Vulnerability isn’t something that comes naturally to me. When you’re raised the way I was, you learn that feelings aren’t something that you should easily share. Instead, they should be locked away and forgotten in a place where nobody can find them.
Maybe that’s why I have always been so withdrawn. If there was nothing for me to feel, then there was nothing to spend my time alone worrying about. I guess in a really messed up way, I’m almost thankful for that. I mean, lord knows my fucked up childhood has left me with enough terrible memories to scare a prisoner on death row. So I choose to shove them in a dark room far back in my mind where I won’t dare touch them, lock the door, and let them rot. But as the heat radiating from Gracie’s delicate body coats my flesh in a soothing blanket, the lock on that door rattles, terrorizing me worse than what lies behind it.
My arms stay rooted to my sides, much to their displeasure, and I don’t miss the soft sigh that hits my t-shirt as Gracie realizes I might not shove her away in a fit of rage.
‘Ty?’ she breathes and pulls away slightly, just enough to look up at me. The blue in her eyes is more vibrant than usual as she stares curiously into the dark pits of my own. I’m not sure what she’s looking for, but I can only assume it is something I don’t want her to find.
With a strangled cough, I place my hands on her arms and move her away. ‘I need to go,’ I grumble, running a hand through my hair and turning around. Her arm wraps around mine just as a vexed huff rings through the room.
‘What happened? Did I freak you out or something? You don’t have to go,’ she babbles, a sudden helplessness drips from her words. Her wide, wounded doe-eyes send a jolt of pain to my chest as soon as I turn my head to look back at her, a mistake that only intensifies my need to get the hell out of here.
I’m moving through the door as her words fall on nothing but the space I left behind. Finally, I escape the shrinking confines of the apartment. My eyes focus on the hallway carpet as I stalk my way to the elevator. The soft smacking sound of her feet against the rug just outside of her door makes my stomach twist. She calls out for me to turn around and talk to her. But there’s no good in that plea for either of us.
Everyone has their “thing” that helps them focus. Something that gives them the strength to drag themselves up off of the ground and walk on their own two feet again. Something that sends jolts of happiness through your entire body, lighting you up with the feeling that you crave whenever it’s not there. Something that makes all the horrible stuff you’ve gone through in your life nothing but a slight tingle living in the back of your mind.
That something for me is throwing my fist in someone’s face. In a boxing ring, mostly.
‘Fuck, man. You’re almost as good as me now,’ Braden praises. He pulls the ropes apart and shoves his six-foot-five, two-hundred and fifty pound body through them before jumping down onto the cracked concrete floor. Following his lead, I untie my gloves and yank them off my sweaty hands. I reach the bags thrown against a lone red wall in a dungeon of black, courtesy of the busted-ass paint job a group of us did a few weeks prior.
Brooks, the owner of this boxing gym, had been on one of his renovation benders and decided that the place needed a bit of sprucing up. Now, most would think the obvious choice would be to clean up the obscene number of smoke butts lying around the back of the gym, or maybe scrub the sweat stains off of the concrete, but nope. Instead, Brooks wanted a red wall.
Yeah, yeah. We all give Brooks a hard time. But he’s the closest thing to family most of us around here have. So if the dumb ass wants a red wall, he’s getting a red wall.
‘Yeah, right,’ I grumble, not bothering to bug him about the sickening amount of confidence he has in himself, and lift the top of my t-shirt to wipe the beads of sweat sticking to my forehead.
‘Come on. You could be if you didn’t practically live in that damn rink all year. We miss you around here.’
‘You see me all of the time.’ I can sense his sarcastic eye roll even after he turns to grab the water bottle from his duffle.
‘Yeah, okay,’ he snickers.
I give my head a shake. ‘Got something to say, fuckhead?’
‘Not a single word.’ He shrugs. Braden isn’t the first one of the guys to give me a hard time about ditching them. It’s not that I am not aware of the fact that I am held up in the arena all the time, but hockey is everything to me. It’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. One that gives me the chance to take care of my mom the way she should be taken care of. Not to mention that hockey was the first sport I found I was actually good at. Turns out, I was a natural at shoving guys into end boards and slamming a wooden stick against a small rubber circle—something I guess I can thank Allen for.
