Chapter 3 #2
The break is over for the boys—Noah gives two sharp, shrill blasts on his whistle, organizing the boys into a loose ring around the faceoff circle at center ice, and then dividing the players into two teams by a logic clear only to him.
I watch the faceoff from the top of the bleachers, waiting for Mal to peel herself away from the hockey.
The faceoff is won handily by Robby Ryerson against Derek Ulinsky.
The scrimmage is on then, with a clatter of sticks on ice and pads crunching against pads and blades carving and scraping, voices grunting and calling and cursing.
"Sorry, Coach," I hear her say to Noah as he hangs on the boards near her to watch the play, "Mom's got a whole…thing…about me and hockey. It's not you, I promise."
This only pisses me off even more, because I do have a whole thing.
I don't want to have a whole thing, but I do.
A therapist would probably have a field day with it, but I'm not seeing a therapist because I suppress my problems like a real adult.
I troll the Nordstrom Rack app for deals on purses because that's where I get my serotonin.
I watch reality TV to feel better about my life because if nothing else, I've never had a screaming match in a five-star restaurant, and I've certainly never used the phrases turn a new leaf or start a new chapter in our friendship. ,
I am fully aware that the heat of my anger regarding this incident is totally out of scale. I just can't help it. I'm in my Jeep and fuming as I wait for Mallory to exit the arena.
She tosses her gear bag in the back seat and climbs in beside me. "Mom—"
I hold up a hand. “Just…shush. Not now. Please."
Wisely, Mal closes her mouth and remains silent the whole way home.
She retreats to her Fortress Of Solitude—I mean, her room; I spend the rest of the afternoon rage-cleaning the house and avoiding thinking about why I'm so irrationally mad about this.
And no, I'd never, ever admit out loud that I'm being irrational, but I totally am.
I have to get there on my own, thank you very much.
By the time I've run out of energy—not anger, unfortunately—I've deep cleaned the kitchen, including using steel wool and Barkeeper's Friend on the inside of my oven door, scrubbed the grout with an old toothbrush, and reorganized the glasses cabinet so the glasses are arranged by size, ascending from left to right as it should be in an orderly world.
I took everything out of the fridge and freezer, discarded a jar of four-year-expired pickles, a container of crusty mustard, a jar of ranch dressing that could win awards at a science convention, six bags of freezer-burned mixed vegetables from the Obama administration, and a bag of shredded cheese that could be used to jumpstart life on another planet.
Mal comes down to find me eating Rocky Road ice cream out of the container—mostly, I'm performing archeological digs to excavate the chunky little chocolate guys.
"That's dinner, huh?" Mallory says. "I approve."
"Grab a spoon, then," I tell her.
She does so and bellies up to the island beside me. "You're digging out all the crunchy balls."
"Yup."
"Rude."
We eat ice cream in silence for a while.
"Why hockey, Mal?" I ask, eventually, tossing my spoon into the sink and leaning back in the high-backed bar stool, pushing the carton toward Mal.
She doesn't answer right away, taking her time as she chases the last few bites of ice cream and then tossing the carton in the trash. She licks her spoon clean, huffs on it, and sticks it to the end of her nose. "I like it. It’s fun.”
"Mal. C'mon. This is me trying."
She sighs. "How about we have this conversation over a nice glass of wine?"
“Okay,” I say through a spluttering, sarcastic laugh. “Nice try, sweetie.”
"Worth a shot." She tosses the spoon into the sink and unconsciously mirrors my pose: one foot up on the stool's foot railing, the other propped against my backside on the edge of the chair, arms hugging my bent knee.
"The truth is, I like both. Figure skating is…
it's an art form and a sport at the same time.
It requires precision, focus, and creativity. I'm good at it. I enjoy it."
"But hockey…?" I prompt.
"It’s just plain fun," she finishes for me.
"It's the opposite of figure skating. I don’t have to think, I just have to do. I can let loose. Unleash everything inside me and just…” she makes claws of her hands and snarls.
"Be aggressive and…I dunno. In general, there's nowhere I'd rather be than on the ice.
I don't want to quit figure skating, Mom, I just want to add hockey. "
“I see."
She rests her cheek on her knee and looks at me with her head tilted sideways. "Is it my turn to ask a question and get an honest answer? No bullshit, no avoiding or evading, just the raw truth."
