“Congratulations” is a strange thing for her to say, especially since I have not won a prize or anything, but I am really only thinking about what happened last night, why Mom came home drunk. So I ask her, “Where were you last night? Did you go out with friends?”
Using the corner of my eye again, I see her look down at the old brown rug beneath us. “I appreciate your putting me to bed last night. The water and the Tylenol helped. It was a bit of a role reversal, eh? Well, I appreciate it. Thanks, Pat.”
I realize she has not answered my question, but I don’t know what to say, so I say nothing.
“Your father has been a bear lately, and I’m simply tired of it. So I’m making some demands, and things are going to change a little around here. Both of my men are going to start taking care of themselves a little more. You need to get on with your life, and I’m sick and tired of the way your father treats me.”
Suddenly I forget all about the “Pat” box and face my mother as I continue pedaling. “Are you mad at me? Did I do something wrong?”
“I’m not mad at you, Pat. I am mad at your father. He and I had a long talk yesterday when you were running. Things might be a little rough around here for a few weeks, but I think we’ll all be better for it in the long run.”
A wild thought leaps into my head and terrifies me. “You’re not leaving us, Mom, are you?”
“No. I’m not,” Mom says, looking me in the eyes, which makes me believe her one hundred percent. “I would never leave you, Pat. But I am going out today because I’m done with Eagles football. You two are on your own for food.”
“Where are you going?” I ask, pedaling faster now.
“Out,” Mom says, and then kisses the little white scar on my sweaty forehead before she leaves.
I am so nervous about what Mom has told me that I do not eat anything all day, but simply drink my water and do my routine. Because the Eagles are playing at 4:15, I get in a full workout. The whole time, I secretly hope my father will come down into the basement and ask me to watch the 1:00 NFL game with him, but he doesn’t.
Midafternoon I climb up out of the basement and stand behind the couch for a second.
“Dad?” I say. “Dad?”
He ignores me and keeps watching the 1:00 game, and I don’t even look to see who is playing, because I am so nervous about what Mom told me. I put on my trash bag and hope Tiffany is outside, because I could really use someone to talk to. But after I stretch for fifteen minutes, Tiffany doesn’t show, so I run alone, thinking it funny that when I want to run alone, Tiffany is always there, but today she is not.
I am very hungry, and the pain in my stomach increases as I run, which I relish because it means I am losing weight, and well, I feel as though I might have put on some extra fat in the past week, especially after drinking beer with Jake last weekend. This reminds me that I have not spoken with Jake since the Eagles lost to the Giants, and I wonder if he is coming over today to watch the game with Dad and me. Since the pain has sharpened, I decide to run farther than usual, pushing myself. Also, I am sort of afraid to go home, now that my mother has left me alone with my father for the day, and I am not sure what she meant by “changes” anyway. I keep wishing Tiffany was running with me so I might talk to her and tell her how I feel, which is a strange desire since she usually never says much in response, and the last time I tried to talk to her about my problems, she started cursing very loudly in a public place and said some really awful things about Nikki. Still, I am starting to feel as though Tiffany is my best friend, which is sort of strange and scary.
At the end of my run, I jog down my street, and Jake’s silver BMW is nowhere to be seen. Maybe he took the train in from Philadelphia, I think. I am hoping not to be left alone with my father for the game, but somehow I know this is exactly what is going to happen.
When I enter the house, my dad is still alone on the couch, wearing his McNabb jersey now and watching the end of the 1:00 game. A small collection of beer bottles stand at his feet like bowling pins.
“Is Jake coming over?” I ask my father, but he ignores me again.
Upstairs, I shower and put on my Hank Baskett jersey.
When I reach the family room, the Eagles game is just coming on, so I sit down at the end of the couch my father is not occupying.
“What the hell is that noise?” Dad says, and then turns down the volume.
I realize my stomach is making crazy gurgling noises, but I say, “I don’t know,” and Dad turns up the volume again.
Just as I had hoped, the new television is an experience. The players warming up on the field look life-size, and the sound quality makes me feel as though I am in San Francisco, sitting on the fifty-yard line. Realizing that my brother is not going to make it by kickoff, when a commercial comes on, I jump to my feet and yell “Ahhhhhhhhh!” but Dad only looks at me like he wants to hit me in the face again. So I sit down and do not say anything else.
The announcers state that Donté Stallworth was a late scratch, so I start to hope Baskett will get a few more balls thrown his way, since the Eagles’ number one receiver is out of action.
The Eagles set up a nice drive and score on their first possession with a shovel pass to Westbrook, at which point my father’s emotions morph. He reaches across the couch and repetitively claps his hand against my thigh, saying over and over again, “Touchdown Eagles! Touchdown Eagles!” I start to feel hopeful for my dad, but when the Eagles kick off, he resumes his negative ways and says, “Don’t celebrate too much. Remember what happened last week.” And it is almost as if he is talking to himself, reminding himself not to be overly hopeful.