Chapter 11
Annalise
“How’s he doing?” I approach and ask my sister-in-law as she holds my nephew, rocking him side to side.
It’s Sunday and we’re in the paddock, about thirty minutes before the start of the race. Travis and the rest of the drivers have just completed the driver’s parade, which had the crowd cheering and even more excited for the start of the race.
When Lucky looks at me, he blinks and then stares, the cutest little wrinkle appearing across his forehead as if he’s trying to figure me out. A couple of seconds pass before a broad, gummy smile replaces the confusion.
He remembers me.
Though it’s only been a few days since I last saw him, I’m reminded of how small babies’ worlds are.
I did a lot of reading up on babies and their first stages of life as soon as I found out I was going to be an aunt.
At almost seven months old, his memory is still developing, and it’s amazing to watch as he makes mental connections.
The smile he gives me once he recognizes who I am brightens my entire world. Even as a string of drool drips from his mouth onto the baby blanket Alyssia’s placed over her shoulder.
“Knew that was going to happen.” She grins. “I think he’s more excited than Travis,” Alyssia says, making me laugh.
“No way.”
“Seriously. He was awake bright and early this morning but there were no tears in sight. I walked over to his crib to find him playing with his feet and giggling like he was in on a secret joke.”
“Maybe he knows something we don’t,” I say.
“Like his daddy is a champion,” she sing-songs to Lucky, tickling his tummy.
He breaks out into a fit of giggles. Such a contrast to his mood weeks ago when he wasn’t feeling well. This is my nephew’s normal temperament. If you looked up the phrase ‘happy baby’ in the dictionary, a picture of his face would be there.
“Oh no, I have to run to the bathroom. Would you mind?” Alyssia asks.
“Of course.” I take Lucky from her after she fits the baby blanket over my shoulder, shielding the strap of my olive green pantsuit.
“No, don’t do that,” I coo when Lucky starts to whine as he watches his mom walk away. “She’s coming back, I promise.”
I turn away from the exit and point at the screen, which chooses the perfect moment to flash to an image of Travis from one of yesterday’s pre-race interviews. “Who’s that?” I ask, bouncing him on my hip. “Who’s that?”
Did you wash your hands?
The intrusive thought comes out of the blue.
What if you forgot to wash your hands and he gets sick?
The urge to give into the questions and analyze my entire day to recall whether or not I’ve thoroughly washed my hands is almost overwhelming.
But I know where that road leads. Hours and hours of me running in and out of the bathroom washing until my hands are raw and red, yet still believing they’re unclean.
“Don’t feed the monster.” Advice from my therapist comes to mind.
“Don’t feed the monster,” I murmur. Medication and years of therapy have helped me not to feed into every intrusive thought that passes through my mind, but some I still latch onto some more than others. Particularly when it concerns those I love.
As a distraction, I choose to tickle my nephew’s tummy, making him laugh. It’s the purest sound of joy there is in the world.
“Is that daddy on the screen?” I ask again, choosing to talk and be present with him over giving the thoughts in my head the attention they crave.
“Are you excited to see him win today?” I playfully ask. “Can you say congratulations?” For whatever strange reason, Lucky finds my silly questions hilarious, and his laughter fill my heart.
“Oh my, we almost didn’t make it. It’s madness out there,” a lilted voice fills the quieting space of the paddock.
I turn to find a beautiful statuesque blonde followed by a shorter but equally beautiful, darker haired woman. Max’s mother with whom I can only assume is a relative or friend of the family.
I watch Mrs. Ferreira for a while as she greets the other people who’re part owners or related to the team members in some way.
All of the engineers and Amato workers, including Drake Horner, are all focused in the garage for the start of the race.
For some reason, I keep my eye on Mrs. Ferreira as she passes air kisses out like candy on Halloween.
It’s not hard to understand why she was one of the top models to dominate magazine covers in the early nineties. Nearly thirty years later and her spotless skin appears almost porcelain. It’s striking against her long, platinum blonde locks, but matched with her long, lithe body, it works.
She was born to walk on runways.
And to be a main feature of the F1 paddock, apparently. Ever since the death of her husband, she’s continued to be a mainstay in the motorsport world, ostensibly keeping Severino’s memory alive.
Not that his name needed her help. Severino Ferreira was a king among princes during his life.
His death on the track elevated his name to god-like status among the sports’ admirers.
Many of whom believe it a shame that he only had three Driver’s Championship and Two Constructor’s Championship to his credit.
I don’t doubt that had he lived longer, the list of accolades would be longer.
I peer back at the screen in time to see Max’s red Amato car peeling out of the pit to do his lap in order to get into position for the start of the race.
What’s it like to be the son of a god?
The question knocks at my consciousness as I watch the screen pull up Max’s career statistics alongside his most recent profile photo. It’s difficult not to recognize that red fits him.
Like he was born to wear the color his father represented.
I might have a small understanding of it given my father’s NFL career. Yet, I’m not a man trying to compete in the same sport my father helped to revolutionize and literally bring an entire continent’s attention to.
Severino Ferreira differed from many of the early drivers since he came from Brazil in what had been a mostly European dominated sport.
“Such a bore, isn’t it?”
The question drags me out of my head. I turn to see Mrs. Ferreira standing next to me, looking up at the screen that’s now showing another driver from a different team.
She glances down at Lucky, who’s lost interest in the screen and instead has decided to start playing with the tear-shaped emerald pendant that hangs from my necklace.
“And who is this little cutie?” Mrs. Ferreira coos.
