CHAPTER TWO
SAM
Over a week has passed since everything went down. I was numb for a few days after that night. Some would say I experienced a taste of my own medicine when Oakley rejected me. Some did say that. Others would call it karma. Whatever. I made a decision after a couple of nights of moping around and feeling sorry for myself. I decided to shrug off the loss and start living life. To take advantage of my status on campus. Exploit it even.
I’m a single guy—a hockey star and college athlete—in my prime. I needed to start living like it. So, I began to show up at parties. I began to appreciate the way alcohol dulled my senses, making it easier to cope with the loss of Oakley and the demise of my friendship with Chase. The more I drank, the more distant the drama became. I arrived at those parties alone, but I never left that way. And I lost myself in the soft, warm bodies of female strangers, leaving them behind the next morning. I’m learning that it’s easier not to care and not to get attached.
My social life is booming. If I’m being honest, it was both before and after Oakley. Probably even more so since we broke up. Even now, while driving down the highway, girls are blowing up my phone, wondering what I’m up to tonight. And I know of at least four huge parties across campus.
But my mom called and asked me to come home, which is rare. She wouldn’t say why, just that she missed me and wanted to see me this weekend. She basically wouldn’t take no for an answer. And I have a hard time denying her, which is why I find myself navigating the familiar roads that lead to my childhood home.
I flick my turn signal and exit the freeway.
Really, I could use an excuse to bail from campus for a night or two anyway. A safe place to recharge my batteries. I don’t want to think about Oakley anymore, and the house has been filled with tension between Chase and me since that infamous night of the fight—if you could even call it that with as fast as it was broken up. I’ve done my best to avoid him, and he must be doing the same because even though we are roommates, we haven’t come face-to-face more than once or twice. But there’s always that uncomfortable feeling that we might run into each other and the unpredictability of how either of us will react.
I heard from Mike that Chase and Oakley are officially together now. I’m dreading the day he starts bringing her to the house. It’s a bitter pill to swallow, knowing she didn’t want me back. And I’m practically choking from the fact that she chose Chase over me. Talk about salt in the wound. One of my best friends and my ex-girl …
I try to clear my mind as I park the car in the driveway of my childhood home a few minutes later. It looks the same as always. A ranch-style house with a brick facade. Dad keeps the yard immaculate since taking over my mowing duties when I moved to college. And it looks like Mom is preparing the flower beds for planting soon. There’s fresh soil spread out and several bags of mulch propped against the side of the house. If I stay too long this weekend, I’m sure she’ll recruit me to help her. Free manual labor.
I grab my duffel bag from the back seat and close the door, locking it as I walk to the front door. Mr. Cruise, our seventy-three-year-old neighbor across the street, is trimming a bush in his front yard.
“Sam!” he yells. “You home for the weekend?”
“Hi, Mr. Cruise. Just here for a quick visit.”
“Your parents will be happy,” he comments. “They miss you a lot.” He pauses. “I followed you this season. You guys did great. Too bad it ended the way it did. You were so close to the Frozen Four.”
I sigh and run a hand through my hair, trying to hide my displeasure with a small grin. I’ve heard some semblance of the same sentiment a lot through the past week. It’s hard enough to lose without being reminded of it at every turn.
“Yeah, not the way we wanted the season to end,” I reply flatly.
“You’ll get ’em next year.”
I nod and wave, ending the conversation as I turn toward the house. I smell cookies baking as soon as I open the front door. This is typical of my mom. She’s always making something when I’m around. And I’ll gladly devour whatever it is. The woman can cook.
“Sam, is that you?” Mom calls out.
I drop my bag in the foyer and round the corner. “Hey, Mom.”
Her face lights up when she sees me.
We have the same gray eyes tinted with blue and dirty-blond hair. Other than those two features, I’m a carbon copy of my father with his square jaw and stocky build.
“I’m so glad you’re home,” she says.
I hug her back when her arms collapse around me. My six-foot-two frame towers over her five-foot-four one.
“You didn’t leave me much choice.” She holds on for another minute, causing me to chuckle. “I haven’t been gone that long.”
