Blood and Snow
“Push it, push it! What’s the point of a fast break if it isn’t fast!”
Gordon slaps the ball down the court in a full force sprint, his afro of tight curls bounce up in the air with every step. Barrels of sweat drip down my back as I race to catch up with him, using his bright red jersey as a target. The squeaking of sneakers were enough to give you a good migraine. As he pulls up to shoot a lay-up, I follow him, pushing off of my heels and forcing my hand down -- knocking the ball out of his hand before it hit the glass backboard. The gymnasium roars with commotion.
Gordon’s face cringes in humiliation; his tan skin turns a sort of purple. He turns toward Coach Edges, as if egging him on to say something. I weave my fingers together before resting them on the top of my head to take a breath, and I tone out the guys overreacting. I stare up at the high ceiling that’s missing a piece after Gordon got mad and chucked it up there last season. Haha, got suspended, too. School’s far too lazy and broke to fix it.
“Damn! That was clean, man! That was a clean ass block, boy!” Doug chimes in as he runs back down the court, breaking my thoughts.
He always had to be the one to have something to say about everything. Like his opinion on World War could change a thing about it. No one cares what you think. That’s why I keep to myself. I don’t have to worry about beef with anybody, and nobody has to worry about beef with me. It’s a win-win situation. No one cares anyways.
“Alright guys, nice practice, bring it in.” Coach Edges yells, raising his hand, revealing his wedding ring on one finger and half an index finger. It had to be removed after he broke out into a rage when we lost state champs. We all have a theory he’s been seeing the school’s counselor since then.
Chanting the school’s mascot on the count of three, my teammates disperse to their bags stacked up on the rusted bleachers. Breathing heavily, I make my way to the water fountain first. I push the lever down for something to cure the dry feeling in the back of my throat; there’s no luck. I shake my head at the thought of my raggedy ass public school.
After failing to get a damn swallow of water, I make my way back to my duffel and pull it over my shoulder.
“Cunningham!” I raise my head at my last name to see Coach coming towards me. He has the sour look he always has on his face. A big ugly crack lies on his upper lip and distracts me from meeting his dark eyes behind those thick Steve Urkel lenses. He stands in front of me, blocking the door. “Good work today,” he praises me.
I keep a square face, not a sign of appreciation in my eye or smirk of arrogance across my lips. Careful not to let my walls down, I nod my head. “Thanks.”
“Rest up for tomorrow, Cunningham.”
I had a problem with talking to strangers; you don’t even know if that person deserves your attention. What if he’s just a deadbeat person? You never know what’s hidden underneath a guy. Without a word, we’re so good at hiding anything and everything bad that’s ever happened to us. Giving off the illusion that everything is fine is bullshit, though. Well, I guess I’m bullshit then. Nobody cares anyways.
I decline Coach’s offer for a ride home and leave the school. The cold tackles me and the winter wind of Chicago blows my hood off of my head. Immediately freezing, I wished I had let Edges take me home. My sneakers make a crunching sound against the snow, and I can feel my nose turn to ice. After a while, I can’t feel my ears.
I walk past the hospital where mom gets her chemo treatments, past a convenient store I’m tempted to enter for a Red Bull and warmth, but I keep going; I’m almost home.
Trees have lost their leaves and are covered in snow. Sometimes I feel like life is like that. We meet new people and experience things we never have before -- only to lose those people and be buried in the snow once again.
I think too much.
When I reach the steps, I notice that my dad’s car isn’t in the driveway. I pull my key from my bag, but the door is already unlocked. I turned the door knob to make a creaking sound and rub my sneakers against the doormat, brushing the snow off.
“Mom, I’m here; is there dinner?”
I hear nothing but the thumping of my footsteps across the hardwood floor. “Practice is over.” I mumble, peeking around the corner of the living room. I sit down on the red couch to take my shoes off. I run my fingers through the laces before putting them in the corner, stretching out my toes and taking a deep breath. I pass by my little sister's Pre-K picture that I taped together, and a flash of all the memories resurfaces. I snap out of it.
“Mom?” I repeat myself, scanning the small kitchen before climbing up the stairs.
As I reach the second level, I hear a gagging sound. I move closer to where it’s coming from and knock on the bathroom door.
“Mom? You okay?”
She tries to talk, but I can’t make out what she’s saying. She’s struggling, so I slowly open the door.
Her skin sits weak and lifeless on top of her flesh. She gagged once more, pulling herself over the toilet and spitting a nasty red blood. The dagger shoves itself deeper through my chest. I place a hand on her shoulder, swallowing to keep my voice stable. “I’ll get help.”
..............................
Mom hated hospitals. I did, too. It reminded me of the night Lindsay died -- five years ago. That was when everything changed. She was my favorite little girl. Dad treated her like a princess. Leukemia. It runs in my mom’s side of the family. She was only four years old. I was twelve. Dad got messed up on drugs trying to cope. He went insane. I think mom and I did too - just in different ways. You know, sometimes I can still hear my sister's heart monitor slowing down when I stay in this place for too long.
Ridiculous.
He says it was a bad flair up of treatment symptoms. The doctor, you know. I play with my fingers as my eyes moved up the wallpaper in mom’s room, printed colorfully with greens and blues as if that would cheer a cancer patient up. The room smells of stale chips and generic hand sanitizer. My ass starts to get sore in the seat, so I shift my weight. The room is silent, and mom seems to be drifting off into her own world.
Sometimes I wonder if she thinks like me -- has moments where all of these contradictory thoughts bombard her head to the point where she’s too confused to go back to where she started. Then the thoughts are lost and it’s like nothing ever occurred at all.
I swallow before attempting to break the silence.
“Is Panda Express still open? We should just get a big bucket of Chinese.” I force a laugh. Mom’s lips formed a half-smile. “And just stuff our faces until we fall asleep and never wake up for like 10 hours, you know?” I comment.
Mom glares at me a while before chuckling first and then following with laughter. She gets a glitch of dust in her throat, though, and she starts to cough. The usual.
I chuckle, trying to fight the stabbing to my heart that I always felt when she went on a damn coughing fit. It was like a reminder of everything that’s ever happened -- everything we’ve ever been through. She points to the cup of water on that depressing dinner tray the color of vomit.
I stand quickly, caressing her head off her pillow carefully before titling her cup of water. She continues coughing, and the water seems to make it worse. Biting my lip, I reach for the napkin she had leftover from dinner, and I hand it to her to catch the water spilled from her mouth.
I’d grown closer to my mom when Lindsay died. I realized that I was all she had and that she was all that I had. I didn’t want that to disappear. I didn’t want our relationship to go sour like mom and dad’s went.
She gave me everything she had, and I knew that I would always have to give her everything I had in return. We’d stay close, and everything would be okay.
I fight the urge to ball my hands into fists. I swallow once more, squinting my eyes to relieve the burning feeling of the salty tears welling inside. I'm careful not to let them spill and eventually, her coughing comes to a stop.
I smile at her, the same half smile she’d given me moments before. We both knew what that smile meant.
She sets her head back down on the bed, making her bright red hair stick up in odd places. I look into her green eyes, my hand placed gently over her hand now.
“You say the stupidest stuff. I love you, kid,” she stutters.
“Love you too, ma.”
The silence returns.
“Well, I got the number in my contacts, so like, it’s a bet or what?”
“Matthew,” she sighed, giving me a tired smile, and a small chuckle. “You’re a good kid.”
And just then, her tears spill. Again.
I knew that look all too well from my sister. Mom was tired.
