by Sierra Hill
“Hi, Caleb. I’m so happy to meet you,” I say in a soft voice, plopping my butt on the floor in front of him, crossing my legs, hands folded in the space between.
The boy peers up at me, letting Garrett go from the grip he’d had on his shoulders and cocks his head to check me out. He’s adorably sweet, with the same chin dimple as his father, his hair only slightly lighter than Garrett’s, and spindly legs and arms of a boy, no longer a toddler.
I wasn’t sure what to expect upon meeting Caleb, considering I knew next-to-nothing about his condition from the brief emails I received from Coach Parker. All I knew was that Caleb was young, not yet school-aged, and had complications due to pediatric brain trauma. There was a mess load of potential issues that I could’ve walked into.
From just our brief interaction so far this morning, he appears to have limited mobility, based on the tiny walker that sits at the ready next to the couch and it appears he’s unable to communicate very clearly.
I read up as much as I could in the last few days before coming over to learn about the impacts and effects of brain injuries on young children. If there is such a thing as typical, many kids under the age of four who have suffered neurological trauma due to abuse or falls or motor vehicle accidents, have noticeable speech and mobility limitations.
I don’t know the details about Caleb’s full condition, but regardless, it’s exactly the reason I’m getting my Master’s in Child Development and Psychology. To help assist in the counseling and development of their physical, cognitive and emotional state and to provide tools for parents in easing their burdens on managing life after an event like this has occurred.
Caleb purses his lips together and blows out a bubble, sounding something like “Baaaaa.”
I smile, nodding my head at what I assume is his attempt to say my name. I point to my cheek. “That’s right. I’m Brooklyn.”
Coach Parker eyes me warily with a half-smile that doesn’t quite meet his eyes.
“As you can see, Caleb is working on developing his speech. He sees a speech therapist twice a week and that’s one of the things I’ll need this position to help with over the summer. But you’re getting there, aren’t you, buddy?”
The love that shines between both Coach and Caleb’s faces is honestly the sweetest thing I’ve ever witnessed. There is something so pure and beautiful that radiates in their eyes, and it immediately shuts down all the rumors and hearsay that I’ve recently heard about the hard-ass coach.
He’s not the self-absorbed asshole or ‘has-been’ pro baller that everyone says he is.
He’s just a single dad, dealing with what has to be one of the most difficult of situations any parent must go through. A man clearly devoted to the health and well-being of his child. A man doing the very best he can to ensure his son is looked after and given every opportunity to thrive and live a good childhood.
And I want to be the one to help them both.
When Coach returns, he’s wearing an ASU Sun Devils T-shirt and has a clipboard in his hands. I kind of want to laugh, because all he needs now is the coaching whistle to complete the outfit. But I keep my thoughts to myself and settle into his questions and stipulations regarding the position.
“Routine is extremely important to his development,” he states adamantly, checking off from the list he’s running through as we discuss Caleb’s daily and weekly schedules. “I need someone who is consistent and won’t deviate from the expected schedule.”
“Got it. But sometimes kids need some freedom to just be kids and have fun, too,” I counter back. “Regimenting a child’s day without room for playtime or extra-curricular time can bring out unwanted behavioral traits.”
Coach’s stern gaze snaps to mine. “My child is not a dog. He’s not going to be pissing in the corner if he doesn’t get to play all day long. And he gets plenty of that with me. But when I’m not here, I expect things to go as I have planned.”
Okay then. I didn’t mean to rub him the wrong way with my opinion. But I’ve been taught it’s better to speak up and challenge. Especially when it comes from a good place and I only mean well.
“Understood,” I say more demurely this time. I don’t want to start off on the wrong foot, or heaven forbid, sound too demanding or obstinate. I need this summer job. “You’re right. I agree.”