She ignores my comment, leaning back to look at me. Her hand comes to my cheek as the furrow between her brows deepens.
“What happened to your face?” she asks, the concern evident in her tone.
The swelling on my skin has disappeared from Chase’s punch, but the bruising is still fading. It’s a greenish hue now.
“Hockey.” The lie rolls off my tongue easily.
It’s simpler to blame my war injuries on the sport I love to play. It would be much more complicated to detail how my former girlfriend and my buddy are now hooking up and how it led to my bruised face. Plus, I’ve always been a man of few words, so Mom won’t expect a big explanation.
“I don’t like it when you fight, Sam.”
“I know, Mom,” I say, pulling away. I lean against the counter as she walks over to the oven. “But it’s just part of hockey.”
“Not my favorite part,” she mumbles.
“I’m aware,” I say with a smirk.
I know how much my mom hates the violence of the sport. She always has. She doesn’t see the point of the physical altercations. But when I’m out on the ice, getting checked into the wall every few minutes, the intensity of the game tends to boil over. And after a while, it becomes part of it. Tempers flare, and fists fly. It’s just the way it is. After all these years, she should be used to it by now.
“Leave the kid alone,” my dad says as he walks into view. His arm swings around my neck until he has me in a headlock. “How does the other guy look?”
I duck out of his hold. “Worse.”
I’m younger, stronger, and more agile, but my dad could still give me a run for my money.
Dad grins and gives me a fist bump.
For as much as my mom hates fighting, my dad revels in it. He was a wrestler in high school and college and has the boys will be boys attitude.
My mom scolds my dad with a glance while removing a cookie sheet from the oven. But I see the small smile that erupts when she’s turning away. After twenty-five years of marriage, she’s used to it. Dad heads to the living room.
“Are you hungry?” she asks me as she transfers the cookies from the pan to a cooling rack.
I steal a hot one. I nod, though the question doesn’t need an answer. I’m always ready to eat.
“Be careful,” she warns. “They’re hot.”
The melted chocolate oozes when I pull the cookie apart. It scalds my tongue a bit with the first bite, but as the sugar hits my taste buds, it’s worth a little pain.
“I’m making lasagna. It’ll be ready in an hour or so.”
“Great,” I reply, finishing the first cookie and grabbing two more as I back out of the room. “I’m gonna take a shower.”
“Wait,” Mom says, opening the refrigerator and pouring me a glass of cold milk. She hands it over without asking if I’m thirsty.
My mom has always liked to dote on Dad and me. And we’ve always let her. Does that make me a mama’s boy? Maybe.
Her gaze lingers on me as I take a drink and shove another cookie in my mouth. She’s standing in the middle of the warm kitchen with a funny, faraway look on her face that I don’t recognize.
“Everything okay?” I ask, pausing in the doorway.
Her smile becomes radiant, hiding whatever she was thinking behind it. “Everything is great,” she insists. “It’s just so nice to have you home.”
I decide that I must be imagining things. Mom’s always been overly sentimental. It’s a genetic trait that I definitely didn’t inherit.
I round the corner and grab my duffel bag on the way to my bedroom. Everything is just as I left it, though Mom must’ve made my bed at some point. She gave up on trying to get me to make it years ago. I was home for a few days for Christmas, but had to leave right after for practice and games.
Hockey doesn’t stop, not even for the holidays. The schedule is always tight with travel and preparations for the next game. For that reason, my teammates became my family at some point. I guess that’s why Chase’s betrayal hit so hard. He was like a brother to me. Now … it’s all changed between us. I not only lost Oakley, but I lost Chase too.
I spend the next hour showering and relaxing in front of the television with my dad. It feels good to be home, where things are easy, to escape the madness of sports, school, and partying for a change. I can let down my guard completely here. I didn’t realize how much I needed a break from it all until I was sitting here, shooting the shit with my dad.
We watch hockey—what else? Even though he was never on the ice, my dad embraced the sport as soon as I started playing it, and now, he’s a true fan. He never tried to push me into wrestling, his first love. He just accepted that this was my sport, and I’ve had his full support ever since.
“Dinner’s ready,” Mom calls out from the dining room a little later.
