12. “Things Can Only Get Better”
Chapter 12
“Things Can Only Get Better”
Taz - Age 18, 1988
F ifth period is English. It’s an unfortunate coincidence that this class is right after lunch. English class is always a struggle for me, but being wound up from lunch will make it more difficult to concentrate. And to make matters worse, Delzy’s in this class with me, which will only add to the chaos.
When Ivy walks in, we’re hanging out in our usual spot at the back of the classroom with a few other students. She looks slightly happier than at lunch, but her head is down, obviously retreating back into her shell like some hot Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle.
She glances at our group and quickly looks away, pulling items out of her backpack methodically.
“Look who’s here.” I lean in and tease Delzy, prompting the teacher to ask if we’d like to share what we’re discussing. I hate when they ask that. Just once, I want to answer, “Your mom.” But that kind of smart-ass remark will get me in trouble with Coach. Our teachers all know we play for the Mavs, and they hold it over our heads whenever possible.
As the class finally settles down, he drones on about the syllabus. I tune out, already thinking about my plans for after school. When the teacher passes out a form to sign up for a book project and prepare a group presentation, I immediately grab it and scan for Delzy’s name. We both often miss school for games, so working on the same project together makes sense. Plus, we both know how to hustle and get things done efficiently.
I sign my name under his and then the paper goes to some lame chick I made out with at a party last summer, and she and her friend sign up under me. I can see the disappointment on Delzy’s face that we all signed up to work on the same project. I should’ve picked a different one and led them away so he could work with Ivy alone.
I give him a contrite look and shrug my shoulders as the girls excitedly talk about whether Kirk Cameron or Michael J. Fox would make a better Holden Caulfield. It takes everything in my power not to roll my eyes, but I do a good job of hiding my irritation. Delzy doesn’t reign it in quite as well.
One minute, the girls are squeaking about boy bands and the next, Amber says something about Ivy that I don’t quite catch. What I can’t miss is the way Delzy goes off on her afterward. Not that Amber isn’t an elitist asshole, but I’ve never seen him react this way before.
Looks like Ivy has a protective hockey-playing stalker on her hands.
As I stretch on the cold ice rink before the game, the anticipation builds within me. The music blares in my ears, drowning out any outside distractions. This is where I thrive, where I feel most like myself. All other worries melt away when I’m on the ice and I am fully present. It’s a fleeting but precious feeling I treasure every time I play.
This game is exactly what I needed. I feel more like myself when we take the ice for the first period.
The referee drops the puck, and Delzy passes it to me. I weave to the right, pass it away before getting checked, and follow the play. The puck returns to Delzy as I’m setting up for my shot. He passes it quickly behind the defender and I take a split second to set up before slapping it toward the net. The goalie bats it away with his glove, but it slides right back at me, and I instinctively aim for the left side of the net. It sails in with a satisfying swish as the crowd goes crazy. It’s my second goal of the game, and it’s a good one. I was hoping for a hat trick, but those are rare. It’s always my goal in every game.
The emotions that follow are the same for every hockey game I’ve played over the past few years, win or lose. The final buzzer sounds, and my teammates look toward family and friends in attendance for either consolation or celebration. I don’t bother to look around. No one has shown up for me for years. So, after every game, I fight the urge of disappointment, square my shoulders, and act like a leader. Fake it til you make it, right?
“What are you up to now,” I ask Delzy as he pulls his shirt over his head.
“I think I’m going to visit my mom at the dealership,” he replies. “She must have had to work today.”
I nod my head and look at him with curiosity.
“What?” he asks.
“What was up with you in class the other day?”
His brows pinch in confusion. “What do you mean?”
“You really went after Amber when she started talking shit about the new girl.”
“The new girl’s name is Ivy ,“ he reminds me. “And Amber deserved it. She was being bitchy for no reason.”
“I mean, she always is.” I agree with a shrug, “But you never go off on someone like that.”
“I know, I just...I can’t stand how they’re all talking about her. It’s not right. She seems like she’s been through a lot.”