He nods briskly. “Brooklyn, I appreciate the fact that you have a lot of education involving childhood development. I read your resume and am very impressed. But here’s the deal. I need someone who is going to listen to me and do things the way I say, for Caleb’s sake. It’s the only way this will work. Got it?”
Biting my tongue to keep myself from saying anything I’ll regret, I acquiesce, smiling brightly.
“Got it, Coach. Message received, loud and clear. I want what’s best for Caleb. And if you hire me, I’ll make sure to do everything by the book.”
3
Garrett
“Mornin’, Coach. How’s it going?”
I lift my eyes from the roster I’ve been working on to see Lance Britton, my former player and now assistant camp coach, ambling through the doorway of my office. He’s dressed in his usual attire – gray sweats and a T-shirt – looking healthy and happy.
“Hey, man. Glad you’re here.” I check the time on my watch and lift my chin with a teasing grin. “And on time, no less. I’m shook.”
“Ah, look at you old man. Being all hip with the slang these days.” Lance flips me off, plopping down in the chair in front of my desk.
“What can I say? I’m a working stiff now and need to impress my new boss. And surprisingly, I now enjoy mornings a helluva lot more when I don’t have a head-crushing hangover.” He chuckles good-naturedly, but I know the underlying message in his comment.
Lance says it in jest, but truthfully, he went through hell and back to get where he is today. Sober and alive. At the beginning of last season, his senior year on the team, Lance was really struggling in life, mainly with an addiction that nearly cost him everything – his relationship, his basketball scholarship and his life. Thankfully, he received a wake-up call and with the team’s help and the love of his life by his side, he sought treatment to take control of his addictions.
And now he’s married with a baby on the way and with a job this summer helping me coach this high school basketball camp.
“Hey, I wanted to talk to you about something before we start practice today.”
Lance places his elbows on the desk, an eyebrow quirked up, leaning in to listen intently. “Yeah, what’s up?”
Clearing my head of all the thoughts that have been swirling in my brain since meeting Brooklyn this morning, I relax back in my chair and rub my chin, the stubble rough since I didn’t have time to shave this morning due to my rush. The bristles of my beard scrape against my hand. Add another thing to my ever-growing list of things to do.
Right between hire a replacement nanny and win an NCAA championship next season, hopefully setting me up for a future head coaching job someday.
When my career in the NBA ended abruptly, I had no idea where I was going or what I’d end up doing. The future looked so bleak two years ago, as I was dealt a hand that no gambler would ever want to bet on. A dead wife and a brain-injured child who would need constant medical attention and help. There was no way I was rebounding back into a spot on an NBA team roster, so I had to figure out a new plan and a new career.
Luckily, through my friend and former college teammate, Lucas, I found my way down to Tempe, Arizona and landed this coaching job.
Now I just had to figure out a plan for Caleb this summer.
“This girl you referred for the nanny position. Do you trust her?”
Lance’s eyes narrow in question. “You mean Brooklyn? Hells yeah, I trust her. That’s why I suggested her in the first place. I’ve known her for a long time, since our freshman year. She just graduated with her degree and played on the women’s soccer squad. She’s totally into kids with disabilitie
s.”
He stops abruptly, the look of guilt replacing his smile. “Fuck, I’m sorry, Coach. I don’t know the politically correct term to use. I mean special needs kids.”
Lance knows much, but not everything, about Caleb’s disabilities, and has even met him a few times. I know he finds it awkward to talk about Caleb’s limitations, as most people do when they first meet or see Caleb. He’s not your typical four-year-old kid. He can’t really walk or communicate, which makes people uncomfortable.
We’ve grown used to it, but it never gets any easier. The looks we get from strangers or even people I know.
Since joining the ASU men’s basketball team staff, I’ve brought Caleb into the office and to games on a few occasions when my former nanny was able to swing it. Due to the walker, and sometimes the motorized wheelchair he uses, and his speech limitations, there are always misunderstandings of his condition and people are more apt to shy away due to ignorance and fear.
