Any other time, I might have done a victory dance or yelled out “Gotcha!” Today there’s nothing to celebrate, though. Because I know what’s coming won’t be good.
Nothing has been good lately, so why should I expect anything different?
“I’ve been looking for another job,” Dad says.
My eyes widen. “Did you get fired?”
Dad shakes his head. “No, nothing like that. I’m still working at my regular job and doing sales.”
“Then why do you need another one?”
Dad looks at the ceiling. He looks at the floor. He looks anywhere but at me. “Because we need more money, sweetheart. Because even with insurance, Mom’s treatment costs money. A lot of money. And after your mother comes home, I’m not sure that her work will be the best environment for her.”
“Oh.” Now I look at the floor, too. When I was a kid, I used to try to make patterns out of the shapes on the tiles, the squares and rectangles fitting together to make all sorts of buildings and animals.
Now I just see lines. Boring blocks. Nothing’s fitting together right now, either before my eyes or in my head.
“So that’s why you had that meeting?” I ask.
“Yup.” Dad nods. “And this phone call. I had a few interviews, and I think I’ve just about lined up a job at the hardware store in town.”
“Big Bob’s Hardware?” I ask, picturing the small storefront between KJ’s Coffee and the dry cleaners.
“That’s the one!” Dad forces an excited tone into his voice. “I’ll be working there a few mornings stocking the shelves and on the weekends at the register. It’ll be fun.”
I think of Dad’s life now, of all the time he spends on the phone, the trips he makes across the state, and the conferences he goes to a few times a year. “Do you have … time for all that?” I ask. “When will you sleep?”
Or be here?
“I’ll manage.” Dad stifles a yawn. “I have to manage. But I have to go, too. Bob will be calling any minute.”
“Okay,” I say slowly. “I’m sorry, Dad. I’m sorry you have to get another job, I mean. I wish I could help.”
I do, too. I’m not that mad at Dad anymore. He was only keeping this secret so I wouldn’t worry. Just like I don’t want him to worry about me, either. That’s why I’ve been hiding how much I cry at night. And how nervous I am about tryouts.
Then I have an idea. “Hey! Maybe I could get a job instead!”
Dad shakes his head. “Oh, Veronica, thank you for the thought, but you’re too young for that.” He gives me a hug. “We’ll be okay. I promise.”
“I want to help, though!” I exclaim. “I can help.”
“You are helping.” Dad squeezes tighter, then pulls back to look at me. “Just by being you. There is one thing, though.” He takes a deep breath. “One thing that you may have to do to help us out. Maybe. I’m not sure yet.”
Dad’s words come out fast, like he’s giving a speech he’s so nervous about that he memorized it and practiced it five billion times.
“What is it?” I hold my breath. It feels like something’s creeping alongside me, just in the corner of my vision. I think I know what it is, but I can’t quite make it out. It’s still in shadow, like in some super-creepy horror movie.
“We may not be able to afford the All-Star team, Veronica,” Dad says. “Between the cost of the new uniforms and all the other fees … well, it’s a lot of money.”
Dad blabbers on, but I’ve stopped listening. My entire body is frozen.
Mom and I planned for me to do the All-Star team. Softball is what we do together. That means it would totally mess up our dynamics if I stopped playing.
I have to do softball for me, too. What would I do without it?
You could sing, a little voice whispers in my head, but I quickly muffle it. Singing is just for fun. It isn’t who I am. Who this family is.
“I have to do the All-Star team!” I plead. “I mean, I have to try out, at least.”
Dad shakes his head sadly. “I know this has been your dream, Veronica, but it may not work out. Not this year.”
“You said it’s because the team will cost money.” I feel like I’m hanging on to the side of a cliff by my fingertips, trying not to fall into the void below. “But isn’t that why you’re getting another job? Won’t that help?”
Dad gives me a sad smile. “The job is to help pay for your mother’s treatment.” He says the word treatment like it’s fragile, like if he stops worrying about Mom for one second, she’ll break into pieces.
