“Well, well, well,” my oldest sister’s voice rings out from the side door, where she pauses as part of her dramatic entrance. Caitlyn is a woman of extremes, who doesn’t do anything halfway. “If it isn’t the prodigal son returned.”
I pause where I’m kneeling at my mom’s feet, untying her shoes for her. It’s not that she can’t do it herself, it’s just easier and less frustrating for her if I do it instead.
“I don’t think you know what prodigal means,” I say, barely refraining from rolling my eyes.
“Ignore her.” My mom’s words are low and intended only for me. I glance up and her lips quirk in a pleasant smile, which is an improvement over the vacant look she seems to wear more often these days. Spending the last month with her up at our lake house has made me better understand how her disease is slowly deteriorating her body’s ability to function.
“Of course I do,” Caitlyn says, her brash voice filling all the space in the room. “I went to Catholic school K through eight, just like you did.”
I choose to ignore her, because if I didn’t let her little snide comments go most of the time, we’d always be at each other’s throats—and that’s not good for Mom.
“Why are you taking her shoes off?” Caitlyn asks. “She needs them for balance.”
“Actually, her specialist suggested these slippers”—I nod toward the pair sitting next to me on the floor—“that are supposed to be better for her to wear around the house. They’re supportive without being as restrictive as sneakers, so it will help with the foot cramps.”
Caitlyn has gone back to school to get her nurse practitioner degree, so I’ve taken over responsibility for my mom’s care. But the nurse in her refuses to step back, even though she essentially demanded I move back to Boston and take on this role.
“I know what I’m doing, Caitlyn.” I may not know as much about Parkinson’s as she does, yet, but I’m committed to being here for my mom and learning as much as I can. Aside from hockey, it’s my singular focus.
My sister lets out a dubious grunt of acknowledgement. “You’re not exactly known for your dependability, Drew, so excuse me if I have questions.”
Anger prickles down my spine as I consider her words and her tone, but I ignore the barb. There’s nothing to be gained from fighting with your sister, I remind myself. Instead, I help my mom slip her feet into the new slippers and fasten the Velcro for her, making a mental note to check on the shipment status of the new sneakers I found made specifically for Parkinson’s patients. They’re flexible and will be easy for her to slip in and out of on her own.
My mom is only sixty, but the disease is slowing her down fast. It wasn’t as noticeable at first, but over the last year, mom’s muscles have started to stiffen up and she’s become less confident and independent. Given that she’s a tough-as-nails Irish woman, who raised three kids on her own after my dad died, it’s been hard to watch her deteriorate. Especially hard because, for the past five years, I’ve been living thousands of miles away, playing professional hockey first for Vancouver, and then for Colorado.
I’ll still travel for a good amount of the year for hockey, but at least when I’m home in Boston, I can be here for her. And give my sisters a bit of a break, though apparently, it’d kill Caitlyn to be grateful for the help, even when she’s the one who benefits the most from it.
“You’re coming to Missy’s for dinner, right?” Mom asks me when I smooth my hands over her ankles to let her know I’m done. Sunday dinner is a family tradition that Missy picked up once it became harder for Mom to handle cooking large meals.
“I can’t tonight, remember? I have to go to that thing at my agent’s house.”
Mom nods, and behind me, Caitlyn releases an annoyed sigh. If I was coming, she’d be upset about that too, especially because Missy’s boys idolize me. I can’t win either way with her, so I just don’t try anymore. It’s not worth the mental energy.
I feel a little guilty as I leave her with Caitlyn, knowing that I don’t actually have to go to Jameson’s get-together tonight. It’s just s’mores around the fire pit with his family and a few of their neighbors, but some of my new teammates are also going to be there, and getting to know them before getting on the ice with them this week seemed like a smart move for my career—especially after the way I fucked things up with my teammates in Colorado when I started there a couple of years back.
As I head from my family home in West Roxbury to my condo in the Back Bay, I’m thankful that the Sunday afternoon traffic isn’t that bad. One of the only things I miss about Denver, besides the natural beauty surrounding it, is the infrastructure—not that traffic was never a problem there, but the roads here in Boston were built to handle horse-drawn carriages, not a million cars.
And when I walk through the back door of my building and up the five flights of stairs to the top floor, I find my condo full of the furniture and boxes that were just delivered this morning. I wouldn’t say it’s a disaster, but I do wish I’d had a little more time to organize things as the movers were bringing them in. At least most of the boxes appear to be in the right rooms, if the labels are any indication.
In my bedroom, I take a few minutes to find the box labeled ‘bedding’ and then I throw my sheets into the washing machine, relieved I remembered to add laundry detergent to the grocery order I had delivered earlier today. I absolutely hate moving, but this is my third team in the last six years, so I’m getting to be pretty good at it.
I need to make this my last move, which means I need this trade to the Rebels to turn into a longer contract when mine is up for renewal at the end of this season. Now that I’m back, there’s no way I can leave. Spending this summer with my mom confirmed my worst fears about her health, how much my sisters can handle, and how much time I might have left with her before she’s only a shell of her former self.
I move my bed into place against the wall opposite the bedroom door. On one side is a complete wall of windows overlooking the Esplanade and the Charles River, and on the opposite wall is the bathroom and a substantial closet. This is definitely the smallest place I’ve lived in since getting drafted into the NHL, but the full roof deck above and the view from my bedroom, not to mention the prime location on Beacon Street, are what I’m paying for.
On my salary, I could have gone bigger and nicer—a luxury condo in one of Boston’s new high rises near the Seaport, or something grander in Beacon Hill—but given Mom’s rising medical bills, it seemed smart to be more modest. And this three-bedroom top-floor condo in a brownstone in the Back Bay is nicer than anything I could have imagined living in while I was growing up.
I want to unpack the two suitcases I’ve been living out of at the lake house this summer, but I can’t find the box with my hangers, so instead I unpack my toiletries into the bathroom and find something that’s not too wrinkled to wear tonight. I’m able to move my dresser into place opposite the foot of my bed, and then get some of my clothes unpacked into that before it’s time to leave.
Half an hour later, I’m showered, have eaten something quick, and am throwing my sheets into the dryer before walking out the door to head to my agent’s house. I’ll feel more settled once I come home tonight and can get more unpacking done, but for now, I’ll go chill with my new teammates so I can start to feel settled with my team as well.