The fast-paced, physically exhausting game was an immediate addiction for an anger-fueled kid desperately trying to keep his emotions at bay. At first, I would stay out late, hunkered down at the neighbourhood basketball court using two busted old milk crates tipped on their sides as a make-shift hockey net. Rocks were the perfect pucks, and I would shoot as many of them as I could with the beat-up hockey stick my mom got me for my ninth birthday.
Eventually, the late-night practices in the back alley two houses down became late-night practices in a freezing cold hockey rink. I got good. Not exactly Oakley Hutton good, but my skill level was way above the remaining forwards on my team by the time I reached my college years. And by some odd twist of fate, I was drafted four spots from the end of the first round, one year after my best friend had been.
Braden speaks up when he gets no response from me. ‘We just miss your arrogant ass around here. You’re always either at the arena for a game or practice. I’m surprised you haven’t set up a tent there so you don’t have to bother ever going anywhere else.’ He’s offering me a small smile, and although he didn’t mean to guilt me, my stomach twists. I swallow quickly and return a forced smile.
‘I’ll come around more. I’m sorry.’
‘Alright.’ He nods, although I know he doesn’t believe me. ‘Now go shower. You’re pretty ripe, dude.’ He wrinkles his nose to emphasize his point. I cringe at the fact that he is right and squeeze his shoulder before heading towards the locker room.
My mom is sitting outside my apartment building when I pull up. Her head is hung low from where she sits on the concrete stairs leading up to the door. Dark hair blends with the night sky. Her bare hands pull tight at the sides of her unzipped, well-loved jacket as she tries to make do with the broken zipper.
My heart feels heavy as I wonder what happened this time. It must have been bad for her to come to me knowing the mouthful she might end up receiving. Sighing, I count down from ten before I get out of the truck. Then, with my bag thrown over my shoulder, I take quick strides towards her.
‘What are you doing out here, Mom? Did you forget your key?’ I bend down and wrap a hand around her arm, gently helping her to her feet. She throws a frail arm around me as I lead us to my apartment.
‘Oh, your key. Right. I think I lost it. I’m sorry, sweetheart,’ she murmurs, the pungent stench of vodka rolling off her tongue.
‘Don’t be sorry. It’s getting colder at night now though, so call me next time instead of waiting outside.’ The last thing I need is to be taking her to the hospital because she’s gotten sloshed and wound up with hypothermia.
She nods her head against my shoulder, but doesn’t offer any verbal acknowledgment. When we reach my door, I quickly slide my key in the lock and usher us inside. I flip on the main light switch and gently guide her straight to my room. Not bothering to turn on any more lights, I lead her to the bed in the dark and sit her down on the edge.
We easily fall into our usual routine. I crouch down, pull off her favourite pair of black heels, and slide her coat over her thin shoulders. Standing up, I turn around and set her shoes down on my dresser and drape her jacket over the side.
‘Crawl in, Mom,’ I whisper, and place a hand on her shoulder, slowly pushing her until she takes the hint. She lies down slowly, stretching out on the lumpy queen bed and adjusting her position until she’s comfortably laying her head against the pillow.
‘Thank you, sweet boy. You take such good care of me.’
Nodding despite the fact I know she can’t see me in the darkness of the room, I sigh, relieved that she isn’t putting up as much of a fight as the last time and pull the covers over her. I take one last look at her before I go to collect the essentials she will need when she wakes up.
With a new pound in my temples, I place a bowl, two Advil, and a glass of water beside the bed.
It has always bothered me—not knowing or understanding how someone can treat themselves as if their life means nothing to them or anyone else. Thinking about how selfish I think that makes her makes me feel nothing but guilt. I don’t know the struggle of addiction—not the way she does.
So that should mean that I shouldn’t get to judge. Right? But I do. Because even though she is the parent, I have been the one taking care of her my whole life. And it isn’t always as easy as it was tonight.
