Page 3 of The Game Changer
“But Mom. Cedar Creek is so far away.”
I swear his pitiful whine is equal parts aggravating and guilt-inducing.
“I know it seems that way,” I say patiently. “But it’s actually only about two hours. And Nana’s new house is less than thirty minutes away. Now, are you going to come and eat dinner or not?”
Heaving a sigh, Charlie unfolds his gangly body from the couch and slowly shuffles over to the kitchen table, the grumpy orange cat Gus that we’ve had for four years draped over his shoulder.
When did he get so tall? How is he already twelve and a half? Am I completely screwing him up?
It’s not the first time I’ve asked myself these questions and it certainly won’t be the last. I set down our plates of food, and take a seat next to him.
“Aren’t you excited by the idea of me working for a baseball team? We can probably get super cheap tickets,” I say, continuing to try and get him on board. After meeting with Luca this morning, my hopes for getting the job are high. It might be temporary, but it could be the move we desperately need.
His shoulders lift in a shrug, as he shovels a bite of food into his mouth with his left arm. “Yeah, I guess.”
I hold back my sigh. “C’mon, kid. Baseball is our thing. This could be super cool.”
“It was our thing with Poppa.”
A stab of hurt and grief slices through me. It’s been three years since my dad died, and none of us are over it. He was the only father figure Charlie has ever had, and their bond was close.
“Don’t you think he’d love the idea of us going to as many games as we could, stuffing our faces with hot dogs, and cheering for our local team?”
Another shrug. “Sure. Whatever.”
Guess that’s the best I’m going to get. “Okay. Anyway, rose and thorn time.” I see his lips just barely quirk up at that. It’s a game we’ve played every day at dinner for years as a way to catch up, sharing the best and worst part of our days.
“Rose, finally beating the bosslevel in my game. Thorn,” —his gaze drops down— “thinking about moving.”
“Charlie,” I murmur. But he shakes his head.
“What about you?”
I quietly exhale. “Rose, the sunrise on my drive to Cedar Creek. Thorn, spilling tea all over my shirt before the interview.”
His eyes widen. “No way.”
I nod with a smile. “Yes way. Thank goodness I had my gym bag with me, and that Tridents tank top you gave me for Christmas.”
That gets me a small smile.I’ll take it.The rest of dinner passes quickly, with a lot less tension. When Charlie’s done, he pushes back from the table and finally lifts his gaze to mine. “Can I be excused?”
I nod. He stands and carries his plate in his hand to the sink.
My gaze follows him, watching him walk out of the kitchen, Gus following right after. His left hand reaches up to rub his right arm, just about where it stops at his elbow, where the rest of his forearm and hand never developed.
Even though hundreds of children are born with a congenital limb difference every year, and it was nothing that could have been prevented, there’s no stopping the familiar wave of guilt that comes over me.
For years after he was born, I lived every day with a voice in the back of my head. Wondering if I did something wrong in the months before I realized that I wasn’t just gaining weight, I was pregnant, to cause this. It tooka lot of therapy and a lot of educating myself about amniotic band syndrome to finally get that voice to mostly stop. But that guilt never fully goes away. And every now and then, it’ll catch me off guard, like right now.
Charlie’s a great kid. For the most part, a happy kid. But last year, he hit middle school, and things changed. He started coming home from school quiet and withdrawn, only to tell me later during our quiet moments together before bed that someone said something mean about his missing hand, or he struggled with an activity somehow.
All the therapy in the world can’t stop words from hurting. And unfortunately, the bullies can be relentless. Right now he’s not thrilled about the possibility of moving. But I have to believe that a fresh start in a new city could be good for him.
For both of us.
2
LUCA
