“You don’t want me there,” she said finally, and there was hurt in her voice.
Guilt twisted in my chest. “It’s not that. It’s just—I’m thirty-two years old. I can handle a broken foot without my mother flying across the country.”
I loved her. That was the complicated part—I loved her despite everything. Despite her meddling and judgment and constant need to be involved in every aspect of my life.
She’d supported my hockey career from the beginning. Driven me to practices before dawn when I was barely old enough for skates. Sat in cold rinks for hours watching me play. Worked overtime to afford equipment, camps, private coaching. When other mothers complained about the cost and commitment of hockey, mine had just worked harder. She’d believed in me when I was nobody, and she’d been there in the audience, crying, when I got drafted.
She loved me. I knew that. Had sacrificed for me, been proud of me, wanted the best for me.
But she could be utterly smothering.
Even now, eighteen hundred miles away, living my ownlife, playing in the NHL… she still called constantly. Asked if I was eating properly, dating a good Catholic girl, going to mass. Wanted to know every detail of my life, still couldn’t accept that I was an adult who could make my own decisions.
“But this teammate of yours?—”
“His name is Étienne. His apartment building had a fire, so he’d been staying with me anyway. And he’s been great. Really. He’s got everything organized, he’s keeping track of my meds, he’s—” I stopped myself before I said too much. Before I revealed how much I needed Étienne here, how the thought of him leaving made my chest tight, how he was the only one I actually liked having in my house.
“He sounds very dedicated,” Mama said, and there was something censuring in her tone.
“He’s a good friend.”
“Okay,” she said finally. “But if you change your mind about me visiting?—”
“I’ll call you. I promise.”
We talked for a few more minutes—she filled me in on family gossip, my sisters, the latest drama at the parish.
“Oh, and speaking of the parish,” she said, her voice dropping low as if imparting a secret. “There’s been quite a bit of talk lately. Apparently, the Castellanos’ son—you remember Dominic, don’t you? He was a few years behind you in school. Well, there’s a rumor going around that he’s… gay.”
My blood ran cold. I stopped breathing for a second, and my hand tightened on the phone.
“Really,” I managed, my voice flat.
“Can you imagine? Poor Mary is beside herself. She won’t even come to mass anymore, she’s so embarrassed. And Carlo… well, you know how he is. Very traditional. Very… disappointed.”
“That’s… unfortunate.” The words tasted like ash in my mouth.
“It’s more than unfortunate, Marco. It’s a tragedy. They raised him in the Church, sent him to Catholic schools, did everything right. And this is how he repays them?” She sighed heavily. “Father Michael says we should pray for him. For all of them, really. The whole family is suffering.”
“I’m sure they are.” My voice sounded distant to my own ears.
“Anyway, Gia was asking about Thanksgiving…”
She moved on to other topics, oblivious to my discomfort. I made appropriate comments at the appropriate places, though I didn’t feel them. I didn’t feel anything except a growing numbness and the sick certainty that this was what my mother would say about me if she ever found out.Disappointed. Embarrassed. A tragedy.
By the time we hung up, the pain pill had fully kicked in, dulling my anxiety, and I felt like I was floating three inches above the couch. The pain had receded to a distant throb, and my thoughts had gone loopy and unfocused.
This was dangerous. This loose, disconnected feeling that made it hard to remember why I needed to be tight-lipped.
I should text Étienne. Tell him everything was going okay. Ask him to pick up… something. I couldn’t remember what.
No, that was a terrible idea. Texting while medicated was how you said things you couldn’t take back.
I closed my eyes instead, letting the medication pull me under into sleep.
I woke up to Étienne’s hand on my shoulder, gently shaking me.
“Hey. I’m back. How are you feeling?”
