Page 53 of Grief & Glitter

True. “So, I’m wondering what I say to Gids and his father when they emerge.”

“Well, speaking from experience, the best way to handle a crisis like this is with soft, supportive love. Hugs and assurances go a long way. Just let them lead. They may want to talk or not, so let that guide you.”

I blew out a breath that rattled the open bag of ranch corn chips on the table. Someone in squeaky shoes walked past the open door behind me.

“I’m really sorry I put you in this position that time, Dad.”

“You were hurting.”

“Still, this is so painful. I just want to be there with him, but I can’t be, and it’s…” I had to clear my throat and swallow. “It’s shit, Dad.”

He chuckled a sad chuckle. “Yes, it is, but when he steps out to see you there, the look on his face will have made the painful wait worth it.”

“You’re right, always.”

“Not always. Just mostly.”

I smiled feebly. “Mostly always. I’ll let you go. I know you have a ton of shit to do to cover for me while I’m gone.”

“Nah, it’s all good. They called in Mortie from maintenance to pick up the slack. He’s a good worker.”

“Do not let Mortie near the skates. The last time he helped me out, Arnaud called us both dumb pickles with many warts for hosing up the hollow on his skates. Nothing scares me more than an irate French goalie who knows how to waffle people with his big paddle.”

“No worries, Mortie oversees drying gloves. I’m doing the skates.”

“Cool. Okay, well, I guess I’ll let you go. Love you.”

“Love you too, Skippy. Text me the minute you hear from Gideon, okay?”

“Okay. Bye, Dad.”

Ending the call felt sad. The day felt sad. This room, this hospital, and the whole damn world felt sad. It was a sad time. I sipped my soda, my phone on the table in front of me, wondering what an imbecile like me could possibly say that would be helpful to someone who was suffering like Gids would be suffering. Having the shoe on the other foot was awkward. For years, my father played the role of comforter. Now I was going to have to fill that position, and it scared me nearly as much as having Arnaud waving his stick around while cussing me out in broken English.

While plucking a chip from the bag, a hand fell to my shoulder. I jumped, nearly dropping my chip, as my head cranked to the right to see Gideon standing behind me. He looked utterly done in. Like so far beyond mentally and physically drained that he barely resembled the man I loved.

Not knowing what to say, I simply stood up and opened my arms. He gathered me to him with such strength that the air left my lungs. Even so, I hugged him tighter. He buried his face in my hair, drew in a few shuddering breaths, and then slowly lifted his head to gaze at me with incredibly dull blue eyes.

“He’s okay,” Gideon said as I let him draw all the compassion he required from me. Even if breathing was a little tough. “Physically. I mean, he’ll be okay. There are stitches. He’s sleeping now after we all had a family consultation with the hospital psychologist.”

“Good, good. He needs rest. Sit. I have food.” He winged a brow at my choices. Not exactly the kind of healthy meal a professional athlete would pick, for sure. He held onto me for a few moments longer, then, as if it cost him everything, let go to drop into a creaky seat. I sat beside him, glancing back to find his father, whom I had yet to meet. “Where’s your father?”

“He’s talking with one of the mental health advocates. They’re going to send Noah to a private facility after he’s discharged from here.” He looked gutted.

I touched his arm. Bared. The sleeves had been hastily shoved up his arm since I’d last seen him. That rarely happened. He always wore long sleeves when out in public. The scars were soft as I rubbed a finger over a short, ragged one.

“Speaking from experience, being in a safe, stable environment while you’re working through major shit is probably the best thing for him. I know it was for me. They treated me well in rehab and gave me help to work through the worst of the intense cravings. They called it tapering off. I called it torture, but we got through it. We, meaning me, Dad, and the counselors. It took me sixty days, but when I left, I was pretty solid. Your brother will be too if he works with the program. Maybe it’ll only be a shorter stay for him, or maybe it will be longer. But I know he’ll come out of this dark place. It will take help. No one walks a recovery path alone. I mean… that sounded like he was an addict or an alcoholic. I didn’t mean it to sound that way.”

He put a clammy hand atop mine, resting on his forearm. “It sounded like life advice from a person who’s walked a rough road. There’s so much to tell you. Shit that… he said that…” He stopped, blinked back tears, then took a cleansing breath. A woman talking on the phone to someone about Grandpa came in, bought a coffee while still chatting, and then left. “I don’t want to talk about it here.”

“No, sure, that makes sense.” I offered him another chip. He shook his head. So I nibbled the corners off as he sat, quietly, churning through whatever was on his mind. Probably too many things to settle at the moment, so I changed the subject. “Did your father mention anything about me?”

Gids blinked back to the here and now. “Sorry. I was in the past. What did you ask?”

“Did your father… well, I asked if he said anything about me, but then I realized how egocentric that was. Like he’d be chirping about me when his son…” I bit down on my cheek. “Sorry, when life was so sad.”

“He knows about you. Us. It was online, so he knows. I’m sure he does. We didn’t touch on it, but don’t worry. If he even glances at you with any kind of attitude, I’ll be in his face.”

“No, no, it’s fine. I was just wondering.”