The next morning, I lay in bed and listened to silence in my head. So quiet. I’d slept for seventeen hours straight. It was a relief to hear silence. No girl crying, no witch whistles, no bell ringing, no nothing. But I didn’t feel right, still. I felt numb and exhausted.
In my second life, my football life, Sundays are days I give to other people. It starts with Grandma Gin. I drive her to the ten o’clock church service. Then, if there’s a noon Packers game, we stay at her house. Mom comes over. We eat brats or lasagna or something. I help Grandma do chores in the yard or in the house. Later in the day, I go to Dad’s apartment. Twiggs often joins me there for food and Sunday-night football, and we do some homework, too.
I loved my Sundays. I loved my time with Grandma, even the church part, because the pastor is smart and funny. I enjoyed listening to him.
But on that Sunday, the idea of getting up, getting out of bed, showering, putting on clothes tighter fitting than gym shorts? Felt impossible. I could barely move.
So, I was pleased when Mom knocked on my door and said, “I called Grandma. I told her you were sick, couldn’t make it today.”
“Good, thanks. Maybe we can still go over and watch the Packers with her later.”
“Sure, Isaiah. I probably won’t. I’ve got some work. But you can if you’re feeling like it.”
The light from the hallway haloing Mom bothered me, so I turned over and faced the wall.
“Isaiah?” Mom asked.
“Yeah?”
“I would like it if you got up, though. Maybe we can go to Country Kitchen for breakfast?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think I want to.” We did lots of breakfasts at Country Kitchen, and I loved them, but the idea made me sick now.
“No. It’s important to me,” Mom said. “I’d like us to talk this morning.”
I breathed deep. I did not want to go.
“Start moving,” Mom said. “You’ll feel better.”
Even though I felt like an empty candy wrapper left in an old winter coat pocket, I knew the real me, should that Isaiah ever return to my body, would want to convince Mom that everything was all right so she wouldn’t worry. “I do feel better,” I said. “Just sleepy.”
Twenty minutes later, we drove across town to Country Kitchen. I tried to be normal.
“Was Grandma Gin mad that I wasn’t picking her up for church?”
“No. She said she might skip herself. Apparently last week’s sermon irritated her.”
“I know,” I said. “I was there.”
“What liberal assault did the pastor unleash?” Mom asked.
“Something from the New Testament. Like, blessed are the peacemakers or something.”
“Ha. What a communist.”
“Threat to American values, he is,” I said.
Easily a third of my conversations with Mom involved making jokes about Grandma Gin’s “political conservatism.” My aunt Melinda left her husband a couple years ago because she got romantically involved with a woman (she’s still with her—Judy Gunderson—she’s a nurse in the hospital in La Crosse where Melinda works). Grandma Gin took Melinda’s husband’s side. Grandma Gin won’t speak to Melinda, which has caused another break in a family full of brokenness. Still, it felt like a lie to make easy political jokes about Grandma like that, but the jokes filled Mom with glee, so I participated. If Grandpa John were still around, things would be different.
In the restaurant, we sat in one of those little two-person booths. Squeezed in. I tried to choke down the bacon, broccoli, and cheese omelet I’d ordered, even though it tasted like sand. I felt like strewn garbage shivering in the wind. It didn’t help that Mom was silent the moment we sat down. Her eyes stayed glued to a spot a few inches left of my forehead. She was very still while I shook. She didn’t eat her sausage-and-onion scramble. Finally, after I finished choking down my breakfast, I felt obligated to engage.
I tried to focus the thoughts in my cracked bell, picked up a piece of raisin toast, and pointed it at her. I used the jokey tone that she appreciates. “Sooo . . . you wanted to talk? Better do that before I pass out from this butter overdose.”
She sniffed. “That’s right,” she said. “You’re right. I’m just having a hard time with this.”
“With what?”
“Isaiah, you know how much I’ve been through in the last five years.”
“I do. It’s been bad.”
“I’ve lost so much.” She shook her head. “Too much for a woman my age.”
“I know.”
“And now you hear witch whistles in your head? Witch whistles, Isaiah? What the hell is that?”
“I don’t hear the whistles very often.”
“That’s not what you told the doctor yesterday.”
“Really. I hear whistling very rarely.” I didn’t mention the girl screaming or the pounding or the ringing or the winds that whipped dried grasses and garbage.
Mom turned. She looked out the window to her right. “You should never hear whistles in your head.” She swallowed, took in a sharp breath. “We have bad luck in this family. I don’t know why. It’s terrible. I’m so sorry.”
“Sorry about what?” I said.
“You can’t invite more bad luck. You can’t just open the door wide.”
“I’m not opening a door,” I said.
She turned back, faced me. “Second impact syndrome, Isaiah?”
“What?”
“Death. Or permanent brain damage. This is what you get from football?”
“Millions of people play football, Mom. I’m not going to die.”
“Some of them die, Isaiah!” Mom said, volume dialed up.
An old couple at the neighboring table paused midbite, like synchronized swimmers suddenly stuck in the middle of a routine. They turned toward us.
“Isaiah,” Mom whispered. “I’m not going to let you die on a football field.”
“I’m not going to die on a football field.”
“That’s right, because I’m not going to let you play anymore.”
The old couple leaned toward us, to get their ears closer.
And I couldn’t process. It didn’t make sense.
“Really, honey. You can’t play football anymore,” she said quietly. “We don’t know what you’re doing to your brain. People die. Even later in life. People die from this. That man from the Bears? What’s his name from San Diego? Junior Seau? People die. And you’re hearing that brain damage in your head, sweetie. It’s whistling at you. People really die.”
“I know they die,” I said. “I know lots of people die.” The whistling rose. Wind ripped across ridges, picked up dust and sand. The crying rose.
Mom pulled in a breath through her nose. She sat up straight. “I can talk to Coach Reynolds, if you want. I can tell him what happened and why we’ve come to this decision. You don’t have to bear the burden, Isaiah. I know this isn’t easy. But your life is more valuable than a high school football game.”
Crying witches. “We could win state,” I said.
“Your life is more valuable than winning state,” she said. “Do you want me to call Coach Reynolds? We can have him over this afternoon, if you want.”
“No. Just wait. Just please let me think, okay?” I said. It wasn’t just winning state. It was so much more than winning any game. It was my whole past. It was my future.
“Okay, but we’ve made this decision already. Do you understand?”
I shut my eyes. The room spun, accelerated, until it whipped around me, a tornado.
“We have to go home,” I said.