Offside

I had no idea what time it was when I finally drifted off.

I woke up, wide-eyed and staring at the ceiling.

September twenty-third.

I sat up and wrapped my hands around my knees. I could feel it coming just like it did every year, and there was nothing I could do to stop it. The images were always crystal clear, just like every day since, but in sharper focus because of the number of times I had watched it all play out in my head. I closed my eyes and just tried to wait it out.

I woke up and pranced down the stairs in my pajamas to watch cartoons in the living room. Mom was making pancakes, and Dad was reading the paper. When she called me over for breakfast, I noticed my pancake had fourteen blueberries in it, and Dad’s only had twelve. Mom got them at the farmer’s market, and they were big and juicy and fresh. The maple syrup was in a ten-ounce glass bottle.

My game was early that day, so as soon as breakfast was over, we all piled in the car. I was already dressed for the game—cleats and shin guards and jersey—and I was bouncing the ball on my knee in the backseat.

We got to the field, and I started looking around the back seat, but I couldn’t find my gloves. I remembered they were on the bench near the front door. I left them there after practicing with Dad in the back yard the night before.

“How can you forget your damn gloves, Thomas?” Dad snapped. “You’re a keeper, for God’s sake.”

“They didn’t get back in my bag,” I said. “I thought they were in there.”

“You have to check these things!” Dad growled as he shook his head.

“Don’t yell at him, Lou,” Mom scolded. “I’ll go back and get them. We’re only five minutes from home, and there’s plenty of time before the game.”

And so she left.

And we waited.

And waited.

And waited.

The coach called us to the center of the field. We all shook hands, and the ref blew the whistle, so I started the game without gloves.

When I stopped the ball, I had to rub my hands on my legs to get rid of the sting. That’s what I was doing when I heard Dad’s phone go off. At about the same time, Sheriff Skye showed up on the edge of the field. He headed for Dad.

The game went on, but I lost focus as the sheriff went up to him and put his hand on Dad’s shoulder.

The ball went into the net behind me as I watched Dad jump out of his folding chair and start running back to the parking lot. Sheriff Skye went over to talk to my coach and then the ref before the whistle was blown to start play again. Coach called me over to the sideline and said I needed to go with the police officer. While in the cruiser on the way to the hospital, Sheriff Skye told me about the wreck.

I put on a button down shirt with a pair of dark colored Dockers. I pulled my black tie out of the closet and in front of the bathroom mirror, I tied it in a full Windsor knot. I pulled a warm sweater on over my shirt in case it was cold outside. After I was dressed, I headed past Dad—who was passed out on the couch—and slipped outside. Back behind the garage, I picked up the pot of bright yellow mums.

Gripping the key to the Jeep, I slowly turned it, and the car started smoothly. I made sure the mums weren’t going to tip over on the floor of the passenger seat and started heading down the drive. It didn’t take long to get there—it wasn’t that big of a town—and the city cemetery was on the same side of town as our house.

I pulled into the parking lot and got out of the car, carrying my potted mums and a small hand shovel. I walked through the trees and around a couple of large stone monuments. There was a little mausoleum in the center of the cemetery, and I walked to the left of that. Near the edge of the path, there was a large, rectangular stone of mauve-colored marble.

Francis Malone

Beloved Wife and Mother

Getting down on my knees in the damp grass, I used the little shovel to dig a hole big enough for the mums, pulled the flowers out of their plastic pot, and planted them in the ground next to the headstone. Leaning back on my knees, I took a deep breath as I ran my hands through my hair. I shifted a little and dropped my ass down next to her headstone and then pulled my knees up close to my chest.

“Hi, Mom,” I said softly. “I, um…I brought you some flowers. They were on sale.”

I cleared my throat and wrapped my arms around my legs.

“I’m sorry for what I did,” I whispered. “I’m still keeping my promise, though. I’ll never forget anything again—I swear it. I haven’t forgotten anything since that day, Mom. Nothing.”

For a while I just sat, reliving the day over and over again…the ride to the hospital, sitting in the waiting room for hours before someone comes to take me back to another room where I sit for hours again. Dad finally coming in, freaking out, taking me to the room where she is—hooked up to a dozen noisy machines that are the only things keeping her alive. Saying goodbye. Being taken away by the nurse who tries to give me coloring books to occupy myself while Dad is switching off the machines. Going home. The look in Dad’s eyes as he hits me over and over again. Knowing it was my fault. Knowing I deserve all of it.

He told everyone I was too torn up to come to the funeral. He didn’t want them to see the bruises.