“What do you mean? The kidnapping? Or something else?” I ask.
He hesitates. There’s more to this story and Ivy than he’s letting on.
“I think you’re into this girl,” I tease. “Better tell Garrison and the guys to lay off.”
He rolls his eyes, but there’s no emotion to back up his protest. “I wouldn’t go that far,” he protests weakly. “I’m just curious about her.”
I don’t believe him for a moment, and he knows it, but if he wants to tell me more, he will. Besides, I’m curious, too. Not about Ivy, but what her new little goth friend is up to these days.
My heart sinks at the thought of heading home after the game. My dad and brother will probably be lounging around, their usual lazy selves. Instead, I decide to take a detour and visit Gram at Rose Meadows.
The drive from this side of town to the nursing home takes about forty minutes. I dread it every time. The air is thick with the smell of antiseptic and old age. The sounds of wheelchairs squeaking and patients calling out random names fill the halls.
Rose Meadows isn’t a terrible place by any means. It’s actually one of the nicer nursing homes in the area. But it’s still a nursing home, a reminder that my grandmother’s body is no longer able to keep up with her sharp mind.
I’ll never forget the call I received when she fell and broke her hip on her way to retrieve her mail. I was fourteen, and I had managed to hide the fact that both my brother and dad were losing touch with reality. I couldn’t stand the thought of her giving up her life again for me.
It was a sweltering summer day, with temperatures reaching into the eighties even as the sun began to set. She lay on the curb for nearly an hour before a kind neighbor noticed and called for help. By the time she arrived at the hospital, she was in excruciating pain, dehydrated, and disoriented. Seeing her like that broke my heart into pieces.
Thankfully, I was home when the hospital called. My heart raced as I answered, and they explained the situation, hearing the grim news that my grandmother had been rushed to the hospital.
The only hospital around here is about twenty miles away, an equal distance between her home and mine. At that moment, that seemed like the other side of the country. How could I get there fast enough? I ran out of the house, my mind racing with worry and fear.
The city bus stop was four blocks away, but it felt like miles as I sprinted towards it. My legs and arms shook with adrenaline and emotion, tears streaming down my face. When the bus finally pulled up, I stumbled onto it, trying to catch my breath.
The ride to that side of town was excruciatingly slow. Every second felt like an eternity as I prayed for it to end. When we arrived at the hospital, I practically flew off the bus and into the emergency room where she was being treated. My heart sank at the sight of her hooked up to multiple IVs, her body weak and frail.
Despite my desperate pleas for information, no one would tell me anything because I was just a kid. But they didn’t understand—I was her only family, the only one who truly cared.
It wasn’t until she opened her eyes and saw me there by her side that reality hit. The dam broke as tears streamed down my face, and my body heaved with sobs. She looked so small and fragile lying there in that hospital bed—and deep down, I knew our lives would never be the same.
I wish I had been wrong, but I wasn’t. Gram had her hip surgery and went to stay at a rehabilitation center for a few weeks to get stronger and go home. She was never able to return home after that day.
My dad was able to get his shit together enough to help move the things she wanted to keep into our garage. Everything else was sold in a garage sale over the course of a long, hot Saturday afternoon. Gratefully, Farrah was already gone, so Gram didn’t have to say goodbye to her the same day she said goodbye to her home.
The money from everything was put into my grandmother’s account, with no access given to my dad. Even though I never told her about the state of things at home, I think she knew. The long hours I was home alone and the fact that she could never get my dad on the phone was difficult signs to ignore. So, she did a smart thing by not giving him access to her money. That’s one thing I’ve always been grateful for.
I pull into the small building’s parking lot. The facility is home to about 30 residents. From the outside, it looks like a cottage, with light blue paint and a white picket fence surrounding it. The fence serves two purposes: It’s aesthetically appealing and helps to keep people who like to wander from venturing beyond the safety of the grounds.
Thankfully, Gram isn’t one of those people. She still maintains her mental faculties, for the most part. She’s a little forgetful, which is kind of expected at her age.
