On Tuesday morning, I felt better. Legitimately. My head on a pillow for almost twenty hours straight (with trips to the bathroom and two cups of tea in between) actually helped.
When I turned on my bedside lamp at 6:45, the light didn’t bother me much. That was a first since Friday. The sound of Mom’s electric toothbrush in the bathroom as I walked down the hall didn’t chase me back to bed, either. I stood at the counter, drank a cup of coffee, ate three hard-boiled eggs, and looked at my phone to see what assignments were due (and I could read my screen). And then realized I’d totally fallen behind because I hadn’t done a minute of homework since last Thursday.
Mom walked in, wearing her business dress. “You have your meeting with Coach Reynolds today? It’s going to be tough. But it’s the right thing, you know?”
I sighed. “Mom,” I said, leaning on the refrigerator, “how about I stay home?”
“You still dizzy?” She pressed her cold hand against my forehead. “Not better than yesterday? Should we go back to the doctor? What if you’re bleeding internally or something?”
“No. I feel good, actually. Really good. Normal.”
“Don’t lie.”
To show my improvement, I said, “Look, okay?” I did three jumping jacks. “I’m not dizzy. See? No dizziness.”
“Okay? So? School?”
“I got behind on homework. Need a catch-up day.”
“You’re not just avoiding having a hard discussion, are you? Do you want me to call Coach Reynolds? I’m serious, Isaiah. We can go in together.”
“Jesus. I just need to get my damn homework done,” I spat. “I’m not a third grader.”
I never shouted at Mom. She took a step back. “Do what you think is right, kid,” she said. “But you owe it to your teammates to let them know. They’re going to have to adjust to this as much as you are.”
“I have to catch up on homework,” I said.
“Fine,” she said. She softened. “You’re going to be okay, okay?”
“Okay,” I said.
“Call me if you need anything.”
Mom would never have let Hannah have a catch-up day, but she was a different human being now. Dad often complained that she coddled me. Mom often told Dad to stay in his lane. If he hadn’t left us, maybe he could have a say sometimes. In this situation? Had she even talked to Dad about it? What would he say about me quitting football?
I didn’t want to know. He’s not an idiot. He’d probably agree.
I stayed home, drank water, did schoolwork, felt physically better. Did not think about Mom or football. Around noon, I made myself tomato soup and a grilled cheese while singing along to the ’90s Pandora station Mom kept up on her desktop computer in the living room. Half those old bands are impossible to understand when they sing, but I sang anyway.
Life crept back into the universe. Heated the plastic and made it malleable. Chased dust, sand, cobwebs away. It felt good to be inside myself. Singing (I’m a shit singer). Feeling the emotion of the music. Because those old ’90s songs are filled with real feeling, even if the words make no damn sense. My soul was inside my body. I could feel it.
Then, while I was washing the lunch dishes, I looked out the back window toward Grandma’s house. Things weren’t right out there. Not at all. Things were out of place. A pointy girl stood on Grandma’s deck. Pointy girl. Grace. My Grace (yes, my Grace, even though I hadn’t talked to her in almost two years). She smoked a cigarette like she did in half my memories of her. She looked in my direction. Could she see me in the window staring out at her like some frozen gazelle facing a lioness?
I dropped out of sight. I slid to lying on the floor. What was Grace doing at Grandma’s house?
Grace. My Grace. Why? Hanging out with Grandma? Doing Dairy Queen business with Grandma? Grace was the store manager. But wouldn’t Grace and Grandma do their business at Dairy Queen, not at the house in my backyard? What business, anyway? Blizzards? Nobody makes Blizzards in their own house. No way. Or . . . maybe Grace was robbing Grandma, selling Grandma’s jewelry for drug money? Murdering Grandma for drug money . . .
Oh, come on. . . .
Maybe she was dropping something off—paperwork, tax forms, time cards (which are all done on the computer and could be sent by email)—and then decided to stand in the backyard to smoke her cigarette . . . or . . .
What if she missed me? Just wanted to see my house? Wanted to remember being with me. Remember when we were together, secretly. She couldn’t know I’d be home in the middle of the day. What if she missed me?
I missed her.
Shit. I shut my eyes.
Grace.