I’ve been asked if Caleb has cerebral palsy or is autistic or mentally challenged. Worse yet is when the ignorant motherfuckers ask if my child is retarded.
It’s those times that I want to throat punch them or grab them by the balls and spin them around before throwing them against a brick wall. But what can I do? There will always be stupid people who through their own limitations and ignorance don’t know or understand.
Caleb is a brilliant, beautiful and sweet child but comes with limitations that other kids his age don’t have. Every time I look at him, I’m racked with pain and guilt because he will never live an average or normal life. It will always be fraught with difficulties.
Regardless that I’ve been dealing with his condition for two years now, it hasn’t gotten any easier. Not when his progress has moved slower than I’ve wanted. I’d hoped by the time he was ready to start school he’d be walking on his own and without assistance.
Maybe if I wasn’t alone in this endeavor and Becca was still around, I’d have more patience. She was always the easy-going, laid-back, take-it-as-it-comes type of personality. But not me. I was born a competitor. Everything in my life, from childhood to adult, was something I wanted to achieve and win. If I wanted something bad enough, I made it happen. Perseverance, desire, and commitment.
Unfortunately, those traits don’t necessarily translate when it comes to traumatic brain injuries and recovery in children. And it’s given me more sleepless nights than I care to count.
That’s why it’s imperative that I have a nanny that I can trust and who will work with Caleb daily. Just as I do with my ball players, it’s practice, practice, practice until you can do it without a second thought. And from what I could gather from my introductory meeting this morning with Brooklyn, she’s equipped and educated to do that.
But she also struck me as highly-opinionated and defiant. Or at least, that was my first impression of her.
Sliding my foot over my bent knee, I dismiss Lance’s concern over the proper term. “It’s cool, man. Everyone has different preferences. Physically challenged, disabled, differently abled…special needs. It all works. Anyway, about Brooklyn. We met this morning and I think she brings a lot to the table and is willing to work through the summer and maybe even into the fall with my variable schedule requirements and out of town demands.”
Lance nods and gives me the thumbs up. “That’s great. So, what’s the problem? Seems like a good gig. And how about a ‘Thanks, Lance, for brokering this deal.’”
I let out a short laugh because although Lance isn’t a dad yet, he does have one on the way, and he’ll learn soon enough that being a father means that no one is ever qualified or trustworthy enough to care for your child.
Sometimes I wonder how I’m even qualified to be Caleb’s father or how I’ve made it this far without making every mistake in the book. Being a parent is the hardest thing in the world. And being a single parent to a special needs child? Well shit, that only triples the anxiety that comes along with the job.
Out of the corner of my eye, off to the side of my desk, I notice the picture of Caleb and me from last Father’s Day. It was taken nearly a year ago after we’d just moved to Phoenix from Indiana. I’m carrying him on my back, his arms loosely swung around my neck and he wears a gigantic, baby-toothed smile across his face.
He doesn’t remember what it was like before the accident. Before our worlds were irrevocably changed. He doesn’t even remember his mom, Becca, who cared for and loved him like her own.
In that picture, he didn’t know that he was the only reason I got myself out of bed some days. The only thing that continued to push me to do anything after what happened in the accident.
Before Caleb was born, my life centered around three things - me, myself and I. I had no cares in the world, an exciting NBA career that brought me celebrity and money, as well as notoriety. Looking back on life before and the way I was with Becca, how I took her for granted and didn’t count myself lucky to have such a beautiful and honest woman in my life, I can now say what a selfish asshole I was. And how I didn’t deserve any of it.
And then Caleb came into my life – my perfect little boy - who I had to fight tooth and nail for. Who Becca and I did everything for.
Until that night that sent my life reeling, spiraling like the sieve down a drain, leaving me a widowed single father, alone to raise this special little boy.