I visit multiple times a week. Denise, the friendly receptionist, greets me with a warm smile as I sign in on the provided visitor form. Looking around, I see no one else has visited Gram today. It’s always like this—just me. If I dwell on it for too long, a pang of sadness hits me.
“Hello, Michael,” Denise says, walking me toward room eight—the cramped four hundred-square-foot space my grandmother calls home. “Did you have a game earlier?”
“I did,” I reply with a sly grin. “We won again, as usual.” My eyes wander to the door of room eight, and I ask, “How’s Gram doing today?”
“She’s doing well,” Denise replies kindly. “She ate all of her lunch and even took a nap. She may still be sleeping.”
I nod and knock softly before opening the door. “Come in.” I hear my grandmother’s familiar voice beckon from inside.
I offer Denise a genuine smile of gratitude before stepping into Gram’s cozy living space. The air is filled with the soft strains of the radio and the rhythmic click-clack of knitting needles. Gram has taken to knitting in her retirement, and I have a vibrant knitted blanket on my bed that she made in the colors of the Mavericks. Her face lights up as soon as she spots me, and she greets me with her usual endearing nickname.
“My darling boy,” she says. Just being in her presence fills me with warmth and unconditional love.
“Hi, Gram.” I bend down to kiss her forehead, feeling the delicate grip of her bony fingers around my arms.
We spend the afternoon catching up on each other’s lives from the past few days. She asks about hockey, school, and whether or not I’ve found a girlfriend yet.
My grandmother has always had strong opinions about my love life, and I can’t help but smile at her playful teasing. Whenever I mention my desire to be a ladies’ man, she scoffs and rolls her eyes in mock disapproval. Part of me knows she only wants me to be happy and settled down, especially as she ages. But I assure her that I have my friends and my passion for hockey to keep me company.
The clock strikes midnight, and I let out an exhausted sigh. Two more hours left in this mind-numbing shift at The Rogue Inn. It’s not the worst motel in town, but it’s certainly not a luxury destination either. It’s the kind of place you stay when you’re desperate for a roof over your head and don’t care about amenities like continental breakfast or soft bath towels.
The owner, Dwight, arrives around 2 am to start his day. I man the front desk from 10 pm to 2 am, a few nights per week to earn some extra cash. It’s a grueling schedule that leaves me drained and probably affects my hockey game, but I don’t have a choice. My dad pays for our house, but not much else. I cover my own expenses—food, hockey equipment, and the maintenance of my beat-up truck. Insurance is out of the question for me. I know it’s risky and could come back to bite me in the ass, but I simply can’t afford it.
With every spare penny I make, I tuck it away in a Folgers coffee can hidden in the back of my closet for Gram. She deserves so much better than her current living situation, which is why my first order of business when I sign an NHL contract will be finding her a nicer place closer to me. Despite the challenges and sacrifices, making money at The Rogue Inn allows me to save for that future dream.
I make my way into the back office, craving a caffeine fix to keep me going. I pour myself a cup of coffee from the pot I brewed a few hours ago and take a sip. It’s as thick and dark as motor oil, with a bitter aftertaste that lingers on my tongue. But I know it’ll give me the boost I need to tackle this English assignment.
As I sit down at my desk, I try to focus on the book in front of me, though my thoughts keep straying. Memories of hockey games, school stress, hanging out with friends, my loving grandmother, and my dysfunctional family all jumble together in my mind. But one thought keeps resurfacing: Sascha Bell. I kept her at a distance for years, an old friend and part of my life I was desperate to forget. But ever since she became friends with Ivy and came back into my life wearing tight black sweaters and a shitty attitude, I can’t stop thinking about her.
Even now, as I try to concentrate on the book, images of her invade my mind. Is she sleeping right now? What does she wear to bed? My imagination runs wild as I picture her in a black band t-shirt and lacy black panties. Shaking my head to clear the distracting thoughts, I adjust the slight bulge in my jeans and turn my baseball cap backward in an attempt to focus on the task at hand. But no matter how hard I try, I can’t seem to push Sascha out of my mind.