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How is he making me laugh right now? My world has just ended, but during this conversation, it doesn't feel like it anymore.
“I wanna come and see you, but I don’t want to get between you and your dad.”
My jaw tenses. “I’ll never let my dad speak to you like that again. I promise.”
“Alexei-”
“I know he’s my dad, and I love him, but I’m an adult, and I have to stand up to him at some point.”
He’s quiet and I wonder if he’s scared. Papa can be intimidating to anyone who doesn’t know him. Shit, he can be intimidating to people who do know him.
I was scared of him as a kid. But I’m not scared of him now. I’m not that little boy who’d do anything to impress him or make him proud. Of course I still want him to be proud of me, but not at the cost of what’ll actually make me happy.
The next day,I have to wait for the doctor to do her rounds to get my pain meds and a date for surgery. They’ve supported my shoulder as best they can in a sling and told me to take it easy. No lifting anything with that arm for at least 12 weeks. She doesn’t wanna let me sign out without someone to make sure I get home okay, so I wait for my dad to come and pick me up with the hockey gear I came in wearing in a bag. I give it one last look before Papa picks it up. Let myself acknowledge that I’ll never wear it again. Let myself feel that pain and then let it go.
When we get out to the parking lot, Papa takes a set of car keys out of his pocket and starts unlocking an old Volvo.
He’s borrowed someone’s rusted hatchback with a plastic figurine of Jesus dangling from the rear-view mirror. It stinks of cigarettes and take out, and I wonder if Papa has been smoking again.
I watch his face as he drives. The lines around his eyes are a lot deeper than they were the last time I really looked at him. Is that because of me? Have I caused him that much stress?
“How about that nurse huh?” He says in Russian. “She was a nice lady. Pretty too. I think she liked you. That’s what you need Aloyshka. A pretty woman to take care of you. You worry too much.”
I make a noncommittal noise to let him know I’m not ignoring him and close my eyes so he thinks I’m tired.
He drops the car off with his friend who owns the Polish supermarket and I have to let him carry my bag the few blocks home, even though I remind him I still have one good arm.
The apartment feels weird when he lets us in. I realize I haven’t been in here for months. Maybe more. Russian Christmas is different to Western Christmas, and he doesn’t celebrate Thanksgiving, so I spent those holidays on campus with people who live too far away to go home and get back in time for holiday hockey games. I feel like a different person to the one who was here last time.
He puts my bag down by the door and takes his jacket off, hanging it over the back of his armchair.
My gaze is drawn immediately to the altar in the corner of the room where I used to see my babushka praying all the time. The framed pictures of the saints. Babushka’s prayer books and old, weathered bible.
Papa follows my gaze and says, “your babulya’s been praying for you.”
“She’s always praying for us.”
He nods and laughs, running his hand over his face like he’s tired. I wonder if he’s been up all night. Despite what he says about me worrying too much, I know he worries too.
“Papa, I need to talk to you.”
“You need to rest.” He says. “Go and lie down, your bed is all ready for you, you can go back to school when you feel better. You still need to finish your classes to stay on the hockey team.”
It’s not anger that bubbles up, it’s panic. I feel like I’m screaming and no one is listening. I feel like I’ve been screaming for years and my voice is hoarse. “Didn’t you hear what they said? I can’t play.”
“I know you can’t play, I’m not stupid.” He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t need to. “You need to technically stay on the team. You’ll be on the injury reserve list and show up to the games, get your degree and then graduate, as planned.”
“As planned,” I repeat.
He nods like he didn’t hear the tone in my voice.
I speak to him in Russian, so there’s no doubt that he’ll understand me, linguistically at least. “Papa, I’m not going to be playing hockey next year.”
“The doctor said four to six months. I’ve seen people online who went back to full training in five.”
“I don’t want to play minor league hockey.”
He waves his hand, like what I want is just a minor inconvenience. “It won’t be for long, once they see your talent-”