Dad flips off the flat screen, and we both make our way to the other room.
“Smells great,” he comments, taking a seat at the head of the table.
Mom smiles and drags a hand across my dad’s back as she walks behind him. “Sam, can you grab the tea?”
“Sure,” I say, following her into the kitchen and coming back with a pitcher. I fill glasses for all three of us before settling into my chair.
I sit to my dad’s right, and there’s a third place across from me for my mom. She brings French bread to the table that’s dripping in butter and garlic. My stomach growls. I grab three pieces to start, taking a large bite off the end of one before placing the rest on my plate. She follows with a steaming baking dish filled with lasagna.
We pray over our food and dig in. I don’t hold back, eating my fill of the home-cooked meal.
“It’s been too long since we’ve been around the table like this together,” my dad says midway through dinner.
I swallow a mouthful of food as he reminds me of my absence. “Are you trying to make me feel guilty?”
That’s the one drawback to being an only child—all the focus is on me. My parents tried to give me a sibling or two, but it just wasn’t in the cards. Apparently, it had been hard for them to get pregnant with me. It turned out to be impossible to have another kid, though they tried for years.
“No.” He shakes his head. “I know hockey and school keep you busy. And things are only going to get busier when you get to the next level.”
My parents know it’s my dream to make it to the pros. And according to my coaches, it’s an attainable goal. One that I’m determined to make happen.
“I only meant that we miss you and it’s nice to be together again. Even if only for a day or two.”
I glance at my dad, surprised at the emotion I hear in his voice. It’s unusual for him to get sentimental like Mom. I don’t think he ever has before.
The warning bells start sounding in my head. I lower my fork. My suspicion rises as I sense there’s something they aren’t telling me.
“What’s going on?” I ask, my eyes flitting between my parents. “Why did you want me home this weekend?”
Mom’s gaze is locked on her plate. I notice for the first time that she’s barely touched her food.
“Mom?” I push.
Dad reaches over and covers her hand with his. Something inside my chest tightens. The silence that is usually comfortable suddenly becomes unnerving.
“What is it?” I ask again, more demanding this time.
My parents exchange a glance. That one look is filled with so many unspoken words that I can’t decipher the meaning. The air in the room is weighted and heavy. Finally, eyes that are identical to mine stare back at me from across the table. Hers are filled with sadness.
“Remember when I was so tired at Christmastime?” she begins.
I nod. She wore herself out, cooking day after day to make a huge spread for us for the holiday. She’s done that my entire life. Mom loves Christmas. It’s her favorite time of year. She said she’d been attending a lot of parties, too, with church and work friends and that she was exhausted. She lay down for a nap one afternoon when I was home, which she never did. I found it odd at the time, but didn’t think too hard on it.
Dad squeezes her hand.
“Turns out, it was more than just feeling tired.” She pauses.
I take a drink of tea, my throat suddenly dry.
“I went to see Dr. Conrad. He ran some tests …” She trails off, like it’s too hard to go on.
Dr. Conrad is our family physician. There are tears in her eyes. My dad’s eyes are moist too. In all my years growing up, I don’t think I’ve ever seen my father cry.
My hands fall to my chair, and I grip the armrests—bracing for what, I don’t know. But even before Mom confirms my worst fears, I feel it coming. She hasn’t been feeling well. She visited the doctor. She asked me to come home this weekend. This can’t be good news.
“They found cancer.”
I stare at her in silence for a good minute as the declaration spins around inside my head. I can hear the clock ticking behind me even though it’s like time is now standing still. It’s one of those grandfather clocks passed down in a family—specifically my mother’s side. I’ve never been more aware of an inanimate object before.
I study my mother’s face. It’s slightly pale. Why didn’t I notice that before? She’s always been on the thin side, but when I look at her now, it’s obvious she’s skinnier. When did she lose weight?
“What kind of cancer?” I ask. I’m surprised when my voice sounds steady because, inside, I’m falling apart.
“Breast,” she answers.
I glance over at my dad, and he’s the one studying his plate now. Out of the three of us, Mom has always been the strongest one. I guess even in sickness, that fact remains true.
“I start treatment next week,” she continues.
