Mummy Said Goodbye. Janice Johnson Kay
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his face relaxing. “Robin. Malcolm. I remember you.” He nodded at the lawn chair. “Do you watch practice?”
“Yes, usually, unless I have quick errands to run.”
“Ah. I wondered if I should stay.”
Brett and a pretty, younger girl had gotten out, the girl looking around curiously, Brett pretending he hadn’t noticed anybody else’s presence.
“Hey!” Malcolm said. “It’s great you’re joining the team. We missed you.”
Bless him, Robin thought. The speech was unusually loquacious for an eleven-year-old boy. They seemed to communicate mainly in grunts and raucous laughs. Malcolm had been listening to her.
Brett pretended to look surprised to see her son. “Hey,” he said in response.
“Come on.” Mal jerked his head. “You know how Coach feels about us being late.”
Brett grimaced. “Yeah, I remember.”
Kicking their soccer balls before them, the two boys struck off across the field. They were a handsome pair, both tall and athletic in their shorts, shin guards and loose-fitting T’s.
Beside her, Brett’s grandfather said, “This was nice of you.”
“I hope it works out,” she worried.
“Your boy looks like a nice kid.”
Now she smiled. “He is.” She surveyed the little girl, who waited gravely to one side. “Wow, you’ve grown, Abby.”
The girl grinned. “I’m in fourth grade this year.”
As they started walking after the boys, Robin said, “I hear you have Mrs. Jensen.”
“She’s really nice.”
“You’re lucky. Just between you and me, I think she’s the best fourth grade teacher in the building.”
“My best friend’s in her class, too.”
They continued chatting, Abby telling her artlessly about Summer, whose mom said maybe they could go to the water slides at Wild Waves next weekend and if they did Abby could come for sure. Abby got a little shy when she saw other younger siblings playing under the trees at one end of the giant soccer field. A couple of the ones close to her age were hanging from a low, well-worn limb on the sycamore.
Her grandfather said, “Why don’t you go see what they’re up to. Unless you want to watch Brett.”
She wrinkled her nose, hesitated, then sidled over to the trees. Robin saw that she was quickly absorbed by the small crowd of kids ranging from four- or five-year-olds up to a ten-year-old sister who bossed the rest around.
On seeing the new arrivals, Coach Pearce slapped Brett on the back and said, “Hope you’ve been staying active,” and ordered the whole team to take two laps of the field.
Brett loped beside Malcolm, the two finishing near the head of the string of boys.
Robin set up her lawn chair near the picnic table and several other mothers. Brett’s grandfather shook hands all around. The others seemed momentarily startled, turned to look at Brett, but smiled and included the boy’s grandfather in their idle conversation.
Robin paid more attention to Brett’s play than she did to her son’s. Brett wasn’t as rusty as she would have expected. He must at least have been kicking the ball around. He couldn’t have tossed it in a closet and left it there, or he wouldn’t have been dribbling the ball deftly between cones, heading it to other players, passing with fair accuracy when he and another player raced down the field exchanging the ball.
He acquitted himself well when they scrimmaged, too. By the end of practice, he was as sweaty as the rest of the boys and was in the midst of them when they grabbed water bottles and drained them, listening while Coach mentioned a few weaknesses and said, “We’re playing Puyallup Saturday and they went undefeated last year. Let’s make sure they don’t repeat that feat this year, shall we?”
“Yeah!” The boys high fived.
“Good practice,” the coach finished briskly. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
The cluster broke up into twos and threes that started toward the parents on the sideline and the parking lot where others would be pulling in to pick up offspring.
“Brett,” Coach added, “I want to talk to you before you go.”
In the act of folding her chair, Robin froze. Oh, no! Had Brett not done as well as she’d thought? She saw the boy’s face go expressionless in a way she’d seen every day in school and come to dread.
“Sure,” he said, shrugging as if he didn’t care.
Malcolm hung back, too.
Stacking cones, the Coach said, “I’d like to try you out at goalie tomorrow. You still interested in playing the position?”
“Yeah! Sure. That’s cool!” His back was to Robin, but she heard the animation in his voice, saw the way his shoulders relaxed.
She relaxed, too, and smiled at his grandfather who had also been listening. “He did great today.”
She repeated the compliment to Brett as the two families walked back to the parking lot together.
Mal scoffed, “Nah, he was so slow I could have stolen the ball from him any time I wanted.” His foot shot out.
Brett turned his body, blocking the steal and then going for Malcolm’s ball. After roughhousing the entire way, the two boys were grinning when they reached the cars.
“See you tomorrow!” her son called as they separated.
“Yeah.” Brett picked up his ball. “Tomorrow.”
There was hope in the way he said the word, and a little bit of surprise. As if he hadn’t anticipated tomorrow in a long while.
Robin had to blink some moisture from her eyes before she could unlock the car.
That night, after Malcolm had gone to bed, she sat at her computer and typed an e-mail, deleting and correcting half a dozen times, as if she were writing the cover letter for a grant application.
Dear Craig.
She frowned at the salutation, changed “Craig” to “Mr. Lofgren,” then questioned the “Dear.” Finally she deleted the whole dang thing. It was too formal anyway.
In the end, she was left with a few bare sentences.
Just wanted you to know that soccer practice went really well today. Brett hasn’t lost any skill, and he seemed to have fun. He’s to try playing goalie tomorrow. Oh, and he got a 90% on a spelling quiz today!
She added and deleted comments on how nice Craig’s father was, how much Abby had grown, how she hoped his flight was turbulence free.
Honestly! They weren’t pen pals.
The next night, she had a return e-mail from him.
Thanks for the report. I was hoping Brett would e-mail, too—he has his own Hotmail account—but no. He’s probably not wanting to make too much of this. Thank you, Robin.
Nothing chatty. Although he had used her first name. She was glad she hadn’t said, “Dear Mr. Lofgren.”
She hit Reply and typed,
No more thanks, please. Another good day. Brett was dynamite as goalie! I suppose he felt he had to prove something, but he made some spectacular stops. Josh, who is the team’s regular goalie, seemed especially determined to crack him. But after Brett skidded ten feet across the turf, stopping a hard drive to the far corner, Josh ran over and congratulated him. Well, he whacked him on the back and then they exchanged high fives. Preteen male congrats.
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