Going for the Record

by Julie A. Swanson

  The way Dad says naïve stabs me. I don’t say anything, just turn away from him and run towards the back of the house, to Gram’s room.

  “I was only trying to help, Gram. I thought he’d be happy. What’s wrong with him? Why won’t he even try things? It can’t hurt.”

  “Come here, sweetie.” She grabs my hand and pulls me onto the arm of her chair. “If you really want to help your dad, let me show you something.”

  She reaches under her bed and pulls out her pile of prayer books. “See this here booklet? This is St. Theresa, the Little Flower.” A sad, young waif of a woman stares up at me from the cover. She’s holding a bunch of flowers and is dressed in a hooded robe. “You pray to her once a day for nine days. If your prayer’s going to be answered, she’ll send you a flower.”

  “Is that true, Gram? Does she really?”

  “If she’s going to answer your prayer, yes.”

  “Has it ever worked for you?”

  “Yes, it has. Twice.”

  “How? What happened?”

  “Well, I’d been praying to her to help me get my house sold, and on this particular night I was baby-sitting for a young couple on our street who couldn’t afford to go out much. It was their anniversary, so I offered to baby-sit for free. When they came home, guess what they brought me. A rose. From off their table at the restaurant. The next day somebody made an offer on my house.”

  “And the other time?”

  “I can’t tell you what I was praying for that time because it’s personal. But I went to this huge supermarket grand opening and as I was walking through the parking lot I saw this rose in the snow. Just lying there, so red in that white snow. I’ll never forget it. I picked it up, and later my prayer was answered.”

  Hmm.

  “So that’s the novena to St. Theresa, the Little Flower,” says Gram. “There are others. You can say the novena to St. Jude. He’s one of my favorites—the Patron Saint of the Impossible. They’re all right here in these booklets.”

  “What’s a novena?”

  “It’s Latin for nine. A novena is a nine-day devotion.”

  “What’s so special about nine?”

  Gram raises her eyebrows and cocks her head. “It might have to do with the Trinity—three times three equals nine? Something like that. Or you can say the rosary. That’s what I do, once a day.”

  “Leah!” Mom calls from the kitchen. “Clay’s on the phone.”

  “You better go, sweetie. Your little boyfriend’s waiting.” She says it with a straight face, too, and I give her a dirty look.

  CHAPTER 6

  Tuesday, June 24

  I haven’t touched a ball since Saturday and I’ve got a club practice tomorrow, so Clay and I go to the field at East Bay Elementary. It’s cool and shady with big maples all around, and the grass is that soft stuff with real fine blades. The field’s not that big, but it’s private. Hardly anybody comes here during the summer.

  We start with juggling. Clay and I have this thing—we both have to juggle a hundred times in a row before we can go on to the rest of our workout. Usually I’m done before him, but today he’s already in the eighties and I’ve just started over for the fourth time.

  I don’t know what’s wrong. I’ve got no touch. The ball’s all over the place. By the time I hit forty, Clay’s down on the ground doing crunches.

  I lose control and drop the ball again. “Dang it!”

  Clay’s been really patient, but now he says, “You’re probably warmed up enough, Leah. That’s the point of juggling, right? Why don’t we go on to something else?”

  “No, Clay. No! Do I ever rush you?” I bark at him, and I know it’s unfair. I’ve never had to wait long for him. But he should know better than to say something like that when I’m pissed off.

  Finally, finally, I finish.

  Clay throws me a water bottle. “What do you want to do today?”

  “If you could serve me some crosses, that would be great. I also want to work on my one-touch finishing. What about you?”

  “I was hoping we could time each other on some cone work. I need to get quicker with the ball, or I’m going to be sitting the bench again this year.”

  “Okay. Let’s do that first.”

  Clay sets up an obstacle course with the orange cones and dribbles through it to show me what we have to do. He makes it fun, putting in these little surprises where you stop and do ten pushups, places where you dribble backwards.

  We take turns timing each other, trying to better our speed with each round. My legs are lead. Clay’s put in this grueling part where we have to stop and jump sideways over the ball twenty times before we can go on.

