The Mothers(33)

Winter in England was gray and dreary, but it was better than a Michigan winter. Anything was better than a Michigan winter. She felt like every winter would kill her, and when she reached the skyless Februarys and bleak Marches, she promised herself she would book the soonest flight back to California. Then spring broke, always unexpectedly, and Ann Arbor slipped into its quiet, humid summers and she felt normal again, sunning her legs at restaurant patios, lounging on rooftops, and willing the sun to hang above her longer. This had surprised her most about Ann Arbor—she could feel normal here. In Ann Arbor, she was not the girl whose mother had shot herself in the head. She was just a girl from California, a girlfriend to an ambitious boy, a student who loved to party but somehow always made it to class. At home, loss was everywhere; she could barely see past it, like trying to look out a windowpane covered in fingerprints. She would always feel trapped behind that window, between her and the rest of the world, but at least in Ann Arbor, the glass was clearer.

Whenever they Skyped or texted or talked on the phone, Aubrey asked when she would come home. “Soon,” Nadia always said, although she found countless reasons not to return: summer internships in Wisconsin and Minnesota, service-learning trips in Detroit for Thanksgiving, Christmas at Shadi’s, where there was no baby Jesus or manger but his mother set up a tree and sled and reindeer, their whole house as American and wintry as a Coca-Cola commercial. Nadia wondered if it was only for her benefit, if they thought this would make her feel comfortable, like if she had cancelled last minute, they would’ve just rolled away all the decorations like a play set and ordered Chinese food. She tried not to think about her father, alone on another holiday, and she turned in Shadi’s bed, toward the window and the houses blanketed in snow.

—

TWO YEARS AFTER Nadia Turner vanished, Luke Sheppard began walking to Martin Luther King Jr. Park to watch the Cobras. He’d never even known the semiprofessional football team existed until he’d gotten hurt. Then he’d started looking for football everywhere: downloading NFL podcasts, watching Pop Warner games out the window of his truck, listening to the cheerful bleat of the whistle as little boys, tottering under pads and helmets, knocked into each other. Parents in lawn chairs cheered, when the boys tackled, when they fell, when the ball squirted out of their arms, when they did anything at all. Luke had stumbled upon the Cobras that winter, a month after he moved into his apartment. He’d gone to MLK Park to do pull-ups because he couldn’t afford rent and a gym membership, and halfway through his workout, a bus pulled up, black and copper with a snake, flicking its tongue, coiled on the side. He pretended to do push-ups while the team climbed out and split into their practice formations. The receivers—lanky, lean, and cocky, he could always spot them—bunched up before practicing their routes. He eased close to the ground, then away. The grass rose and fell, and he felt his hamstrings tighten, his fingertips missing the stubbly firmness of a football.

That was three months ago. Now he searched online for any mention of the team. He’d learned the names of the starting offensive players, their day jobs, and their nicknames, and when he saw them around town, waiting for an oil change or pushing a cart through Walmart, he mumbled them to himself. (Right tackle Jim Fenson, plumber, Fender-Bender.) He went to the park early on Saturday mornings to watch the team practice. He missed falling into those neat lines. He wanted to get back into football shape, stop eating fried food between shifts, stop drinking beer and smoking weed, and start treating his body like a machine again, an unfeeling, unwanting thing. He’d lowered to the ground for another push-up when he noticed the coach heading toward him.

“Thought you looked familiar,” Coach Wagner said. He grinned, sticking out his hand. “I remember you. San Diego State. Speedy wide-out. But that leg—”

“It’s better now,” Luke said.

“Yeah?”

He ran a hitch route. His right leg felt gummy from the lack of exercise, his left burning as soon as he cut inside. When he trotted back over, Coach Wagner was frowning.

“Getting there,” he said. “Look, call me when it’s healed up all the way. We could use you.”

The Cobras did not pay their players—any money the team made went toward equipment and transportation—but Luke didn’t care. He slid the business card into his pocket. Beside the coach’s phone number, there was a glossy emblem of a snake and he ran his thumb across it his whole walk home.

“Don’t you think you should focus on your career?” his mother asked the next night.

He hunched over the kitchen table, stirring his dirty rice. He hated going to Sunday dinner at his parents’ house but not enough to turn down free food and free laundry. When he walked in, his father cleared his throat and said, “Didn’t see you at church this morning,” and since Luke had stopped coming up with creative excuses, he just shrugged. He daydreamed during his father’s endless grace and while his parents discussed Upper Room, he ate, imagining how long the leftovers he would take with him might last. He normally survived Sunday dinner without saying much, but he’d brushed the business card in his pocket and felt an unusual excitement. For the first time, he’d felt like he had news worth sharing. But his mother just raised an eyebrow and his father sighed, slipping his glasses off his face.

“Get a job, Luke,” his father said.

“I have one,” Luke said.