Page 78 of Poetry On Ice
“That was some hit you put on that player who took Robbie out last week,” she says when I’m milliseconds from throwing myself onto my knees and confessing everything, purely to make my gut stop churning. Her expression changes suddenly and completely, eyes dancing with mischief, and I remember Robbie telling me he has two fun parents.
She’s fucking with me.
This woman is fucking with me, and she’s wearing a Mrs. Claus hat while she does it.
There’s nothing to confess because she already knows. She knows everything, and I’m pretty sure it’s not because of how well she knows her son. It’s me. It was my face when I saw Robbie when I got here. It’s the way I smiled when he hugged me.
It’s not the way he looks at me that gave us away. It’s the way I look at him.
She asks me about myself and my family and listens intently when I speak, cataloging the information into a vault as though it’s important. As though it matters to her.
She tells me about herself and her husband and what Robbie was like as a child. She says he was a sweet boy who used to pick flowers from the garden and give them to her when she’d had a bad day. When he couldn’t find flowers, he’d bring her a stick instead. Apparently, she still has a collection of them in a box in the basement.
She tells me Beth used to beat him up when they were little, and when he got bigger and stronger than her, he didn’t let on that he’d changed. He kept letting her win. “For all I know, Beth still thinks she could take him, and he’s a professional hockey player.” She laughs.
“Well, who knows? Maybe she’s right.” I chuckle. “I sure as heck wouldn’t mess with her.”
Yep, that’s me, Ant Decker, using words like heck instead of hell to impress a guy’s mom. Jesus.
Dr. McGuire tells me Robbie had more trips to the ER than the average kid, but that, in retrospect, she thinks that might have been because they used to drag mattresses into the living room and the four of them would sleep downstairs together when they got back from having him stitched up. “I didn’t realize it at the time, but I was probably inviting the exact behavior I was trying to avoid. Either that, or it was because John and I kept thinking it was a good idea to let them slide down the stairs in cardboard boxes.”
“He loved being your kid,” I tell her. “I think he’s sad sometimes that his childhood is over. Sometimes, he wishes he could go back in time and have one more hot chocolate night with you.”
Her eyes mist up, and like that, it’s official. The tests are back. The results are in.
Dr. McGuire and I both know my condition is terminal.
Mr. McGuire calls us to let us know dinner is ready, so we head to the dining room together.
“I’m going to need you to back me up on something, Ant,” she says conspiratorially as she links her arm withmine. She looks pleased with herself, and I have a feeling that’s something that should worry me.
“Will do,” I say with gusto.
The table looks amazing. The tablecloth is a dark burgundy with a fleck of gold glitter running through it. There’s an extravagant fresh garland running down the middle of the table with candles and baubles dotted around it, and we each have a handwritten name card next to our wine glasses. Whoever wrote my name card drew an amateurish little ant next to my name.
“Sweetheart,” says Dr. McGuire to Robbie, “Ant and I were just talking at length, and we both feel strongly that you should use a cage helmet for at least four weeks when you take to the ice again.”
Robbie’s face scrunches into a clear, silent, “Huh?” as he searches my face for evidence that I agree with this line of thinking. When he doesn’t find it, he says, “But mom, a cage doesn’t provide any more protection than a half-visor does.”
“What nonsense. Of course it does. You took a hit to the chin that would’ve been blocked by a cage.” She nudges me lightly on the arm to get me talking. “It’s essential. It’s a matter of health and safety as much as common sense.”
“Er, yeah, h-health and safety, Robbie,” I stammer when she looks up at me expectantly.
“If you ask me,” continues Dr. McGuire, “it’s a complete mystery why it’s even legal to play without one. I mean, for heaven’s sake, players are required to use them at college-level, and then, when they go pro, and things get well and truly dangerous, they plonk a half-assed, open-face helmet on professional players? It’s ridiculous. It needs to be changed. I’ve been saying so for years. Did you get a chance to talk to your coach about it yet, Robbie?”
“Uh, no, Mom. Coach doesn’t really like me. I don’t think he’d go for it.”
Dr. McGuire flinches and bristles notably. “Don’t be silly, sweetie. Everyone likes you. Talk to him. Tell him I’d feel more comfortable with it if you don’t want him thinking it’s coming from you, okay?”
Beth snorts but manages to disguise it by taking a sip of wine. “Yeah, Robbie,” she says, “Tell him your mom wants you to wear a cage helmet.”
“I’ll wear a cage helmet if you do, Robbie,” says Bodie.
Fuck. The little kiss-ass is trying to get in his future mother-in-law’s good books.
“So will I,” I say with far more enthusiasm than I feel.
Dr. McGuire is quietly pleased. Her mission has been a success.