Lucky looks up, gives her a curious glance, and as if dismissing her goes back to figuring out the shiny green stone around my neck. I hike him up a little higher on my chest for easier access.
“This is Lucky,” I say to not be rude as I’m sure she already knows who he is. Everyone in motorsport is aware that Travis has gotten married and become a father over the past few months. Alyssia has done the paddock walk with Travis this weekend.
That and the cameras taking photos and video clips of the behind the scenes are the extent that Alyssia has chosen to be in the spotlight.
That includes Lucky, too.
“What a precious name.” She leans in, trying to get Lucky to take her finger, but he ignores her and I have to hide my smile.
This isn’t the first time Mrs. Ferreira and I have met.
“These things are such a bore, aren’t they?” I tug my attention back to her to realize she is talking to me.
“These things?” Clarification is needed.
She nods at the screen before gesturing to the main garage area where tension builds among the Amato employees.
Tense, anticipatory, enough nervous energy to chew my fingernails down to the quick. These are all of the words I would use to describe these moments at the start of a race.
Boring is nowhere near that list.
“I mean, all of this standing around to watch them go round and round in loops.” She laughs to soften the sharp edge of her words, but it still leaves an uneasy feeling worming around inside of me.
Both of my parents have been to countless of Travis’ races since he first took up go-karting. Yet, I doubt they would ever describe his chosen career path in such … almost derogatory terms. They were both torn that they couldn’t be here this weekend.
“If that’s how you view it.” The words slip out before I can stop them.
Mrs. Ferreira’s smile drops for a beat before she affixes it again with practiced ease.
“Oh, come on. I’m certain your parents have complained a time or two over how boring this whole thing is.”
“Maybe they have, but they’ve never said anything to me or Travis, I’m sure.”
“They’re not even here this weekend.” Her voice is oddly insistent, like their absence is proving her point.
“Because my sister is in one of her final fencing competitions of her collegiate career. My brother is with them, but I can assure you they’re all slightly devastated not to be here this weekend, and as soon as this race is over, whether Travis wins or comes in dead last, they’ll be on my phone to congratulate him and tell him how much they love him. ”
I hadn’t meant for all of that to come out. But my annoyance at her trying to imply that my parents would side with her over their own son got the best of me.
“Well …” She flips her hair over her shoulder, her voice coming out crisper than previously. “We’re all proud of our children. That’s a given. We should settle down since the race is about to begin.”
I refrain from telling her that I wasn’t the one who started this conversation. Thankfully, she walks away before I accidentally let those words slip.
“I didn’t think I’d make it,” Alyssia says, sounding in a rush as she comes up beside me. “The amount of people who wanted to stop or take pictures with me. Like I’m a celebrity or something.”
“You kind of are,” I tell her, grinning.
She rolls her eyes. “My husband is the star. I’m just …”
“The love of his life,” I finish.
Her sparkling gaze drops to Lucky. “And his baby mama.” She holds out her hands to my nephew. “He looks pretty comfortable where he is, but if you want, I can take him.”
I twist my body and Lucky away from her, making him giggle. He’s still preoccupied with my necklace, turning it over and running his little fingers over it. I marvel at his exploration of the things we adults take for granted.
“I’ve got him,” I say, making her laugh.
“Great, leaves my hands free to cheer for the start.”
As soon as she says this, a hush falls over the paddock. All of the cars are in position, with Travis having won pole to start from the front of the grid. Max is in fifth. If he wants to finish on the podium, he’ll have to push it hard.
My eyes go over to his mom, who’s having a quiet conversation with the brunette woman she came with. They’re barely paying attention to the screen.
I turn back just in time to see the lights go out, the engines roar anew, and everyone gets off the line.
Travis’ car moves like lightning. It’s evident that he’s adjusted to this season’s car with ease.
Max was a little slow at the start, but is able to maintain his fifth place position, and at the third corner of the race he manages to slip through a hole left open by one of the Edward’s Racing cars, pulling him into fourth place.
A round of applause sounds around the garage when he finesses that move. At points throughout the race, I hold my breath and cheer with everyone else when either Travis or Max make a great move or successfully defend off a car that challenges their position.
I love this sport.
I laugh along with Alyssia when Lucky cheers with the rest of the paddocks once Travis has a great pit stop. A weepiness overcomes my gaze upon seeing him throw his little fist in the air, making cooing sounds even though he likely has no idea what’s happening.
A groan descends over the crowd when one of the drivers from Edwards Racing crashes. Alyssia startles, making Lucky look over at her with alarm. A beat later he starts squirming and crying.
“It’s okay, baby,” Alyssia consoles, finally taking him from me.
She kisses his forehead and soothes him, and I think at the same time, soothing herself.
No, it wasn’t Travis that crashed, and while she’s come a long way, I’m sure it’s still not easy for Alyssia to see or be around a sport where car crashes are normal, given her history.
I watch the race and participate in cheering anytime Travis, and even Max’s car, passes our section of the track.
The time flies by, and soon, an hour and forty minutes have passed. Seconds later, the announcers start listing Travis’ stats.
“With a career total of thirty-one Grand Prix wins to his name, add this one to make thirty-two for Travis Townsend,” the announcer says as the paddock explodes into applause at the same time the checkered flag is waved and my brother crosses the finish lane.
Everyone in the paddock is on their feet, cheering.
Another exhilarating race in Australia is in the bag.
Even as I cheer for my brother, I glance up at the screen in time to see Max’s car cross the finish line in fourth place position. No podium placement for him this time.