This only pisses me off even more, because I do have a whole thing.I don'twantto have a whole thing, but I do.A therapist would probably have a field day with it, but I'm not seeing a therapist because I suppress my problems like a real adult.I troll the Nordstrom Rack app for deals on purses because that's where I get my serotonin.I watch reality TV to feel better about my life because if nothing else, I've never had a screaming match in a five-star restaurant, and I've certainly never used the phrasesturn a new leaforstart a new chapter in our friendship.,
I am fully aware that the heat of my anger regarding this incident is totally out of scale.I just can't help it.I'm in my Jeep and fuming as I wait for Mallory to exit the arena.
She tosses her gear bag in the back seat and climbs in beside me."Mom—"
I hold up a hand.“Just…shush.Not now.Please."
Wisely, Mal closes her mouth and remains silent the whole way home.She retreats to her Fortress Of Solitude—I mean, her room; I spend the rest of the afternoon rage-cleaning the house and avoiding thinking about why I'm so irrationally mad about this.And no, I'd never, ever admit out loud that I'm being irrational, but I totally am.I have to get there on my own, thank you very much.
By the time I've run out of energy—not anger, unfortunately—I've deep cleaned the kitchen, including using steel wool and Barkeeper's Friend on the inside of my oven door, scrubbed the grout with an old toothbrush, and reorganized the glasses cabinet so the glasses are arranged by size, ascending from left to right as it should be in an orderly world.I took everything out of the fridge and freezer, discarded a jar of four-year-expired pickles, a container of crusty mustard, a jar of ranch dressing that could win awards at a science convention, six bags of freezer-burned mixed vegetables from the Obama administration, and a bag of shredded cheese that could be used to jumpstart life on another planet.
Mal comes down to find me eating Rocky Road ice cream out of the container—mostly, I'm performing archeological digs to excavate the chunky little chocolate guys.
"That's dinner, huh?"Mallory says."I approve."
"Grab a spoon, then," I tell her.
She does so and bellies up to the island beside me."You're digging out all the crunchy balls."
"Yup."
"Rude."
We eat ice cream in silence for a while.
"Why hockey, Mal?"I ask, eventually, tossing my spoon into the sink and leaning back in the high-backed bar stool, pushing the carton toward Mal.
She doesn't answer right away, taking her time as she chases the last few bites of ice cream and then tossing the carton in the trash.She licks her spoon clean, huffs on it, and sticks it to the end of her nose."I like it.It’s fun.”
"Mal.C'mon.This is me trying."
She sighs."How about we have this conversation over a nice glass of wine?"
“Okay,” I say through a spluttering, sarcastic laugh.“Nice try, sweetie.”
"Worth a shot."She tosses the spoon into the sink and unconsciously mirrors my pose: one foot up on the stool's foot railing, the other propped against my backside on the edge of the chair, arms hugging my bent knee."The truth is, I like both.Figure skating is…it's an art form and a sport at the same time.It requires precision, focus,andcreativity.I'm good at it.I enjoy it."
"But hockey…?"I prompt.
"It’s just plain fun," she finishes for me."It's the opposite of figure skating.I don’t have to think, I just have todo.I can let loose.Unleash everything inside me and just…” she makes claws of her hands and snarls."Be aggressive and…I dunno.In general, there's nowhere I'd rather be than on the ice.I don't want to quit figure skating, Mom, I just want toaddhockey."
“I see."
She rests her cheek on her knee and looks at me with her head tilted sideways."Is it my turn to ask a question and get an honest answer?No bullshit, no avoiding or evading, just the raw truth."
"One question," I allow."Choose wisely."I hold up a hand."And before you ask, just know that I'm not ready to talk about why I got so mad at the rink earlier.I'm still trying to process it myself, and I can't give you a fully self-aware answer yet.Dunno if that changes what you're gonna ask or not."
“It doesn't."Her eyes betray a surprising depth of emotion.
"This isn't about hockey, is it?"She shakes her head; I sigh.“Hit me with your best shot, then.I’ll do my best to be forthcoming, depending on what you're about to ask."
She hesitates anyway, clearly nervous to ask her question; yeah, this ain't about hockey.
"What is it, Mal?Out with it."
She sighs, lengthily through pursed lips and puffed-out cheeks."My father."
This is where a writer, narrating my life and emotions and reactions, would say something like "her gut flipped" or "Morgan's heart sank."
