Page 21

It’s carnival day. I haven’t heard from Greyson since before the game he got hurt in. Mr. Wilder called yesterday morning with an update. He had a small tear in his rotator cuff. He doesn’t need surgery, but he’ll be out for 6 to 8 weeks while he goes through physical therapy to strengthen it. Abby agreed that was the best game plan; she’d try to get him cleared at the 6-week mark but couldn’t promise it as she hadn’t seen the scans or talked to the team doctor yet. It also depends on how hard he wants to push himself.

He's resting, Hannah. He needs time to wrap his head around this. I tell myself as I get ready. My mind doesn’t want to let go of the notion that his silence means he decided I wasn’t enough to want around. It’s a slippery slope, one I’m teetering on the edge of. I know him, at least, I think I do. He’s taking the time he needs to wrap his head around what happened.

Or you were just a shiny new plaything, and now he’s decided he needs to be with someone he can settle down with. Inhaling, I hold my breath for three heartbeats and exhale for four. “I am kind.” I am strong.” “I am loved.” “I am worthy.” “I deserve happiness.” “I am more than a conqueror.” The hot tear that runs down my cheek tells me that what my head is telling me, my heart doesn’t quite believe. In fact, my heart feels like it shriveled up into a raisin. It’s sounding the alarm; he’s ignoring you just like your dad. He’s making you seek him out for attention, just like your dad.

Before I can jump into the abyss of a full-blown sob fest, there’s a knock on the door. “You may enter the lair.” Hoping to hide my feelings behind humor, no matter how bad the joke s might be.

My mom sticks her head in, eyebrows drawn low over her eyes. “The lair, huh?” A watery laugh leaves me, and she’s got me wrapped in her arms in .25 seconds.

“Mom! What are you doing here?” She runs her hands through my hair just like she did when I was a kid.

“You think I’d miss this and not come out here when you called me bawling yesterday?” Yeah, I did do that. I needed some motherly advice. Some advice that wasn’t tainted in my father’s voice. “ You only chose that career path because you want to trap an athlete into being with you. It won’t work. You’re not worth the headache.”

I thought my acceptance letter to college was an answered prayer, but it turns out his failing heart was a more permanent one. Everyone in our small town loved him. “Oh my gosh, Dennis this and Dennis that. He’s so greaaaat.” I had to fight to keep a straight face every time I heard it. You don’t freaking know the monster Dennis was in the privacy of his own home.

“It’s going to be okay, Han. You’re going to be so distracted and filled with love from these kids that you won’t have time to think about this for the rest of the day. Give him through the weekend; I’m sure he's trying to figure out how to move forward, too.”

She’s right; it’s easier said than done; this is why I don’t let anyone get close to anyone. It’s hard for me to turn it off, to not worry about it, to fight off every bullshit comment my dad instilled in me over the years. The countless “You’re not worth it.” “You wouldn’t have that if it wasn’t for me.” “No one is going to look at you and think, ‘Wow, I’d love to get to know her.’ You aren’t that special.”

It's like a physical cut on my heart every time his words replay in my head. Mindlessly, I start picking at my thumb behind my mom's back. My mom, bless her soul, is smart as a whip catches it and pulls back, her eyes filled with concern as she looks at me. “Are you okay, or are you going dark?”

“I’m trying to stay above water, Mom; I just need to not be here thinking about all the “what-ifs” my brain is currently making up in its seemingly endless creative streak. You know, this is why I didn’t want to do the whole friends or boyfriend thing.”

She grabs my hand and looks me dead in the eye. “You are none of the things your father said about you. You are worthy of having good things in your life. Bumps and curveballs will always come, but you are one of the most resilient people I know.” Her eyes hold mine, instilling love and a level of comfort only a mom can give. “Focus on the kids today; do what you do best. Fill people with the love and comfort you didn’t get from him; the rest will fall into place when the time is right. Okay?” I nod, and that’s all the notice I get.

She pulls me out of my room. When we get to the living room, I’m rendered speechless as I see half the hockey team, Tatum, and his parents all standing there.

“What? How?” Putting my hands behind my back, I start playing with my thumb again. Amy’s eyes are full of unshed tears; I can’t handle the number of eyes that are on me. Curling in on myself, I move my gaze to the floor. Not a second later, there are arms around my shoulders.

“I’m sorry for how I acted towards you at first; I just wanted to protect my son. But we wouldn’t miss this, Sweetheart.” Amy’s voice was laced with reassurance, something I didn’t know I needed.

“But what about Greyson? Doesn’t he need you?” I ask, eyes trained to a spot on the wall behind them.

“He’s asleep. He needs to rest anyway. He’s been a bit of a grump since he got home. Understandably so.” Mr. Wilder adds.

I huff; I can’t imagine Greyson being any form of grumpy. He's the first bit of sunshine after a hurricane. But I wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth; having them here, even if he isn’t, fills the hole in my chest a bit.

“Okay, but why are you here? Why didn’t you meet me at the pier?” I question, finally meeting the eyes of Reed and Monroe.

The rest guys on the team look so uncomfortable it’s almost comical. “We were worried about you too. And Abby may or may not have sent an SOS text...” Wilson says shyly. The smile that grows across my face is like a freight train; there’s no way to stop it.

