Page 39 of Tainted Love

“It’s not like that,” I reply with a quick shake of my head.

She tilts her head and offers me a look that says she doesn’t believe me. “Isn’t it?”

I try to look away from her all-knowing gaze but can’t. Instead, I attempt to blink away the truth. Ida pats the back of my hand.

“Ready to go, Sascha?” Taz looks at me with the same earnest gaze Gram did.

“Yup,” I swallow roughly and lightly squeeze Gram’s hand goodbye.

Chapter 17

“Let My Love Open The Door”

Taz - Age 18, 1988

This past week has been a surreal blur of reality. What should have been an uncomfortable situation is instead the most comforting and natural experience I’ve had in a long time.

Living with the Bell family feels like slipping into a warm, cozy cocoon where everything is handled. When I arrive home late, exhausted from practice, I find a plate of delicious food waiting for me in the refrigerator. My clothes are always washed and neatly folded on my bed each evening, as if by magic. But beyond the material comforts, the presence of love in this home sets it apart. It’s a feeling I haven’t experienced since Gram took us in all those years ago.

Despite my injury, I’m slowly returning to daily activities like driving and skating. My coach has limited me to non-contact drills, but even those simple exercises are enough to keep me going. The satisfying thud when I shoot the puck reminds me of why I fell in love with hockey in the first place. I’m not fully back, but I’m getting better every day.

Despite the chaos and uncertainty, settling into some semblance of routine has been a relief. This includes carpooling with Sascha on days when our schedules align. Her band practices often run late, while my hockey practices are close by, making it a practical arrangement suggested by her mom.

Personally, I don’t mind it. However, Sascha is noticeably less enthused. My presence causes her some serious internal turmoil. I know this because she told me I was “annoying the bejesus” out of her last night. I don’t know who bejesus is, but apparently, he’s gone now, thanks to me. I guess I just have a natural talent for getting under her skin.

A perfect example of this was the note I found next to my folded clothes this evening. The front reads “Michael” in bold letters, with a black heart colored beside it. I was momentarily excited until I opened it.

DEAR DICKBAG,

STOP USING MY SHAMPOO OR I WILL FILL THE BOTTLE WITH NAIR!

Not quite the love note I was hoping for, but it’s progress. Now, I could get my own shampoo, but would I? I love smelling like an afternoon spring breeze, and now that I’m aware of how much it bothers her, that’s a bonus.

As I contemplate my response to her note, exhaustion washes over me, and I realize I’m too tired to come up with anything clever. So, instead, I make my way into the bathroom to wash off the hockey stench.

The steam from the hot water fills the bathroom, creating a hazy mist that clings to the walls and mirrors. As I lather my hair, a loud knock on the door startles me.

“Come in!” I yell. “You know you want to.”

“Um, Michael?”

I realize it’s Mrs. Bell is at the door, and I mentally curse myself for being careless.

My voice catches in my throat as I stammer. “Yes? One second,” I manage to choke out in utter humiliation.

“The phone is for you. It’s someone from Rose Meadows.”

It’s unusual for them to call without reason unless Gram wants to chat, but we have our scheduled times since I’m busy with school and hockey. “I’ll be right out,” I say hurriedly, knowing they must be waiting on the other line.

I quickly rinse and dry myself before throwing on a sweats and a t-shirt. My mind races with possibilities as I walk into the kitchen, where the phone sits on the counter. With trembling hands, I pick up the receiver and bring it to my ear. “Hello?” I answer tentatively, trying to sound calm and composed despite my racing thoughts.

“Hi Michael, this is Patricia. I’m a nurse here at Rose Meadows,” the voice on the other end says. A sense of unease washes over me at her introduction.

My grip tightens on the phone. “Uh-huh,” I reply, trying to steady my voice.

“I’m calling because your grandmother sustained a fall this evening.”

“Is she alright?” I ask, my throat suddenly dry.