But what about me? Shouldn’t I be handled with care, too? And softball is my way to help, to anchor Mom in what we—in what she—used to be.
“How much money could Pine Knolls even cost?” I ask.
Dad sighs. “More than you’d think.”
I grit my teeth together. It’s such a “parent” answer. An “I don’t think you’re old enough to deal with this” answer. But shouldn’t Dad know by now that I can handle a lot? That Mom’s “problem” has made me learn to do that?
“But … but … then softball can’t be that much money. And if I can’t get a real job, then maybe I can do something else to help with the team costs. Like babysit? Or do odd jobs?” My mind flails about for solutions, even though the thought of changing diapers makes me grimace. I have to think of something.
“It’s not just the money, sweetheart.” Dad rubs his eyes. “There are a lot of other factors involved in this.”
“Then what are they?” I demand. Ms. Beatty always tells us that we need to know all the factors before we start working on a math problem. It’s only fair that Dad follow this rule, too.
Dad’s voice hardens. “Veronica Elizabeth, watch your tone.”
I run my fingertip along a grain of wood on the table. “Sorry.” We got this table when I turned ten, when Mom and Dad decided that I was past the age when they’d have to worry about me drawing on things with permanent marker. It’s big and shiny and has these cool table legs that curl up at the bottom. (And no, I haven’t ruined it yet.)
I wonder if my parents realize the irony of Mom being the one to ruin everything.
“It’s not just the cost of softball,” Dad continues. “It’s the travel, too.” I open my mouth to argue, but he holds up a hand. “Let me finish.”
I nod but keep the grumptastic expression on my face.
“I can’t drive you to all your practices and games if I’m juggling two jobs and helping to manage your mom’s appointments.”
I do remember Dad telling me how Mom will have to go to support groups and therapist appointments basically every day once she’s released. “Can’t Mom handle all that herself? She is a grown-up.” I point to the big calendar on the side of the refrigerator, the one Mom says she’d fall apart without. It has all our birthdays and dentist appointments on it. Mom even schedules the times she’s going to food shop each week. “She can write her meetings there.”
“She can. And she might.” Dad’s voice is gentle. “But I want to make sure your mother has as little stress as possible when she’s discharged. Her brain will still be shaky, and she may need encouragement to go to her support meetings. She may need a break from work—or even to change jobs.” He puts his hand on my shoulder. “I have to be here for her, honey.”
Her, but not you.
“What about Claudia’s mom?” I ask. I feel like I’ve swum over my head and am splashing around for anything to hold on to. “I’m sure she can drive me.”
Then I remember the separation. That Claudia’s family is going through a lot right now, too. Dad’s already shaking his head anyway. “I can’t ask that much of another family.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, coaching myself to keep the tears back and stay strong.
Dad gives me a hug. “I know this stinks, Veronica. And there is a small chance that I’m worrying for nothing. Your mother may want to keep her job. She could leave rehab and do amazingly.” His bites his lip, his eyes sad. “I just have to plan for everything.”
“So you don’t think Mom will recover?” I don’t know if I want the answer to this question, but I still have to ask it.
“Of course I do!” Dad squeezes my hand. “I believe in your mother. But I also have to think of all the possibilities. Let’s wait and see,” Dad says. “You can try out for the team still. We’ll know more in a few weeks.”
I nod. I want to argue more, to ask him if I’m supposed to make the team, get all excited, and then … quit when he tells me to? How does he expect me to do that?
Dad’s eyes are steely and his mouth is set, though. It’s his “I’m done talking” expression. His “nothing you say can change my mind” face.
All I can do is work hard and make the team.
I can refuse to give up, too. Because there’s got to be some way I can make that money. Then cross my fingers that Mom will be “recovered enough” for me to play.
“Oh!” Dad looks at the clock on the stove and jumps. “Bob will be calling any minute. I have to go. And Veronica?” He’s halfway down the hallway when he looks back. “Thanks for being so mature about this.”
I don’t answer, but when Dad turns around again I stick my tongue out at his back.