I nod. “He stopped driving a few years ago.”
Claire reaches into the back seat, grabbing a wrapped rectangle. She wanted to bring Opa a gift, so we stopped at a bookstore on the drive here. I suggested she get one of her mom’s novels. Mystery isn’t Opa’s usual genre, but I think he’ll appreciate the personal connection. And if he doesn’t, then he’d better pull out some of the manners that are normally nonexistent during my visits rather than say so.
We walk toward the front door, hand in hand. Claire swings our clasped palms back and forth playfully, and my mouthcurves up in a reluctant smile. She can tell I’m nervous, and I love her for attempting to alleviate my anxiety.
I knock using my left hand so I don’t have to drop hers.
Only a couple of seconds pass before the door opens, which surprises me. Opa usually takes a minute or two to lumber over to the door, even on the occasions he knew I was coming.
“Good morning,” he greets.
I blink at his appearance. I was braced for his illness to be more visible—prepared for gaunt cheeks and baggy clothes. But he’s clean-shaven, his hair neatly combed. Dressed like he’s headed to Sunday church, although today is a Wednesday. No cane in sight.
“You must be Claire,” Opa continues, not waiting for me to make any introductions.
“I am,” she confirms, tucking the book under one arm and reaching for his offered hand. “It’s very nice to meet you, Mr. Berger.”
“Call me Karl, please.”
He likes her. I sense it immediately, from the second they shake hands, the certainty expanding when we enter the living room and Claire compliments Opa’s overflowing bookshelves. After unwrapping her gift, he listens raptly to Claire’s summary of her mom’s book. I think he’ll actually read it, despite the fact that he prefers nonfiction. And he’s prepared tea—an herbal blend he says Mila brings him.
When I duck down the front hall to use the bathroom, I check the liquor cabinet. It’s empty, causing a contrary spasm of comfort and fury in my chest. Why couldn’t all of this have happened sooner? I should have driven him to doctor’s appointments myself rather than trusting that he was looking after his health. Should have dumped this cabinet as many times as it took, shipped him to rehab until it stuck.
I was worried, if I did, that would be the end of any goodwill between us. Opa is proud, and he values his independence. All the assistance I offered, I never forced him to take any of it. I left the decisions up to him, same as I wished he’d allowed me to do. He didn’t let me choose football; he had no other choice but to accept I’d signed a contract.
Claire and Opa are bent over a book I’ve never seen before as I return to the living room. It’s twice the size of his normal novels.
I don’t quite understand the look on my grandfather’s face when he glances up and sees me in the doorway. It’s part strain, part peace.
“I’m going to grab a glass of water,” Claire says, standing. “Can I get you anything, Karl?”
“All set,” he replies. “Thank you.”
Claire passes by, giving my arm a quick squeeze before she continues toward the kitchen.
I take her spot on the couch, peering over the open page. They’re newspaper clippings. Old newspaper clippings, the trimmed edges yellowed with age. And they’re all about me. Signing with Kluvberg, my first match, World Cups, championships, London Olympics. I flip through a few pages slowly, scanning each bolded headline.
Opa reads the paper every morning. But I’ve never seen him so much as skim the Sports section, let alone take the time to cut out every article that mentioned me. It must have taken him hours—dozens of hours—to do all this.
“I was planning to give this to you when you retired, but…” He clears his throat, both of us uncomfortably aware of why he can’t wait. “I thought Claire could take it over for me.”
I nod. Sniff, swiping one palm across my eyes while my other hand continues flipping.
“Football won’t last forever.” Something he’s told me many times before, and I always took it as an insult. Maybe it was always a well-intentioned warning. Cautionary advice.
My career could have concluded with that dive, and I was wholly unprepared for that to take place. Arrogantly assuming I’d be the one to decide when my athletic career ended.
“This will,” he adds, nodding to the book.
I nod again. I don’t know what to say—my emotions are too chaotic. Even if the perfect words appeared, there’s a massive lump in my throat blocking them from exiting. Ican’tsay anything.
“Your mother trusted me to take care of you, Otto, and I felt like I kept failing her. I didn’t know anything about football. I had no idea how to help, how to advise you. I wanted you to follow a path I knew I could guide you along. By the time I accepted you were doing just fine—more than fine—on your own, it was too late. You weren’t coming back on breaks anymore, and I knew you resented how I’d reacted. The company folded, and I lost my purpose all over again. By the time I got to a better place, you were farther away than ever.”
“I’m sorry,” I say thickly.
“Don’t be.” He taps an article titled “Gloves of Glory: How Otto Berger is Redefining Reaction Time” from the Paris Olympics. “I wish you’d had my support, but you should be proud you never needed it. Your mother would be proud too. I wanted you to have all of these to look back on one day, to see everything you accomplished. To show my great-grandkids, if you and Claire have any.”
My laugh is watery. “We haven’t talked about kids. Marriage hasn’t even come up yet.”
