I walked out of the store proudly holding the bag containing the dresses. I went to hockey practice, but didn’t tell any of the boys on my team about them. Instead, I just shot at the puck with all my might, scoring a goal for the blue team. The guys on my team rushed up and we did the “after goal group cheer huddle” as they patted me on the back or on my helmet. I spit out my mouth guard and shouted out our cheer.
“Hey Bulldogs!”
“Hey Bridges!” the boys shouted back. (We all call each other by our last names)
“What’re we gonna do?”
“Eat up the other team!” they yelled ecstatically.
“GRrrrrrr!!” we all growled ferociously. I quickly skated back to the bench to give the rest of my teammates a chance to score some goals. My coach congratulated me on my goal before I started cheering for my teammates. All of them, not just the one’s on the blue team I was playing for, but each and every one of them. That was one of the reasons I was accepted by them. I wasn’t a hater. That, and I’m one hell of a shot.
Practice came to an end, only when the white team had caught up with us, and we had to have a shootout. My team picked me to be their lead off. White went first. Jack easily skated up to the net with the puck. As he got closer he raised his stick up, and slap-shot it at the net. The puck went flying, and was barely caught by Jeff, our goalie. It was my turn. I was up against Austin. Jeff may have been a good goalie, but Austin was our number one.
I took a puck, and charged the net, gaining speed as I went. Finally I was close enough to take a shot. Austin was great, but he had a weakness. I knew that weakness. I swung my stick, stoping just short of the puck. Austin dropped. I took the time his early block wasted to raise my stick again, and slap the puck for real. It soared, hitting the edge of his glove, nearly being caught, before landing in the net. I raised my fist with the stick in it, high into the air. Everyone on the team went wild. I spit out my mouth-guard and shouted loudly, as to be heard over the team.
“Who’s gonna beat the Woodchucks?”
“We are!” my team enthusiastically shouted back. I couldn’t help, but smile for the second time that day. God I loved these guys.
My mom picked me up, as usual, in her minivan with the bumper sticker that read Hockey Mom. I hopped into her car, throwing all my gear into the back, next to my little sister, Leslie.
“How was practice?” my mom asked.
“Good. I scored two goals, one during the game. The other was in a shootout. I scored on Austin!”
“Isn’t that the boy who tried to get you kicked off the team because you’re a girl?”
“Yeah. I showed him, huh!”
“Good job sweetie!”
The rest of the car ride was quiet, or as quiet as Leslie can be. She yapped on and on about how her day was, how hot it is, and a bunch of other stuff I tuned out.
When we got home, I went upstairs to put my gear away. I heard a call up the stairs from my mother, telling me to come and get my dresses. I heard the gasp from my room. Leslie was shocked. I ran downstairs to be greeted by her bombarding me with questions.
“You have to put them on so I can see!” she practically shouted. So I did. She showered me with praise. Did this girl ever shut up? Then it occurred to me. I’d need a strapless bra for my strapless dresses. I voiced my thoughts.
“You know, I think I have one from my wedding that would fit you just perfectly,” my mother said, rushing into her bedroom to look for it. After several minutes she gave up.
“It must be in the attic. I’ll look for it later.”
The rest of the day passed by quickly, and that night I dreamed of dresses.
****
The next morning I woke up to find that my sister would be gone for the day at some friends house. Both of my parents were at work so I had the day to myself. I had breakfast, then remembered my dresses. So, today I would have an adventure in the attic.
I began searching. I found something, but it was not what I was looking for. A basket, with a big lacy album that I assumed was my parents wedding album, and a few old looking diaries. I put them off to the side, hoping to get a chance to look at them later. I continued my search. I couldn’t find it anywhere. I’d have my mom look for it later. I returned my attention to my basket of goodies. I took the whole thing into my arms and returned to my room.
I started with the album. It is my parents wedding album, I thought to myself as I rifled through the pages. I laughed when I recognized my dad’s friend, Mason, being a dork. Then I laughed even harder when I saw one with the both of them, and a third man I didn’t recognize doing some weird pose for the camera. I ogled at my mother, in her beautiful wedding dress. Then awed at one of my parents kissing underneath a tree, whose leaves had turned a gorgeous shade of gold.
When I saw one of my parents, at the reception, covered in silly string, I was flooded with memories of my aunt and uncle’s wedding where we did the same thing.
“Regina? Regina! Where are you?” my grandmother called to me.
“I’m here Grandma!” I whispered, tapping her knee.
“What are you doing under the table?” she asked calmly.
“I’m hiding from May and Todd,” I said, confused as to why that was a problem.
“Get out from under there,” I heard my Grandfather’s rough voice say.
“But Grandpa, I don’t want them to see me when I spray them!” I told him.
“How are you going to spray them from under that table?” asked my reasonable grandfather. I thought about that. I wouldn’t able to. The long, heavy table cloth was in the way. Besides, I couldn’t reach the long table where they were sitting from here. I slowly got out from my hiding place. Moments later my Grandmother whispered to me.
