truth. Maybe I
had
fixed my hair—but not in
that
way.
“Good. Because if you did, that would be really …
weird.
”
“
You’re
weird,” I said, reverting to my little-girl self the way I often did around Lucy, and she with me.
A second later the side door opened and Coach appeared in a Walker warm-up and baseball cap. I looked away as Lucy kissed him hello and reminded him why we were over.
“Well, thanks, girls,” Coach said, his voice gruff and gentle at once. “I think it’s time …”
We all stood there for an awkward, sad beat until the doorbell rang and Lucy said, “That must be your mom.” She went to the foyer, leaving Coach and me alone.
He spoke first. “Did you call Smiley?”
“Yes,” I said, relieved that I’d finally placed the call that morning. “And I broke up with Miller, too.”
Coach raised his eyebrows and whistled.
“Impressed?”
“Very,” he said. “How do you feel?”
I hesitated, then said, “Hopeful … Although right now I’m just thinking about Lucy.”
He cleared his throat and poured a glass of tea. “You know, I don’t want to remove all traces of Connie—but I don’t think it’s good to keep a museum either. And, in the end, they’re just
things.
Stuff. Nice stuff that should be used and enjoyed. Connie would want it that way.”
“Of course,” I said, dropping my gaze to the counter, wonderingwhat was taking Lucy and my mom so long. I hesitated, then worked up the courage to ask, “And how are
you
?”
He looked surprised by the question, then exhaled and said, “I’m okay. Mornings are tough. That’s when Connie and I always talked the most … The whole thing is just really hard to believe. It’s like …” He shook his head, searching for words. “It’s like an out of the body experience … I’m just ready for the season to start. Football really helps. It’s a distraction. Get busy living, you know?”
“Yes, I know … I’m sorry, Coach,” I said, grief expanding in my chest. “I don’t know if I’ve really said that to you yet … but I am so … sorry.”
“I know you are, girl,” he said, reaching out to cover my hand with his. “Thank you for asking.”
His hand moved back to his side of the counter as my mother and Lucy walked into the kitchen.
“Hellooo, Clive,” my mom said. She was the only person I ever heard call Coach by his first name. Even Connie had called him
Poppins
—although I didn’t know why. I once asked Lucy the story behind the nickname, and she said she couldn’t remember it—which boggled my mind.
“Hello, Marie,” Coach said, kissing her cheek.
“How are you?” she said, making the same question sound about as different as possible from the one I’d just asked. Whereas mine had been tentative, hers was bold, borderline condescending, going right along with the Tupperware containers of soup I had spotted in the fridge, all labeled with her handwriting and descriptions, such as “Basil tomato to warm your heart” and “Cream of mushroom for cozy nights in front of the television.”
“Doing well. Hanging in there,” Coach said briskly. I could tell by his tone and body language that she got on his nerves, something I had observed for years. But I also knew he appreciated her loyalty, the fact that, unlike many, her love of him and his family wasn’t tied to winning football games.
“Well, I’ll be in my office,” he said to all of us. “If you need me.”
“Okay, Daddy,” Lucy said.
“How do you think he’s
really
doing?” my mom whispered after Coach had walked out of the room.
Lucy shrugged, frowned, and whispered back, “It’s hard to tell. He won’t
talk
about it.”
Two long, draining hours later we had gone through only a fraction of Mrs. Carr’s closet, sorting her clothes, scarves, belts, and purses into three piles:
take to Goodwill
,
save in the attic
, and
transfer to Lucy’s closet.
My mother and I sat cross-legged on the bedroom
had
fixed my hair—but not in
that
way.
“Good. Because if you did, that would be really …
weird.
”
“
You’re
weird,” I said, reverting to my little-girl self the way I often did around Lucy, and she with me.
A second later the side door opened and Coach appeared in a Walker warm-up and baseball cap. I looked away as Lucy kissed him hello and reminded him why we were over.
“Well, thanks, girls,” Coach said, his voice gruff and gentle at once. “I think it’s time …”
We all stood there for an awkward, sad beat until the doorbell rang and Lucy said, “That must be your mom.” She went to the foyer, leaving Coach and me alone.
He spoke first. “Did you call Smiley?”
“Yes,” I said, relieved that I’d finally placed the call that morning. “And I broke up with Miller, too.”
Coach raised his eyebrows and whistled.
“Impressed?”
“Very,” he said. “How do you feel?”
I hesitated, then said, “Hopeful … Although right now I’m just thinking about Lucy.”
He cleared his throat and poured a glass of tea. “You know, I don’t want to remove all traces of Connie—but I don’t think it’s good to keep a museum either. And, in the end, they’re just
things.
Stuff. Nice stuff that should be used and enjoyed. Connie would want it that way.”
“Of course,” I said, dropping my gaze to the counter, wonderingwhat was taking Lucy and my mom so long. I hesitated, then worked up the courage to ask, “And how are
you
?”
He looked surprised by the question, then exhaled and said, “I’m okay. Mornings are tough. That’s when Connie and I always talked the most … The whole thing is just really hard to believe. It’s like …” He shook his head, searching for words. “It’s like an out of the body experience … I’m just ready for the season to start. Football really helps. It’s a distraction. Get busy living, you know?”
“Yes, I know … I’m sorry, Coach,” I said, grief expanding in my chest. “I don’t know if I’ve really said that to you yet … but I am so … sorry.”
“I know you are, girl,” he said, reaching out to cover my hand with his. “Thank you for asking.”
His hand moved back to his side of the counter as my mother and Lucy walked into the kitchen.
“Hellooo, Clive,” my mom said. She was the only person I ever heard call Coach by his first name. Even Connie had called him
Poppins
—although I didn’t know why. I once asked Lucy the story behind the nickname, and she said she couldn’t remember it—which boggled my mind.
“Hello, Marie,” Coach said, kissing her cheek.
“How are you?” she said, making the same question sound about as different as possible from the one I’d just asked. Whereas mine had been tentative, hers was bold, borderline condescending, going right along with the Tupperware containers of soup I had spotted in the fridge, all labeled with her handwriting and descriptions, such as “Basil tomato to warm your heart” and “Cream of mushroom for cozy nights in front of the television.”
“Doing well. Hanging in there,” Coach said briskly. I could tell by his tone and body language that she got on his nerves, something I had observed for years. But I also knew he appreciated her loyalty, the fact that, unlike many, her love of him and his family wasn’t tied to winning football games.
“Well, I’ll be in my office,” he said to all of us. “If you need me.”
“Okay, Daddy,” Lucy said.
“How do you think he’s
really
doing?” my mom whispered after Coach had walked out of the room.
Lucy shrugged, frowned, and whispered back, “It’s hard to tell. He won’t
talk
about it.”
Two long, draining hours later we had gone through only a fraction of Mrs. Carr’s closet, sorting her clothes, scarves, belts, and purses into three piles:
take to Goodwill
,
save in the attic
, and
transfer to Lucy’s closet.
My mother and I sat cross-legged on the bedroom
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