Page 54 of Big Stick Energy
My father sighs. “The lead-up to the wedding has been so hard on her.”
“Oh, I know it.” We just need to get her through the next four days without a total breakdown.
“You probably don’t remember, but before Danny died, she and Maribel had started a scrapbook of wedding ideas. You know—pictures of flowers and dresses. Your mother kept it.”
“Oh, hell.”
“She offered it to Maribel when she announced her engagement.” My father sighs. “Maribel wasn’t all that interested in having it, and your mother cried.”
Jesus Christ.“Dad, Maribel isn’t super interested in wedding planning. She told me that herself.”
He shrugs. “Anyway, it’s good of you to visit at this difficult time. Your new girlfriend seems really nice.”
“She’s the best,” I agree without hesitation. “I’d better rescue her before Mom startsanotherwedding binder.”
My father laughs. It’s funny because it’s true.
We go inside, where I find Darcy and Mom in the dining room looking at the decades of family photos on the wall.
“Eric,” Darcy says, scandalized, in front of a row of portraits. “Youliedto me.”
“Did I?”
“You were a hottie in middle school, and I feel robbed. There is not a single mullet on this wall. Or even a bad case of acne.”
“I’m so sorry to let you down.”
My father guffaws.
“On the other hand…” Darcy steps closer to one of the frames. “Your high school fashion sense was a little shaky. Particularly this one.”
I move closer so I can see what she’s looking at, even as she holds up her phone and captures a shot of me in a terrible striped shirt. “Hey! That wasHalloween. My friend and I were Bert and Ernie.”
“Your teammates won’t know that,” she says, tucking her phone away. “I’m using it for your team birthday poster this year.”
“Oh God! Nobody tell her when my birthday is.”
“It’s September seventeenth,” she says smugly. “Who do you think processes the player IDs?”
My mother hoots.
“Besides—you’resucha Virgo. Meticulous. Reliable. Perfectionist.”
“It’s true!” my mother agrees fondly. “Eric always had his homework done. Now Danny, on the other hand…”
Both my parents laugh.
“Look, Darcy,” my mother says. “This is our Danny.” She beckons Darcy toward another photograph on the wall—a hockeypicture. My brother—darker hair, but with the same cocky Tremaine smile as I have—hoists a shiny tournament cup over his head, laughing. “The coach called hima generational talent. But he loved to have fun, too. Always a kind word for everyone.”
I’ve heard this speech so many times. It’s mostly true, though. Danny was a fantastic hockey player. And Danny usuallydidhave a kind word for everyone—even his annoying little brother. That’s why I struggle with what to say to my mother sometimes. We all lost someone amazing. But she buried achild. And I don’t know how you get over that.
Maybe you just don’t.
After my mother’s rich cooking and a glass of wine, I feel about five pounds heavier. But then there’s pie, and I dutifully eat a slice of that, too.
“It’s soooo good,” says Darcy appreciatively. “And you can’t usually find strawberry rhubarb pie.”
“I grow my own rhubarb,” my mother says proudly. “But the strawberries were from the store.”