“It’s time,” she breathed into my ear. I gladly took the can from her, and shook it. Then I followed the others to where the newly wedded couple sat. I whipped out my silly string can and pressed the button. Bright blue, wet, silly string erupted out of my hands at the same time everybody else’s did. Neon colors of all sorts flew through the air, then landed on the couple. Everyone burst into laughter.
I knew that when it came to be mine, and Leslie’s turn, our unsuspecting husbands would be covered in the mess with us. I laughed at the thought. Then flipped through the last pages of the album.I set it aside, picking up the three diaries. I looked at each of them in turn, wondering where to start. Choosing the oldest looking one, I dived in.
At the top, unmistakably my mother’s scrawled handwriting read Tuesday, January 3, 1989. The year she graduated. She mostly talked about her friends, some boys she liked, dates she went on, and this mysterious Jon, who seemed to love her, but was away at college. Yes, I did read the whole thing. I loved reading, and finding out about my mother was interesting. It ended April 20, 1989. I went on to the next one.
This one was from her college years, starting on Tuesday, February 6, 1990. It read:
My whole being hurts. Not only is my body changing, exhausted and wounded, but my spirit is also. I’ve been waiting since last May for my life to improve and so far things have only been piling one on top of each other. My only bright spot is Brad. I’m so frightened to become too caught up though. I wish he could be here to hold me right now. I’ve tried so many times to care - especially with Dean, - but I only get kicked in the face. I know that he worries about me and he does try to show me that, but I just have so many things built up inside. I hope I made the right decision.
I should have seen the early signs, warning me to stop, but I didn’t so I read on, too the next entry.
Friday February 9, 1990
It seems like everyday I find out something more. I’m not sure how much more I can handle before I snap. I know I’m strong, stronger than most people, but no one really knows everything I’ve gone through in my life. I just hope I can hold on until spring when I get one more chance to start my life over. It could be my last. I hope more than anything that it works out.
I continued reading. She wrote about her college life, how she wanted to become a poet, but didn’t know if she was good enough, and about how tired she was.
Fri. Jan. 10, 1992
No, I don’t think the snow will ever end. Right now it’s about two huge storms later and maybe more on the way. But first it’s going to be 40 degrees tomorrow. That seems so odd for January - usually it’s bitter cold this time of year. Right now I’m babysitting Christopher’s little boy and tomorrow I will for Cherie’s. They are both so close to how old Christopher Andrew would be. I know that I made the “right” choice with that whole situation, but sometimes I want a baby so badly! I pray every day that I haven’t given up my only opportunity.
She went on to talk about her latest boyfriend, and an old friend, from high school I guessed, who called her.
I really didn’t care to talk to him. I let go and closed off that relationship long ago and I hope that’s all he was trying to do. Now if only I could let go of Dean - then maybe I could find some peace.
It ended. The whole diary. Right there. There were several blank pages, nearly a third of the book, left. I picked up the third and final diary, only to find that it was not a diary at all. It was more like a notebook. It had poems in it. Lots and lots of poems. I read the first one. It was short, only one stanza long. Then I turned to the page to discover the same poem. This time with revisions, and additions. It went on like this for several pages, some containing new ideas, for which I would find the poem later.
Sometimes I would find a page with numbers on it. Sometimes it was a grocery list. Others it was a class schedule, or some notes on Shakespeare. One page contained random scribbles, and a line or two from various poems, and a single date. The date was circled. February 3, 1990. The date had no meaning to me, but it must have for my mother.
Crying for Daddy
Last night,
he crawled into my
dreams again.
Our little angel,
ripped from my flesh for
so many reasons.
Forever a bodiless child,
he tapped at my mind
with too many questions.
He asked me
why you didn’t want us,
what we did to make you leave
I tried to
gather him to my breast
and quiet him.
But he still cries for you.
The poem confused me, as my mother had no sons, just me and Leslie, and our father was still here. It didn’t have a date on it.
I moved on, reading other poems. Silly ones, sad ones, happy ones, and one about a corn field. Until I came upon one that looked to be in different handwriting. Upon closer examination I realized it was my mothers, but in all caps. It was dated February 3, 1991.
Christopher Andrew
A TINY VOICE CRIES OUT,
“WHY DIDN’T YOU WANT ME?”
I TRY TO IGNORE IT, BUT
HE PERSISTS.
“DIDN’T YOU LOVE ME?”
“I WILL ALWAYS LOVE YOU.”
“THEN WHY DIDN’T YOU WANT ME?”
HOW CAN I EXPLAIN TO THIS
LITTLE BOY? HE’S ONLY A CHILD.
BUT THEN, I WAS TOO.
“I DID WANT YOU, BUT I COULDN’T
HAVE YOU.”
“YES, YOU COULD HAVE,” HE REPLIES.
“NO, I CHOSE THE ONLY WAY I
COULD. NOW YOU WILL ALWAYS BE
MINE, ONLY MINE, FOREVER. NO ONE
ELSE WILL EVER KNOW YOU. I GAVE
YOU THE ONLY THING I COULD - FREEDOM.
I CHOSE. I CONNOT REGRET IT.
I HOPE YOU UNDERSTAND. I AM
YOUR MOTHER, YOU ARE MY SON
I WILL LOVE YOU FOREVER.”