Page 4

Grayson

I’ve never felt comfortable in a suit. It tugs in all the wrong places, even tailored, and I keep finding myself wishing I was in my goalie get-up instead. That would be more comfortable, and I’d feel a hell of a lot more protected.

My body is stiff from the flight. I got the first one I could out of Milwaukee to Denver, and luckily for me, it was a direct shot. When the plane landed, I got a car to my hotel, changed into this suit, and decided to walk the few blocks to the lawyer’s office.

That was a mistake, resulting in my curls plastering to my forehead, sweat running down my back. Denver might be drier than Milwaukee, but it’s still hot as hell. The suit didn’t help, trapping my body heat so the first thing I did when I saw the old brick building was find a bathroom, drench a paper towel, and hold it to the back of my neck, willing my temperature to lower.

The lawyer offices here are stuffy, smelling like old carpet the way a historical building does. As I walk through the hallways, my mind races, trying to imagine what possible reason there might be for me to be here now.

Six months ago, my best friend from college died in a plane crash coming home from a vacation. Josh was electric—fun to be around. We played together in college and were later in the same hockey house. We stayed close for months after graduation, but drifted apart the way you have to when you’re located in different places.

Josh could have gone into the NHL, like me, but he’d always made it clear that he was there for the full ride scholarship, then he was out. One year after graduation, he was engaged, and a year after that, I was back in Colorado for his wedding.

And here I am once more, knocking on the door of a lawyer’s office in downtown Denver, hoping I don’t look as sick as I feel.

“Mr. O’Connor,” the lawyer says, standing and smoothing her suit when I walk in. She’s young—at least, younger than I was expecting—with shoulder-length, chocolate brown hair and sharp, dark eyes. “I’m Ms. Jade Clearing, family attorney for the Welches. It’s nice to meet you, and thank you for coming all this way.”

She extends her hand to me, and I take it, hoping she doesn’t feel the slight trembling of my fingers. “Of course,” I say, giving it one firm shake, then dropping it, knowing I’m focusing a little too much on the mechanics of the movement to be natural. “Anything for Josh.”

To the right of her desk is an elderly woman in a wheelchair, sitting in a blouse with a little quilt over her legs. She’s at the age where her back has started to curve permanently, her hair a stark white in curls over her head. I cross the room to shake her hand too, and realize she smells like rosewater.

Cupping her other hand over mine, the woman holds me there for a moment, eyes tearing as she peers up at me, her voice a bit thin and high in that watery way of age as she says, “Josh always said you were one of the good ones.”

That statement shoots right to my core, and I can almost imagine him saying it, laughing, ruffling his curly copper hair. This must be his grandma. Josh told his grandmother that I was “one of the good ones.” It’s affirming, but turns up the dial on my grief, and I have to swallow through the newly forming lump in my throat as I give her hand a gentle shake, smiling down at her.

“Thank you, ma’am,” I say, then I release her hand and turn so I’m facing both her and Jade Clearing. “So, what’s going on?”

“Thank you for coming in today, Mr. O’Connor, we know you have a busy schedule and Mrs. Welch here, for one, is very grateful that you’ve agreed to meet with us on such short notice.”

I try to wedge myself into the chair. The lawyer looks apologetic that her chairs aren’t hockey-player-sized.

“As you know, Joshua Welch passed away six months ago, along with his wife and parents, in a tragic plane accident. Members of the family not on vacation include Joshua’s two children, Athena and Calliope, as well as his sister, Kayla, and Mrs. Welch here—Joshua’s great-grandmother.”

“I believe we met at the funeral,” Mrs. Welch says, her voice thin and high, and I nod, not wholly remembering her, but knowing there was an older woman at the front of the room, and I paid my respects to her.

“We did.” I shift in my chair, growing more uncomfortable. “So, what does that have to do with me?”

“Well.” Ms. Clearing moves some files around, clears her throat, and stares me down. “Originally, after the deaths, custody of Athena and Calliope was assigned to Kayla, Joshua’s sister—their aunt. But, due to an unfortunate series of events, the children can no longer remain with her.”

Mrs. Welch says, angrily, “Kayla just couldn’t keep her nose clean.”

“Kayla has been arrested for the possession of illegal substances,” Ms. Clearing sighs. “It wasn’t enough for intent to sell, but the charges mean she’s no longer fit to be the caregiver for those girls.”

My heart has started to pound, my palms slick with sweat. What could they possibly need from me? Money? No—Joshua’s wife was a big-time lawyer herself. No way they didn’t leave something behind for their girls.