  “Come on, Weez, a little faster. Push it! Twenty seconds down. You can do it!”

  I’m hopping over the ball like a slalom skier—a slalom skier about to wipe out. I’ve lost my count, my timing, the feeling in my quads. I step on the ball and it squirts away. My legs fly out from under me and I land hard on my tailbone.

  “Come on, Leah, get up! You can still do it!”

  “No, I can’t,” I say, still sitting.

  “Yes, you can! Come on!” Clay’s bent over his watch like a bomb’s going to blow if I don’t make my time. “Dig deep, Weez!

  “Would you just shut up? You should hear yourself!” I brush the grass and dirt from my aching bottom and walk off the field.

  “I’m not sure what I did, but I’m sorry,” says Clay, following me. “Are you okay?”

  I just shake my head and keep walking. When I’m sure I’m not going to cry, I turn around.

  “I should have known it was too good to be true. I mean, I didn’t expect to get a shot at the national team until after my freshman year in college. I thought I’d have to prove myself more. Accept a scholarship from some national power and show my stuff against the big name players in women’s college soccer.”

  I pace back and forth, looking down at my feet, not really talking to him, just getting it out.

  “But, no. Everything goes my way. I go to ODP camp and I’m chosen for the regional team. Which means I get to go to Colorado Springs to compete for a spot on the U-18 National Team. The U-18 National Team. That’s one step away from the full national team, the World Cup, the Olympics.

  “So I come home, high as a kite, and find out my dad is dying. And not only is he dying, but he has three months to live. He tells me this in June. National camp is in August. Do you think I’m going to miss the final weeks of my dad’s life? Do you think I even care about soccer anymore?”

  I stop and look at Clay.

  “Yes, I do, or you wouldn’t be talking like this. It bothers you, Leah. It bothers you that all of your soccer plans—your dreams—are all screwed up.”

  Clay is always so honest. I like that about him. But I hate it when he thinks he knows the inner workings of my mind.

  “You don’t get it, Clay. Soccer’s the least important thing in my world right now. I can’t enjoy it anymore. I mean, how can I keep coming out here, running around and having fun, when my dad is dying?” I wipe my eyes. “It’s not fair. Why does this have to happen?”

  Now, I want to say; why does this have to happen now? Just when I get to where I’ve been aiming, just when I should be enjoying myself.

  “You can’t think like that, Leah.”

  “Yes, I can.”

  “Well, you shouldn’t. You shouldn’t let it ruin your whole life. Yes, it’s sad. And, yes, it’s unfair. But remember what Mr. Schleeter says: ‘Life’s not fair.’”

  I almost smile. Mr. Schleeter was our trig teacher. He was really hard on me. I’d ace a test, get every single answer right, and he’d take off points just because I hadn’t shown my work. I’d complain about how unfair it was and he would boom over me, “Life’s not fair!” The class thought it was a riot.

  “Leah, you can’t let it keep you from enjoying soccer. Your dad wouldn’t want you to give it up on his account. Besides, he really isn’t even that sick yet.
There’s always the chance that he might not die. Have you thought of that?”

  He’s right; I can’t give up. In fact, I should do this for Dad. Play soccer, make the national team, maybe even go to Notre Dame. Wouldn’t he love that?

  From now on, I’m dedicating everything I do to him. Every workout, run, practice, game. You know—win one for the Gipper.

  “Clay, you should be a psychologist. You’re really good at it.” I slap him on the back.

  A fresh blotchy spot spreads slowly on each of his cheeks until his whole face is aflame. He breaks into an ear-to-ear smile and turns away from me.

  “Let’s get back to it,” he says.

  “Yeah, we better. I haven’t done a thing since ODP camp.”

  Wednesday, June 25

  Climbing into the car with Dad, I realize I’d better enjoy this ride down to practice. After all, who knows how many more times he’ll be able to do it?