Shaking off my dark thoughts, I return my attention to Lance. “I need to be certain she’s the right fit. I don’t want someone breezing in and then realizing the work is too hard or too much to handle and then leave us high and dry. Caleb already lost his mother, then I had to uproot him from his home, so I want him to have some stability in his life again, even if it’s just for the summer. If you have any reservations about Brooklyn, now’s your chance to let me know. Otherwise, if you endorse her, then I’ll give her a chance.”
Lance nods emphatically, his longish hair dipping over his eyebrows. He’s still so young. Barely twenty-three. Although I’ll be thirty this year, I feel like I’ve lived two lifetimes with everything that’s happened. The before and the after.
“Absolutely, Coach. She’s a hundred percent legit. No reservations whatsoever.” And then he surreptitiously glances back and forth in my small office, as if someone might be spying on us and with a low whisper acknowledges what I’d already had on my mind. “She’s not too bad on the eyes, either. Am I right?”
He wiggles his eyebrows knowingly.
A laugh bursts free from my lungs and I roll my eyes at his distasteful, but wholly accurate, comment.
Of course, I’d be dead not to have noticed how attractive Brooklyn is. How could I not? She’s tall, maybe five-eight, with an athletic frame – not overly curvy, but in all the right places. Athletically fit, with toned shoulders and legs that go on for miles, like an Arizona highway.
Her long, dark-blonde hair was pulled back into a high-ponytail that swung from side-to-side when she walked. And yes, I noticed her firm ass in those black-yoga-type dress slacks as she walked ahead of me or stooped over to pick up a toy for Caleb.
“Dude, you’re a married man. You shouldn’t be noticing other women.”
Shrugging a shoulder with an innocent smirk, Lance stands up and grabs the roster from the desk, giving it a cursory glance and then turning toward the door.
“Hell yeah, man. I might be crazy in love with my smoking hot wife, but I ain’t blind. Brooklyn Hayes is one fine-looking nanny. So be careful with that.”
He leaves me with a wave of his hand as he disappears out the doorway and down the hall, I’m left to wonder how I’ll survive the summer with the spirited, intelligent and hot as fuck Brooklyn Hayes as my live-in nanny.
It’s going to be hard as hell.
4
Brooklyn
“I’m gonna miss you this summer, boo.”
My roommate, Peyton, plops down on my bed, shoving over a pile of clothes with a pouty-whine. I look up from my suitcase I’ve been trying to pack w
ith all the necessary summer essentials and give her a slight frown.
“It’s not like I’ll be going far. Just a few miles away and I’ll see you on weekends as much as possible. I mean, I do get days off once in a while, you know.”
I make a face and close the top of the smaller of the two cases, successfully zipping it shut with a “Yes!” a la Napoleon Dynamite.
After accepting Coach Parker’s offer for the live-in nanny summer position, I’d mentioned the idea of subletting my share of the apartment out to another girl this summer, so I wouldn’t leave Peyton high-and-dry without me. She admitted to me once how she hates being alone and needs the company to make her feel better. So, we agreed to post a Room for Rent on the college boards so she’d have a roomie while I was away.
Although, it’s not like I’m moving out of state and I’ll still have days and evenings to myself most of the time. I made it a point to negotiate that into the agreement, along with a two-grand salary bump over his original offer. Coach can’t be hurting for money, considering his former NBA contract and I know he won’t find anyone else with my abilities this late in the game.
That’s not me being cocky. It’s simply the fact that I know I’m a good hire for Coach Parker and his son and he’s lucky to land me. And my mother, a leader in the fight for women’s rights, taught me long ago that women need to continue to fight for equal pay and never accept anything less than what we’re worth.
Peyton picks up a T-shirt from the pile I had neatly stacked on the bed and examines it with distaste. We’ve been a great match as roommates over the last three years, originally meeting in an undergrad lecture our sophomore year in college. We get along famously, our personalities meshing well, except for the one small difference when it comes to fashion sense and style. Or rather, Peyton says I have no style whatsoever.