“You traitor!” Abby yells as she throws a pillow clear across the room, smacking him in the face. I don’t miss the small smile that pulls at the sides of Tatum’s lips.

“Alrighty then, let’s go. Do you guys mind carrying those boxes? They need to come with us; they’re the shirts we made. We’ll need to hand them out to the kids when they get there.” They move quietly with purpose, grabbing the boxes and heading down the stairs. Mr. Wilder doesn’t move from his spot, clearly in his head about something; I place my hand on his shoulder and wait for him to look up.

“Are you okay?” His lips press into a straight line, turning white from how hard he has them pressed together.

“I’m just worried about my son. It’s b een a long time since I’ve seen this side of him, and I don’t like it.” Giving his shoulder a squeeze and a small smile, I do the best I can to comfort a father who actually cares about his kids.

“I know this is hard for you, and I can only imagine how hard it is for him. But the best thing any of us can do is to keep letting him know we're here if he needs us.” Dropping my arm from his shoulder, I head out to my car, trying to convince myself that it’s true.

It's amazing what a community can do when they come together. There are three different teams of professional athletes here: athletes from the local middle and high schools, a physical therapist from each of the pro teams, retired athletes, and people from all over the state who have shown up to raise money for these kids. Okay, maybe some of them are here to meet their favorite athletes, but regardless, it’s helping the kids. My smile hasn’t left my face since we got here; my cheeks actually hurt.

I stop by the carnival booth I’m most proud of, the “mental break” station. It’s got big, fluffy pillows on the floor where kids can sit and learn meditation techniques that will help them with anxiety. They’re also teaching about the importance of food and exercise for their mental health, amongst other things that would be beneficial to young kids. Megan recommended one of her friends, who is a child psychologist. She’s so sweet, and the kids love her. Point one for Greyson: I’ll have to tell him how great of a turnout this particular booth had. It was his idea, after all.

“Ms. Hannah, can you play a game with us?” I look down and find Lilly with some kids who look to be around her age.

“Sure, what do you want to play?” I should have known by the looks on their faces what their answer was, but for some reason, I thought they’d pick the ring toss or knock the blocks.

“We wanna dunk you!” I put my hands on my knees and squat down so I’m eye level with them and smile.

“Okie dokey smokey, let’s do this.” The uncontrollable laughter that followed was music to my ears; they’re falling into each other like bumper cars. The true definition of care-free childhood, even if it was only for tonight, I was beyond happy I had a hand in giving it to them.

We get to the dunk tanks, which are currently occupied by Reed and Tatum’s teammate Zeke. Lilly is bouncing on her toes. Her fingers are interlaced in front of her and she’s doing a worm-like movement from one arm to the other and then back. “Can I dunk the guy with the yellow hair?” one of her friends asks in a whisper-shout that was more shout than whisper.

I walk up to Reed and smile, “Your new nickname is yellow hair; tell the kids thank you for the idea.”

He winks and points finger guns at the group of kids that have now gathered around the tanks. “What’s your name, little one?” I ask as I pick up some balls from where they’ve fallen by the tanks.

“Melanie.” I hand her three balls and point at the target.

“Okay, Melanie. Your only goal is to hit that target. If you do, yellow hair will drop into the water.” She gives me a big gap-toothed smile, picks up a ball, and hurls it toward the target. She hits it dead on, and Reed drops with a look of complete shock on his face, which matches the one on my own.

“Have you ever thought about playing softball, Melanie? Because that was an awesome throw.” She shrugs her shoulders like it’s no big deal for a 6-year-old to have that kind of arm and precision. Zeke is too busy mocking Reed to notice her pick up another ball and throw it at his target, dunking him as well. All the kids start giggling, making me laugh and, in turn, making the guys laugh, too.

They get back up on their benches and let the rest of the group take their shots before hopping out and trading places with some of the football guys. My eyes tingle at the memory of how these tanks got here, how it was supposed to be a competition between Greyson and I to see who would get dunked more. I didn’t even care that it’d probably be me because he was so excited about it.

My thoughts are cut short by a throat clearing behind me; turning around, I come face to face with Brett Wilson. “Would you like to get in the dunk tank with me next? A little dude named Cade said you paid for his season next year, and he wants to thank you by dropping you in water.”

My hands find my hips as I fake my offense. “Well, that doesn’t seem like a very nice thank you. But sure, let’s do it.”

I’m a ball of emotion, happiness mixed with a bit of sadness. Child-like joy mixed with fear. But right now, the most potent emotion is gratitude. I am grateful to my boss for giving me this opportunity, grateful for the guys for showing up. Grateful for the smiles plastered on these kids' faces.

Before I know it, it’s our turn to get in. I plaster a smile on my face and sit on the bench facing the kids, some of the athletes, Amy, who's holding her phone up to capture the whole thing, and my mom, who looks the most relaxed I’ve seen her in years.

By the time Brett and I hop out, I’ve been dunked five times, and he’s been dunked twelve. Apparently, it’s more fun to dunk the brick wall who purposely makes a huge splash than it is to dunk the girl who looks like a stick in comparison. Not that I’m complaining. It was a lot of fun. The kids loved it, and that’s truly all that matters.