  It’s two hours to Midland. Twice a week, three summers in a row, Dad’s been driving me there. Sure, I wanted to play on a good team, but I never dreamed he’d be willing to drive that far, and I never would have asked. It was his idea. He wanted me to have tough competition, and there isn’t much of that in our part of the state. People probably think we’re wacko traveling so far to play on a club team, but we’re not the only ones doing it.

  Dad’s in his classic pose: right hand at twelve o’clock on the steering wheel, left elbow out the window, hand grabbing onto the roof of the car.

  I keep stealing glances at him when he’s not looking. I want to remember every little detail so I’ll never forget. Like the way he picks his nose with the tip of his thumb. And the way he spits out the window. When I was little, I used to think it was really cool how he hacked it up and let it fly. Whtt! Straight as a bullet. No mess, no spray, no blob—just a blur whizzing out the window. I’d try to do it just like him.

  The radio station Dad listens to cracks me up. WXTC. He thinks he’s so cool, but little does he know, he’s a decade behind. These are the same songs he used to hate when Paul was a teenager blasting them in his bedroom.

  Dad looks at me through his photo grays. “What’s so funny?”

  I realize I’m smiling but I can’t tell him why. I’ll tell him a Polish joke I heard at camp instead. Dad loves Polish jokes. “What the hell,” he always says. “I’m a Polack. I can laugh at myself.” He says they’re the only jokes you can tell nowadays and not be called prejudiced.

  “What happened when the Polack went to change his snow tires?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “They melted.”

  Dad laughs. “What happened when the Polack blew his nose?”

  “What?”

  “His head collapsed.”

  It’s so stupidly crude, so Dad, that I have to laugh.

  Funny thing is, while I’m thinking about enjoying every second I have with him, he doesn’t even seem to know he’s sick. You can’t tell anything’s wrong with him. He looks good. He’s acting totally normal. He doesn’t seem to be in pain. In fact, he doesn’t mention it at all.

  So I decide not to go for the record with him when his hand steals over across the seat. That wouldn’t be normal enough for today. Today we have to act like everything’s okay. For as long as we can, we have to act that way.

  Coach Kenney paces in front us, twirling his whistle. When everyone’s quiet, he faces us, planting his feet wide, crossing his hands behind his back.

  “Before we start,” says Coach Kenney, “congratulations are in order. As some of you may know, Leah made the regional team last week.” He starts a round of applause, and I’m blushing like crazy, all hot under the collar. “It just goes to show what dedication can do for you.”

  Then comes Coach Kenney’s lecture on dedication. “If you want to be really good, just practicing here with the team is not enough. You’ve got to practice on your own, at home, alone.

  “Leah,” he says, turning to me, “aside from games and practices, how much time do you put into soccer?”

  Oh, geez, why is he doing this to me? I am kind of proud of my self-discipline, but it’s a private thing. The others are going to think I’m nuts.

  I feel a circle of eyes turn in on me, so I put on blinders and focus on Coach Kenney.

  “I don’t know. Maybe two or three hours a day, when the weather’s good. In the winter I run and lift and do footwork in the garage. Sometimes I go to the school gym.”

  “There you go,” Coach Kenney says to the team, smiling like I’m his own creation. “The proof is in the pudding.”

  Everyone’s looking at me.

  “I’m not trying to beat you over the head with this,” Coach Kenney says. “Not everybody can be a Leah Weiczynkowski or a Michael Jordan.” All eyes turn from me now. Probably in disgust. “And not everybody wants to be. It takes a lot of sacrifice. Maybe for you it’s not worth it. And that doesn’t make you a bad person. I just want you to be realistic about what you want to get out of soccer, about what you’re putting into it, and about the balance between the two.”

  Man, I love practice. I get so into the drills. I’m like a race-horse pawing at the ground as I wait my turn in line. Then I’m out of the gates like a shot. Zoom, zoom, zoom! I try to do things crisp and clean. Make a run. Collect the ball. Turn. Take the shot. We’ve done these drills a thousand times, but I’m always after perfection.

  We scrimmage, my favorite part. I’m free, running and romping, seeing what new success each shot or pass might bring. Can I put this ball in the net? Will I get an assist on this cross? Can I take this girl and beat her one-on-one?

