I didn't know anything about figure skating. I couldn't name the jumps or explain what made a spin good. But I knew athletes. I knew what it looked like when someone was operating at a level most people couldn't reach, and Joel moved like the ice was an extension of his body, like the air bent around him because he'd decided it would.
The jumps were insane. He'd throw himself into rotation, spin so fast I lost count, and land like gravity had given him special permission. But the parts between the jumps were what made my chest go tight. He had footwork so intricate it looked impossible, and he made it look like breathing.
When it ended, the crowd went crazy. Joel stood in the center of the ice, chest heaving, and for just a second his face changed. His shoulders dropped. He looked tired. Almost soft.
Then it was gone.
I watched it three more times.
Somewhere around one in the morning I found an interview from a couple of years ago. Some morning show, soft lighting, hosts who smiled too much.
"People think it's about talent," Joel said. "It's not. It's about control. Controlling your body, your focus, your fear. If you can control everything, you can do anything."
Around two I found what I was looking for without knowing I'd been looking for it.
It was the same program I’d walked in on with Joel reaching for empty air, except in this video there was a crowd. When he wrapped his arms around himself like he was trying to hold something together, the whole arena went silent.
My phone battery died at 3:30. I plugged it in and kept watching.
At 3:47, I finally put it down.
Wednesday morning I showed up at five.
The parking lot was empty. The ice was empty. I skated for two hours, carving lines into the fresh surface, the sound of my own breathing too loud in the quiet. The overhead lights hummed and buzzed. The door stayed closed.
I drove home with my hair still wet, heater blasting, hands tight on the wheel. Halfway there I missed my turn and had to loop back around, and I sat at the intersection for a full light cycle before I remembered I was supposed to be driving.
Dad was having a bad day.
I could tell before I got to the living room. The TV was off, and I always left it on low for him. The curtains were still closed even though it was past nine. He was sitting in his recliner staring at the wall, and when I came around the corner his eyes moved over my face like I was someone he'd never met.
"Dad. It's me. It's Robert."
He squinted. His hands were shaking where they rested on the arms of his chair.
"Bob?" he said.
That was his own name.
"No, Dad. I'm Junior. Your son."
Something flickered behind his eyes. He grabbed at it, lost it, tried again.
"Junior," he repeated.
"Yeah. That's me."
His face relaxed a little. Not recognition. Just trust. He'd decided to believe me even though he couldn't remember why he should.
I counted out his pills and brought them over with water. Made him toast because he wouldn't eat anything heavier on days like this. I sat with him while he chewed slowly, his jaw working like he'd forgotten the rhythm of it. The morning light came through the gap in the curtains and made a stripe acrossthe carpet, and I watched it move inch by inch while my father ate toast and didn't know who I was.
I cleaned the kitchen. Put a load of laundry in. Sat with Dad while he watched a game show he wouldn't remember.
Around noon, Dad fell asleep. I covered him with the blanket from the couch and stood there looking at him. His face went slack when he slept. The gray in his hair hadn't been there five years ago. He looked small in a way he never had before I moved him out here.
I went to my room and lay on my bed and stared at the ceiling.
Thursday I didn't set my alarm.