“Mr. O’Connor, it’s my understanding that you’re the godfather for Joshua’s eldest?”

I blink, and it comes rushing back to me—a phone call from Josh after Calliope was born. He’d said I was so far down the line it would probably never come to that, but he trusted me, and wanted to put me down. Just in case.

“I—yes. I remember that.”

“You’re still listed in their will. After following the family members down—grandparents, Kayla—it’s you. My question is, are you still willing to take these girls in?”

My hand rises on its own, starting to rub circles against my chest. Nausea bubbles in my stomach, and I try to ignore it, try to stay present in this moment.

Are you willing to take these girls in ?

After his wedding, I’d seen Josh and his family maybe once a year. Memories flash through my mind of holding Calliope as a baby, calling to congratulate him on his second daughter. Brief phone calls, him talking about spit-up.

The last time we spoke, he told me he had just earned tenure at his university, where he taught history. The grief of losing him crashes over me again, but I can’t think about that—I need to think about the girls.

About if it’s even possible for me to help them.

“Grayson, right?”

I blink, looking up to see Mrs. Welch looking at me. For an older woman—she must be at least ninety—the look in her eyes in surprisingly fierce. She’s fighting for those girls, trying to rally me.

“This must be a lot,” she says, her fingers working the fringe of her quilt. “Did you know Joshua was the only one of my grandsons who came to visit me regularly in the home? I know the two of you have grown apart in recent years. Adulthood does that to people, and the distance—I just want you to know that I’ve heard all about you. Josh still told your stories from college like they happened yesterday. And I know, without a doubt, that he would want you to take in his girls.”

My head is moving, I’m nodding, but I also have my hand over my mouth. I haven’t felt like this in a long time, but I know it’s there. An attack, hovering just in the back of my head, threatening to wash over me.

“Believe me, Grayson,” Mrs. Welch continues. “If I could take them, I would. Unfortunately, they don’t let you bring little kids to the nursing home with you. If you can’t take the girls, they’ll go into the foster care system. There’s nobody left.”

“What about Beth’s family?” I ask, voice rough as I think of Josh’s wife. Surely there must be someone on her side who could take the kids?

“Unfortunately, her mother was on the plane. Her father passed away years ago, and she was an only child.”

“Would I…need to move to Denver?”

“We understand you have geographic restraints, given your profession,” Ms. Clearing says, lacing her fingers together. “As of right now, we have special permission for you to take the children out of Colorado and back to Milwaukee with you. Child Protective Services will communicate with you once you arrive home, and you can expect frequent checks. Do you have space for the girls right now?”

I think about the house I’m living in, the four guest rooms I hardly use. How old is Athena? Can she even sleep in a regular bed, or will she need something different? A crib ?

“I have four extra rooms at home, but they’re not, like, kids’ rooms, or anything—”

“There will be time for that, Mr. O’Connor. Right now, I think it’s best to get the girls with someone familiar, no matter how small that connection might be. And, of course, something to keep in mind is that they are experiencing a very specific trauma right now. You can speak with their caseworker more about it, but to lose so many family members at once, and then to be removed from their aunt…it’s resulted in some behavioral issues.”

“Oh.” It’s the only word I can get out. I twist my hands together in my lap.

“Nothing violent,” Ms. Clearing assures me. “I just want to make sure you have all the information before making a decision. And, of course, you don’t have to decide right now. I can send this file with you. Go home, think about it. But it would be better to hear back from you sooner rather than later, so we can start to make other arrangements for the girls, should it be necessary.”

My eyes dart to the file on the table. She straightens up the papers and tucks them inside neatly before handing them over to me.

“Thank you,” she says. I stand and turn to say goodbye to Mrs. Welch, who takes both hands in mine. Hers are cold and soft, the skin paper thin. When I look down at them, I can make out a single blue vein snaking across the top of her hand, and that, more than anything else today, makes me feel lightheaded.

She has no other options. Other than me.

Without saying anything, she releases my hand. Then I’m walking out of the room, past the nursing aid waiting for Mrs. Welch in the hallway, and down to the lobby. I push out into the bright sunshine and walk down the street. This part of Denver is surprisingly empty. Five minutes go by before I realize I’m not even walking in the direction of my hotel.

When I turn around to head back, a flash of nausea rolls over me again. I locate the nearest trash can, hold the folder out of the way, and throw up while the person nearest to me crosses to the other side of the street.