"One question," I allow. "Choose wisely.
" I hold up a hand. "And before you ask, just know that I'm not ready to talk about why I got so mad at the rink earlier.
I'm still trying to process it myself, and I can't give you a fully self-aware answer yet.
Dunno if that changes what you're gonna ask or not. "
“It doesn't." Her eyes betray a surprising depth of emotion.
"This isn't about hockey, is it?" She shakes her head; I sigh. “Hit me with your best shot, then. I’ll do my best to be forthcoming, depending on what you're about to ask."
She hesitates anyway, clearly nervous to ask her question; yeah, this ain't about hockey.
"What is it, Mal? Out with it."
She sighs, lengthily through pursed lips and puffed-out cheeks. "My father."
This is where a writer, narrating my life and emotions and reactions, would say something like "her gut flipped" or "Morgan's heart sank."
That would be wholly inaccurate; my entire being revolted at the question.
Before I can respond, she continues. "I know you don't want to talk about it.
You've shut down this conversation every time I've brought it up.
I see the look in your eyes, Mom. But I…
" she drops her head, shaking it and shrugging.
"I just…I have questions only you can answer, and I…
I need you to talk about it." A long pause, and then, her voice thick with emotion: “Please, Mom.”
"I hear you," I say, keeping my tone carefully neutral. "Just…just give me a second, okay?"
She nods. "If you need time, I can wait—I’ve waited this long, after all. I just need you to understand that I need some answers, at some point."
I pat her thigh, shoot her a small, tense smile. "Before I say anything else, I just want to say I'm…I dunno. Impressed, I suppose, at how maturely you articulated yourself."
She rolls a shoulder, visibly uncomfortable, and then pulls out her phone and starts scrolling—a not-so-subtle signal that she's willing to wait for me to gather my thoughts.
I'll never be ready to talk about it—about him.
My daughter has questions and deserves answers, however, ready or not, like it or not.
"Let's go sit on the couch," I tell her. "Or better yet, c'mon, follow me." I grab our favorite blanket—heavy, silky soft, and ultra-cozy for long Alaskan winter nights—and head out onto the back deck.
The stars are truly breathtaking. It’s the kind of sight you never, ever get used to. It helps that we live a few minutes outside town, and that Tomlin Falls has regulations intended to minimize light pollution.
Mal and I snuggle up together on the wicker outdoor couch and pull the blanket up to our chins.
It's after seven in the evening, so it's dark out, but still too early for the Northern Lights—another thing you never really become inured to, unless you're some kind of soulless monster who doesn't appreciate natural beauty.
I mentally gird myself. "I don't really know where to start, so I guess just ask your questions, honey."
"Who was he? What was he like? Why did you break up? Why did he leave? Why haven't I ever gotten so much as a birthday card from him?"
I laugh—it's bitter, cynical. "Right into the deep end, huh? Okay." I swallow hard. "His name is Kevin Ellis-Baker."
She blinks. "Ellis-Baker, hyphenated?"
I nod. "Yup. Middle name Conrad, if you must know.
Kevin Conrad Ellis-Baker. He was born and raised in Fairbanks.
His father was an accountant, and his mother a third-grade teacher.
He went to U-A Fairbanks and graduated with honors with a degree in accounting.
He's a forensic accountant, actually, which just means he's really good at math and figuring out when and how people cheat at their finances. "
Mallory snickers. "Well, I clearly didn't inherit my math skills from him."
I cackle. "Unfortunately for you, no, you didn't." My mirth fades fast. "What was he like? At first, he was different than what I was used to. Gentle. Nice. Articulate. Paid attention to me. Home a lot, had regular hours."
Mal absorbs this. "I'm sorry, but…what? This raises so many questions."
"Ehhhhboy," I say it in a joking, nasally tone. "Okay, hit me."
"If all of that was different from what you were used to…"
"I don't talk about my past very much, because it's…
well, it's not my favorite subject. I like to think that my life only really started when I had you.
Um…" I wiggle a hand out from under the blankets to scratch my nose.
" I guess I'll have to give you some quick background on your mother. I grew up in a town even smaller than Tomlin Falls, north of Fairbanks. It was even farther from civilization than we are.”
She looks positively horrified. "But…why?"