“Tommy’s a wonderful boy, and I’m happy to help out. But I can’t make a habit of staying late for one student.”
“I understand. Thank you for staying with him.”
“Ready!” Tommy announces, reappearing at my side with his coat and backpack on. His little hand slips inside of mine, squeezing tight.
I say goodbye to Mrs. Combs, and then we head outside.
The moms are still chatting. Their preschoolers are tackling each other in the six inches of snow that was dumped on Boston on Sunday evening, coating parts of the playground.
“Do you want to play for a bit?” I ask Tommy.
He shakes his head, walking faster and tugging me toward my car by our joined hands.
“Are you sure?”
He doesn’t answer, just pulls harder.
What I know about kids is fairly superficial. Second-guessing during crucial moments has always been one of my biggest weaknesses as a player, and as far as I can tell, parenting involves plenty.
I’m not sure if I should ask Tommy why he doesn’t want to play with the other kids or pretend that’s entirely normal.
Before I can decide, he begins bombarding me with questions about soccer.
One thing Ihavelearned about kids: they’re curious. I’m not sure if Tommy inherited the athlete gene that skipped over every Caldwell except me or if he’s realized it’s the one topic I can talk endlessly about, but he’s a never-ending source of sports inquiries. Of my few fans, he’s by far the most enthusiastic.
Explaining the format of the upcoming season takes the whole drive home.
“How many games do we play in the regular season?”
“Twenty-six.”
“Why?”
“Because that’s how many the league decided on.”
“Why?”
“Because they just did.”
“But why?”
On and on and on.Whyis Tommy’s favorite word.
Cassidy calls as I’m pulling into the driveway. I ignore the buzzing, parking and grabbing my duffel and Tommy’s backpack while he climbs out of his booster seat.
Salt crunches under my sneakers as we head up the brick walk that leads to the Tudor-style home my parents purchased as newlyweds. I still think of it as myparents’ housein my head, even though my father hasn’t lived here for years and I do—again.
I unlock the front door, hastily shutting it when the whiff of smoke in the air registers.
“Mom? Lydia?” I call out, attempting to squash the panic out of my voice. Aware of Tommy’s footsteps following me down the narrow hallway, walls decorated with framed photographs of simpler times.
“In here!” Lydia’s cheerful voice replies.
I relax in response to her tone as we round the doorway that leads into the kitchen.
Our next-door neighbor and my mom are seated at the table, a half-completed puzzle spread between them. Mom’s typing; Lydia’s knitting.
“Hi, Lydia! Hi, Grandma!” Tommy says, waving at them.
