Fadeaway by E. Vickers (ebook smartphone TXT) 📗

thing with the team, and especially with Coach. There’s probably some psychoanalysis in that: trying to earn the love and respect from a father figure that he never got from his own dad.

Are we talking about Coach B or Coach C?

Both, I guess. But I was thinking of Coach Cooper. He’s more like Jake’s dad, in a way. Coach B is more…like a saint.

And it didn’t worry you when he didn’t come home?

I was asleep. The rule is that he comes in and tells me when he gets home, but to be honest, I sleep through that sometimes. And when I woke up, his truck was there.

Is that why you didn’t call the police until almost noon the next day?

Yes. Another thing that makes me a terrible mother.

Now, there’s nobody who thinks that.

I do.

Luke and I are already hoarse from cheering, but when Jake bows as the MVP medal is placed around his neck, we’re too joyful to hold anything in.

It takes him a moment to stand back up, but then there he is: my son, who worked so hard and sacrificed so much. Who has grown more distant and combative all year as he struggled through school and health problems and heartache, chasing this dream. There he is, back to himself, practically glowing in this moment he’s fought for so fiercely, and for all these years. It’s not until I see that pure, true smile that I realize how long it’s been since I’ve seen it.

Luke and I watch as the crowd files out. The longer we wait, the more I dread the drive home on the dark, icy highway when I’m already worn down and there’s more snow in the forecast.

Finally there’s Jake, running toward us from the parking lot instead of from the locker room. Maybe the celebrations have already started. I stand, ready to deliver a whole speech about how proud I am of him and how I hope he’ll take a moment to soak it all in so he’ll always remember this night.

But Jake has no time for any of it. “Bus is leaving,” he says, dropping an arm across my shoulders and knocking knuckles with Luke.

“Okay,” I say. “I love you.”

He bounds down the bleachers so fast I’m not sure he heard me.

He definitely isn’t there to hear his little brother, reliving every play for the whole ninety-minute drive home.

Luke’s knees bounce as the memories bubble over. “Remember when Jake stole the ball and actually swatted it through that defender’s legs?”

“Maybe,” I say, frustrated that I don’t. That even my best efforts at supporting my sons are not really enough for either of them. A semi pulls up behind me, following too close, then swerves into the passing lane at the last second. The trailer fishtails, swinging near us as the wheels spray snow across our windshield.

“Did you notice how they switched their whole defense at halftime to try to stop Jake, and it still didn’t work?”

Did you notice that I’m driving through a blizzard? I bite back the question just in time for Luke to ask another.

“Which happened first: the three-pointer that almost rolled out or the one that rattled around the rim?”

“I don’t know,” I snap. The tires lose traction, and all at once we are sliding, not driving. The treads regain their grip before I have time to react, but the slip leaves me breathless, heart racing.

“But you were there,” Luke says. “Weren’t you watching?”

“Of course I was watching,” I say, eyes still on the road, trying to keep my voice even. One son I spend my life watching, and the other I spend my life listening to. But sometimes I wonder if either of them even sees me. Hears me. “I just don’t understand the game like you do. I can’t remember every single play. I have other things to think about.”

Luke gets quiet, and for a minute that’s a relief. We reach a few miles of dry road, and my grip loosens on the steering wheel; my jaw relaxes. I realize the radio is on and start to hum along. But then I look over at my incredible son, who is now afraid to speak. I reach to scratch his arm with my free hand, just the way he likes.

“I’m sorry, Luke. I do have other things to think about. That’s why I need you to pay attention to the details for me,” I say. “You’re a lot better at it than I am. What would I do without you here to tell me the stuff I miss?”

But he answers his own question instead of mine. “The one that almost rolled out happened first,” he says. “I remembered while I was being quiet.”

“Oh, good,” I say. “I’m glad you remembered.”

—

After I’ve gotten Luke to bed, I stand at the bathroom sink, troubled by something floating right below my consciousness that I can’t quite grab hold of. I swallow my blood-pressure medication, then lift a smaller bottle from the shelf. I shake one sleeping pill into my palm, then another.

It’ll be fine, I assure myself.

Two is reasonable after a night like tonight.

I probably won’t even need one tomorrow, and then I’ll be right back on schedule.

The sleeping pills are new. It used to be caffeine to keep me awake, back when I was working at the Dollar Depot while I finished my teaching degree. But this year, there’s no danger of my mind slowing down, even when I want it to. So if I want to fall asleep instead of worrying about my sons or my students all night, I need a little help.

“A glass of wine would do the same thing as a pill,” Mrs. Cooper said once when I told her I had trouble sleeping. “Relaxes your mind, signals to your body that it’s time to go to sleep. Are you sure you don’t drink?” She said it with a smile, and I didn’t take offense, but I also didn’t tell her that I wouldn’t