Chapter 4 - The Father Who Came Back
I didn’t sleep.
By six in the morning, I had convinced myself David was about to reinvent history.
By seven, I had imagined five different lies.
By eight, I had decided I wouldn’t ask Mason about the message.
That lasted forty-three minutes.
He came downstairs carrying his hockey bag.
“You ready?”
“No.”
He smiled.
“For the game?”
“Oh. That either.”
He looked at me.
“Dad.”
“Yeah?”
“You okay?”
“Fine.”
He narrowed his eyes.
“You’re doing the thing.”
“What thing?”
“The ‘fine’ thing.”
“I’m actually fine.”
“That sounded worse.”
I grabbed my coat.
“Championship day. Let’s go.”
He watched me another second.
Then nodded.
The arena was already loud two hours before puck drop.
Parents carried signs.
Students painted their faces blue and red.
The pep band murdered three songs in a row with admirable confidence.
Mason disappeared into the locker room.
I found my seat.
Section 104.
Row G.
Same aisle seat I had requested all season.
I looked across the arena.
Section 113.
Empty.
Good.
Bad.
I couldn’t decide.
Twenty minutes before warmups, people stood in the aisle across the rink.
A man removed a charcoal overcoat.
Gray suit.
White shirt.
No tie.
Older than I remembered.
David.
My chest went cold.
Fourteen years is long enough to change almost everything about a face.
Hairline.
Weight.
Skin.
Posture.
But not the eyes.
I knew him instantly.
He looked toward the ice.
Then across the crowd.
Then directly at me.
Neither of us moved.
For a second, I was twenty-eight again.
He was sitting in my passenger seat, laughing because we had gotten thrown out of a bar.
Then Sarah was alive.
Then Mason was a baby.
Then the memory vanished.
David looked away first.
Warmups began.
Mason skated onto the ice.
Number 24.
Captain’s C.
The crowd cheered.
He circled once.
Then looked toward me.
I stood.
“Keep your head up!”
He rolled his eyes.
Good.
Routine mattered.
A few seconds later, Mason turned toward section 113.
He saw David.
His skating slowed.
Barely.
But I noticed.
Of course I did.
The game started badly.
Mason missed a pass.
Took a penalty.
Lost a puck battle he normally won.
His team fell behind 1–0.
Then 2–0.
The crowd went nervous.
Second period.
Mason sat on the bench, helmet down, breathing hard.
He looked toward David.
Then me.
I stood.
“Twenty-four!”
He looked.
I pointed to my own eyes.
“Here!”
It was something I had done since he was nine.
When nerves took over, find one thing.
One face.
One breath.
One next shift.
He nodded.
The next time he hit the ice, he stopped trying to win the entire game himself.
He made a simple pass.
Then another.
Late in the second, Mason assisted the first goal.
The building exploded.
Third period.
2–1.
Nine minutes left.
Mason scored.
2–2.
Three minutes left.
A teammate buried a rebound.
3–2.
Final horn.
Gloves flew.
Kids crashed into each other near the net.
Parents screamed.
I don’t remember standing.
I was suddenly at the glass.
Mason skated toward us with tears running down his face.
Champions.
He slapped the glass in front of me.
I slapped it back.
Then I noticed David standing ten feet away behind the boards.
Watching.
Not smiling.
Crying.
After the celebration, players went back to the locker room briefly.
I headed toward the concourse.
“Leo.”
I stopped.
The voice.
Older.
Still his.
David stood behind me.
For fourteen years, I had rehearsed what I would say.
Most versions included profanity.
Instead, I said, “You look old.”
He almost smiled.
“So do you.”
“Good talk.”
I started walking.
“Leo, wait.”
I turned.
“What?”
“I know you hate me.”
“You traveled all this way for that discovery?”
“I deserve it.”
“Yes.”
He nodded.
No defense.
That annoyed me.
“You don’t get points for agreeing.”
“I know.”
“Stop saying that.”
He looked down.
For the first time, I saw his hands shaking.
“I didn’t come to take him from you.”
“You couldn’t.”
“I know.”
“David.”
“Sorry.”
I stared at him.
He looked smaller than he had from across the arena.
Success photographed well.
Shame didn’t.
“Why didn’t you come back?” I asked.
He inhaled.
“I panicked.”
“For fourteen years?”
“No.”
He rubbed his jaw.
“The first week, yes. I drove west. Slept in motels. Drank. I kept thinking I’d go back the next morning.”
“You left your child.”
“I know.”
I stepped closer.
“You left him alone.”
His eyes filled.
“I know.”
“He was four.”
“I know.”
“Stop saying you know!”
People glanced over.
David lowered his voice.
“I don’t know what you want me to say.”
“The truth.”
“I was a coward.”
That stopped me.
He looked directly at me.
“Sarah died, and something in me broke. Every room had her in it. Mason looked like her. Sounded like her. Needed me, and every time he needed me, I felt like I couldn’t breathe.”
“So you ran.”
“Yes.”
“Then?”
“I got sober eight months later.”
I blinked.
“You were drinking?”
“Constantly.”
“You never told me.”
“I didn’t tell anybody.”
He continued.
“I thought about coming back every day. Then months had passed. You had guardianship. Patricia sent notices. I saw your name.”
“You could have called.”
“I was ashamed.”
“That’s your excuse?”
“No.”
He shook his head.
“That’s the reason. Not the excuse.”
I said nothing.
David’s eyes moved toward the ice.
“When I finally got my life together, I convinced myself Mason was better with you.”
“That was convenient.”
“Yes.”
“Very.”
“Yes.”
I nearly laughed.
“God, I hate you.”
“I know.”
I pointed at him.
“Do not.”
“Right.”
Despite myself, a sound escaped me.
Not laughter.
Close.
David looked at me.
“The message last night.”
His face changed.
“You saw it.”
“Preview.”
“I wasn’t going to lie to him.”
“What don’t I know?”
David hesitated.
Then looked toward the locker-room tunnel.
“I came back once.”
My skin prickled.
“What?”
“When Mason was nine.”
I stared.
“I drove to Pittsburgh.”
“You’re lying.”
“I sat across from his elementary school for two hours.”
My fists tightened.
“Why?”
“I wanted to see him.”
“You could have walked in.”
“I know.”
“You could have called me.”
“I know.”
I glared.
He caught himself.
“Sorry.”
“What happened?”
“I saw you pick him up.”
The concourse noise faded.
“You were carrying his backpack. He was talking nonstop. You stopped at your truck and he hugged you.”
David’s voice broke.
“He called you Dad.”
I remembered that afternoon.
Maybe.
There had been hundreds like it.
“I drove back to Chicago.”
I stared at him.
“You let a nine-year-old decide for you without knowing he was deciding.”
“Yes.”
“Coward.”
“Yes.”
This time I let him say it.
The locker-room doors opened.
Players began returning to the ice for the trophy presentation.
Mason skated out last.
Someone handed him the championship trophy.
The arena roared.
He raised it above his head.
For one perfect moment, everything else disappeared.
Then Mason spoke briefly to the coach.
The coach nodded.
A microphone was passed over the boards.
Mason took it.
The announcer gestured for quiet.
I looked at David.
David looked at me.
Neither of us knew what Mason was about to say.
The crowd settled.
Mason stood at center ice, championship medal around his neck.
His hair was wet with sweat.
His cheeks were red.
He lifted the microphone.
“There’s somebody here tonight I need to talk about.”
May you like
My heart began to pound.
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