“Next week,” I say incredulously. “And you’re just now telling me?”
There’s accusation in my words. I’m angry at them for keeping this from me. I’m mad that my mom—the gentlest, most selfless person I know—hasn’t escaped this disease. That my world is being turned upside down. Home has always been a refuge for me. But now, my safe space, my soft place to land, is headed to war.
“We just found out,” Mom replies.
“Well, thanks for keeping me in the loop.” Sarcasm oozes from my voice. I don’t want to react like this, but I can’t stop the words from tumbling out.
“Hey,” Dad says sharply. “Watch your tone!”
Mom places her palm on his forearm, always the pacifist. She starts explaining the details of her treatment plan. They’re going to start chemo to try and shrink the tumor, then surgery, and finally radiation. I can’t focus on what she’s saying. I see her lips moving, but barely hear any sound coming out. All I can picture is the way she’s going to suffer while the treatments that are supposed to prolong her life kill some of the good cells in her body, along with the bad. And I’d give anything to take her pain for her.
But I don’t say any of this.
I can’t.
I can barely breathe at this point.
The tears start spilling down her face at some point as my dad continues to glare at me for my selfish response. I can’t stand to see her cry, but I don’t move. I’m too numb.
She leaves the table. She probably doesn’t want me to see her upset. My dad follows her after glaring at me some more. I stare at my plate for a few minutes, no longer hungry.
Then, I rise and walk to my bedroom and lock away the world. I don’t bother to turn on the lights as I lie on top of my perfectly made bed, fully clothed. I lie there for hours, picturing my life and how it’s going to change. What my mother is about to go through. My family doesn’t work without her. She’s the glue that holds us all together. And I’ve taken it for granted all these years. I’ve taken her for granted. I never considered a time when she might no longer be here. I can’t picture it now.
The lights fade outside until I’m drowning in darkness, trapped inside a nightmare I can’t escape. At some point, I fall into a restless sleep.
The next morning, we rise and have breakfast. I force down the food. Mom talks about the weather like nothing is different while everything has changed. She’s overly cheery, always worried more about my feelings than her own.
I’m angry with her, though I don’t know why. None of this is her fault, but my brain is hardwired for selfishness. And she’s stealing my tenuous peace. It was already hanging by a thread after Oakley and Chase.
Our family has always revolved around me, which probably isn’t a good thing, especially when shit hits the fan. I don’t know how to step up and be the support she’s going to need. I’ve never had to be that person. I’ve never been someone’s rock before. I wouldn’t know where to start.
Dad is still mad at me for last night. I can’t blame him, but I can’t find the will to fix it either. I don’t think I know how to even if I had the desire.
Our perfect middle-class family is shattered with just one word. Cancer . It feels sort of like those movies that depict an idyllic American family, but in the end, it’s all a facade. A huge lie. Because nothing is that perfect. And if it is, perfection never lasts. Life always gets in the way.
I make up a reason to leave after breakfast. Both my parents know it’s an excuse, but Mom lets me get away with it anyway. Like I said, she’s the better person here. By far.
I hug her for longer than I usually do. I tell her I’ll call to see how she’s doing and that I plan to be here when they schedule her surgery. But we both know I’m not very supportive. I can say all the right things, but what will happen when it’s actually time for action? What kind of son will I be then? Right now, I’m just going through the motions, and all those emotions that I’ve been running from are catching up to me.
I don’t glance at the house again when I back out of the driveway. I don’t wave at Mr. Cruise across the street. I don’t feel that same comfortable contentment that I felt on the way here. I was home for less than twenty-four hours, yet everything has changed. I can feel my life unraveling, and I’m powerless to stop it. I drive from one house that is no longer my home to another at college, where I don’t feel like I entirely belong either.
I switch to autopilot on the way home, pushing down all the conflicting feelings stirring in my chest. I’m numb, but I welcome the numbness. I don’t want to feel. So, I shove the news about my mother into the same spot as Oakley and Chase. I push it so deep inside that I won’t be able to find it.
Then, I won’t have to acknowledge that everything around me is crumbling.
Just call me Saint Jude, patron saint of lost causes. At least I’m living up to my nickname.