle cell, though.
“Babe, why would I care about that? I’m not white either. ”
“Obviously you’re not—what?” she huffs. “You just made a gigantic deal about it!”
“Because white people don’t—” I cut myself off by pulling her back in for another kiss because this is such a silly argument.
As we kiss, I ruffle her hair some more.
It’s cute. I like it. I bet she’d be really pretty with it just natural.
She’ll probably get really nice, thick, bouncy curls when it grows a bit more.
She bats my hand away, but I resist this time, and we end up continuing our fight with grunts and hand slaps, but we’re kissing, so I think it’s okay.
Returning to camp sucks.
It was always going to suck, but once Tilly and I got ourselves straightened out and continued the conversation with the doctor, we were flooded with more information than either of us could really process.
It’s good that we both have some experience with family members who had sickle cell, but neither of us was very close to them.
For Tilly, it’s older generations who were already taking care of themselves before Tilly was around.
For me, I only saw my cousin’s baby a couple times before the marrow transplant.
I was already in the NFL, and most of it went down in the middle of the season.
I donated twenty thousand to them, made it possible for my cousin to get her baby the care she needed, but I couldn’t be there.
We need a specialist. Immediately. With the diagnosis coming on a Sunday and my flight back to training camp being a red eye, I can’t do anything about that, but Tilly assured me that would be her number one priority on Monday.
We have to give him penicillin daily, but there are tests that have to be done to make sure he’s being dosed properly.
We’re given a list of medications we need to keep on hand, but we’re not allowed to give him those medications until we get doctor’s approval.
That’s not just waiting until he can see a pediatrician who specializes in sickle cell anemia, that’s every time he gets sick.
He has a diet we have to work out that will mean potentially switching to formula or micromanaging weaning to make sure he gets what he needs to stay healthy.
It’s all overwhelming, and I don’t have any choice but to go back to camp.
He’s on my insurance, thank god. He’d be on Medicaid otherwise, and that was hell for my cousin.
But that means I need to stay in good standing.
And they took a sample from me, they’re going to see if a bone marrow transplant is possible from me, but I’m already planning for what we’ll have to do if I’m not a viable donor.
We’re going to need so much money.
I do my best to focus on what’s going to get me that money, running that fucking ball for myself, but I can’t get everything else out of my brain.
There are a lot of dads on the field with me.
Several of their kids’ moms are in Tilly’s circle, so I hang out with them a lot.
I have this perverse urge to talk to them, but I rule out most. Dominic Morales and I stand side by side for hours at a time as Mike Griffin, the quarterback coach, drills us on this season’s playbook, but I don’t want him to think I’m not focused if I start asking him questions about how he and Cadence handle three kids.
Drew Cohen is a good guy, great with his kids, but I don’t think he handles a lot of the bad stuff in parenting.
He and his wife, Mel, have been together since college, and she’s been a stay-at-home mom ever since.
No judgment there, I know she busts her butt in her own way, but Drew’s not going to know anything.
Evan Allore will tell me way more than I want to know, and I’ll never be able to shut him up. He’s everyone’s best friend, but I don’t need a cheerleader right now. I need a plan.
I’m not talking to Huang. Fuck that.
It’s when I’ve had my first really good run in a scrimmage, managing to get a first down and then some, knocked down only because the tight end who’s been defending me gets Evan Allore too late and we all end up on the ground, that I realize there is someone on this field that I could talk to.
Bennett Hayes is a great tight end. Not just in this one moment but always.
We hung out a lot his first season. He nearly moved into the Jugs House, in fact, but then got a sweet deal on a condo in downtown Wilmington, where I sometimes crashed if I was in the city too late and didn’t want to go all the way back to the house in Camden.
But then, after the first season, he sold the condo and bought his own place in Camden.
We figured we’d see him a lot more, only for his new girlfriend to show up — with a daughter and a bunch of medical equipment.
We never see him outside of football anymore.
That’s his whole life now. I’ve only seen the girlfriend a couple times at games.
She’s brought the daughter once that I’ve seen, and they had to leave early.
I’ve heard she’s been up in the owner’s box, where it’s less rowdy and there’s more space and better accessibility, but I’ve never asked. I don’t really talk to him anymore.
He’s the guy I need to talk to, and I feel like a dick now because I haven’t made any effort to before.
I spend the entire practice trying to figure out how to strike up a conversation in an appropriate way with him, and in the end, we’re in line to get on the bus back to the hotel they’re putting us up at, and I blurt out, “What’s wrong with her? ”
Several of the guys near us pause to stare at me. Merrick Briggs mouths What’s wrong with you? before passing us to get on the bus. Hayes glances around like he’s hoping I’m talking to someone else.
Straight talk here? It’s critical that Hayes likes me.
We’re going into our third year, and the first two were great but not stellar.
Morales’s age shows, but he’s still a viable first-string quarterback, especially after the two years he’s had mostly warming the bench for me.
And Hayes is a smart guy. One ‘accidental’ bad play on his part could knock me off the field.
“Y-your girlfriend’s daughter,” I stammer, feeling an uncharacteristic ripple of anxiety I’m sure is borne from every other damn thing coming down on me right now. “W-what’s her—?”
“First of all, she’s my daughter,” he says fiercely, and there’s not a chance in hell I’m going to counter that.
I know biologically, she isn’t his, and yeah, Donovan is biologically mine and I’ve hated having to be vague about that, but I think biology only plays so big a role.
Bennett changed his life for that girl, and it’s been an entire year.
I get it. “Second of all, her mom’s my fiancée. Third, there’s nothing wrong with her.”
“I only meant—”
“I know what you meant. But don’t be a dick.”
Damn. This was the wrong way to start, in the wrong place to start. Everyone’s staring now. I look like an idiot.
I follow him onto the bus. He sits in the aisle seat even though the window seat is open, kind of a dick move. The seats aren’t really big enough for the linemen to share, but Hayes’s ass is small enough he could have a neighbor.
So I slide into the row in front of him and climb back to get that window seat.
No one says anything. I’m being cool not making Hayes slide over or stand back up so I can get over here.
Briggs is a few rows back; I see him throw his hands up in frustration.
But I usually sit next to him, so I get it.
He’s probably worried we’re not friends anymore and he’s going to get stuck next to Wes Foster, and there’s going to be a fight.