  The game is constant motion, back and forth, side to side. It’s like jazz—nothing fits a pattern—yet it all comes together so perfectly.

  Coach Kenney’s whistle blows, and we jog over to the sidelines for a water break. I pause and sneak a look over at Dad sitting in the jeep. A newspaper’s spread across the windshield so I can’t see his face, but he seems to be doing okay. Then the newspaper drops and Dad’s staring right at me. I quickly turn my head, embarrassed somehow, and squirt a stream of water into my mouth.

  CHAPTER 7

  Friday, June 27

  It’s noon and Mom still hasn’t turned on the stereo. This isn’t like her. She always plays music, from the time she gets up until we either turn on the TV or go to bed.

  It’s like a morgue in this house lately. Nobody says much. Nobody hangs around in the kitchen after meals anymore. Gram hides in her room. Mom and Dad go for walks or take the boat out. Dad goes to the restaurant and Mom digs around in the garden. Right now they’re down at the beach, sitting in lawn chairs and staring out at the water.

  Someone knocks on the front door and I run to answer it, hoping it’s Clay.

  It’s a woman, maybe thirty-five or forty, with black curly hair and the tiniest nose and mouth I’ve ever seen. She’s carrying a large tote bag.

  “Hi. I’m Heather from Grand Traverse Hospice.”

  “Hello.”

  “Are your parents home?”

  “They’re outside. Down at the beach. I’ll get them.”

  Hospice?

  It’s obvious they’ve been expecting her. She invites me to join them. “In hospice we like to involve the whole family,” she says, so I sit on the couch between Mom and Dad.

  “You have a daughter,” she says. “Any other family members living in your household?”

  “I’m sorry,” says Mom, “This is Leah, our youngest. We have two older children, Mary and Paul. They live downstate.”

  “Mom,” I whisper, “don’t forget Gram.”

  “Oh, yes. And Pete’s mother lives with us. Do you want me to get her?”

  “No, I’ll meet her another time. Do you have any relatives living in the area?”

  “No. We’re from Milwaukee. Our families are still there.”

  “Have you told them about Pete’s condition?” It’s pretty clear this is a dialogue between Mom and the nurse, but
the nurse keeps sending Dad these checking glances.

  “Yes, we have,” answers Mom.

  “Good. Do you work, Rita?”

  “I do the books for the restaurant and help out whenever I’m needed there, but someone can always cover for me.”

  “Then you’ll be able to stay home and care for Pete?”

  “Oh, yes,” Mom answers.

  “Good. And is that how you make your living, Pete, in the restaurant business?”

  “That’s right. Pete’s Place.”

  “Pete’s Place!” Heather smiles and clucks her tongue. “Oh, for heaven’s sake. I go there! Great soups.”

  Dad smiles. “I thought you looked familiar. By now, most everyone in the area looks familiar. You meet a lot of people in this business.”

  “I bet you do,” says Heather. “Your restaurant’s a busy place. I’ve heard it’s one of the few places that doesn’t struggle when the tourists leave.”

  Dad is beaming.

  Heather clears her throat and softens her voice. “Even though you’re still doing well, Pete, Dr. Ross wanted us to meet before, ah, before the time comes when you will need our services. He said you’ve decided against any kind of treatment, and that you’ve signed a living will and papers stating that you wish to die at home. Is that correct?”

  A chill shoots up my spine.

  Dad nods. “Yes.”

  “So, from now on, I’ll be coming into your home to give you all of your medical care. Our goal is to make you as comfortable as possible, to do things the way you want them done.

  I’m getting that same awful cold-at-the-core feeling I got when Dad first told me he had cancer.

  “At first,” Heather continues, “I’ll make weekly visits. As your needs change, I’ll come more frequently.

  “Now, about your home. It’s a single story, no stairs for Pete to climb, right?”

  “That’s right,” says Mom.

  “Would you mind giving me a tour so I can take a look at the layout? It’s a beautiful home, by the way.”

  “What the hell,” Dad whispers to me when they leave the room. “Is this woman a realtor or a nurse?”