Thin Ice (42 page)
Or when the phone rang after eleven.
Hands stuffed in her denim skirt pockets, she walked until she found herself across the street from the health care clinic—now a computer store—her mother had worked at as a receptionist until her marriage. The present gave way to the past as she remembered the warm generosity with which the staff had treated her family.
With nine children, they'd visited the clinic almost as often as they'd visited the supermarket. And with no insurance...
Turning away, Emily wondered what had happened to the doctors and nurses whose kindness and compassion had inspired her to study medicine. Had they moved on to the new hospital? Or, like Anna, had they retired, taken up other pursuits?
Half an hour later, perched on the bleachers at the community balpark where she and her siblings had spent countless Saturdays, balpark where she and her siblings had spent countless Saturdays, she felt the dry, dusty wind whip through her hair, closed her eyes and remembered the smel of hot dogs and the swel of cheers in the stands. Robbie would be in heaven here. She pictured him proudly stepping up to home plate, knowing he had his own cheering section behind him in the bleachers.
Shortly thereafter, she eased into the last pew of the empty church her mother and siblings and she had attended every Sunday. Emily hadn't been to church in years, but as the dust motes floated in the jewel-tinted air like blessings from above, she recaled the quiet coughs and rustles of the congregation, the deep baritone of the priest's voice, the peace she'd felt when the choir sang...
With a smal smile, she also recaled the surreptitious signals her siblings and she had used to communicate amongst themselves during what had seemed like interminably long homilies.
She'd been remiss in bringing up her son, she realized now. Every child should experience the furtive enjoyment of passing secret messages back and forth in church.
Determinedly Emily refused to dwel on her darker memories. Like the reason her mother had had to rely on the goodwil of friends to keep her children healthy. Or the reasons she and her siblings had spent their Saturdays in the park—rain or shine. Or the shame she'd felt in church, wishing her father was there like other fathers, instead of sleeping off his Saturday drunk.
Focusing only on the good memories, Emily colected them with care, like a basket of colorful ribbons, and chose only the best and brightest to share with her siblings in the days to come.
She returned to her mother's doubly eager to see everyone again, her high spirits continuing through dinner. She was in the middle of cajoling from Catrina her secret recipe for elderberry jam when Robbie's shouted, “Mom, come quick. Eric's been hurt bad,” stopped her cold.
Without a second thought, Emily ran into the living room. “What happened?"
Before Robbie could answer, the television offered a replay of the brutal hit. Eric had been rushing the net when he'd been cross-checked from behind. He'd sailed right into the goal, hit the crossbar—snapped his head back and sent the net flying off the moorings—before he tumbled over the goalie, who took a couple of vicious swipes at him as they went down. Eric had ended up on the bottom pinned under three hundred pounds of irate goalie.
He now lay face down on the ice, immobile.
Emily stood with a flour-dusted fist shoved against her mouth and barely breathed. The television cut to a commercial and she wanted to scream. Instead, hugging herself to stop shaking, her gaze glued to the screen, she slowly sat on the sofa.
An eternity later the game returned ... and promptly resumed. The An eternity later the game returned ... and promptly resumed. The goal was awarded to Eric—he'd managed to slip the puck between the goalie's legs before he'd been slammed from behind. The cross-checker had been sent to the penalty box, another Bomber had joined him there to serve the goalie's roughing penalty, and Eric was nowhere to be seen.
The Saints scored again and tied the game. During the time-out, Emily learned Eric had been carried off the ice on a stretcher. The color commentators didn't know what his injuries were, but nearly drove her mad with their dispassionate speculations. She closed her eyes and replayed the hit in slow motion in her mind, the doctor in her coming up with several possibilities, none of them remotely reassuring.
For an agonizing hour she watched the game and waited. She barely noticed when either team scored, or when her mother settled on the opposite end of the sofa with her knitting. The scent of baking pies wafted through the house, but Emily didn't spare them a thought, even when Catrina went to check on their progress.
Instead she clutched a pilow to her churning insides and sat through the second intermission, hoping some news would break on Eric.
When he stepped onto the ice with his team at the beginning of the third period, looking pale and haggard but undeniably determined, Emily didn't know whether to cry or kil him.
Chapter Thirty-One
The Saints won, 4-3.
Robbie crowed in ecstasy, Emily nearly wept in relief. Relief that the game was over and Eric was stil in one piece.
"Didja see that, Mom? Didja?” He hopped around the room, fists raised in victory.
"I saw, sweetheart, I saw,” she murmured. Her heart stil raced from fear.
"I think this cals for a special celebration,” Catrina said, hastily setting her knitting aside and pushing off the sofa when Robbie nearly knocked over a lamp in his exuberance. “What do you say, Robbie? How about some ice cream?"
"Al right!"
Catrina ruffled his hair. “Chocolate, vanila, strawberry or butter pecan?"
"Strawberry!"
"Emily?"
She shook her head as she tried to catch a last glimpse of Eric.
“None for me, Mama. Thanks."
Catrina studied her daughter for a moment, then smiled at Robbie.
Catrina studied her daughter for a moment, then smiled at Robbie.
“Strawberry it is, young man. But first, I think it's time you put your PJs on."
He leapt away, stil hooting and punching the air. “Man, oh, man.
Those Bombers never knew what hit ‘em!"
Emily searched for Eric in the crowd and silently agreed. She'd known he wouldn't let his brutal treatment at the hands of the Bombers go unanswered. She suspected it had taken him longer than it would have if he'd been playing at ful strength, but she had to admit his timing had been magnificent.
With less than thirty seconds to go and the Baltimore crowd threatening to bring down the house with their maniacal cheering, Eric had slammed a slap shot past the Bombers’ goalie and tied the score, three-three. Twenty seconds later, while the Bombers and their fans were stil recovering from their shock, he'd scored again
—and put the Saints back in contention for the Cup.
She spotted him surrounded by backslapping teammates, his triumphant grin distorted by a swolen and darkly bruised jaw, and was torn between pride ... and fury.
How dare he take such chances with his life? How dare he put her through such hel? She'd flinched every time he'd come into contact with a Bomber, knowing his body had to be screaming in pain.
Knowing another hit to the face could send him to the hospital with a shattered jaw ... or worse.
But was he worried? Of course not. He was laughing as if he'd had the time of his life. And she was shaking al over.
With a growl of frustration, she threw the pilow she'd been mangling aside. She had to get out. She needed fresh air. She needed time to pul herself together before the others arrived.
Catrina Jordan looked up from the ice cream she'd just dished out as her eldest daughter, stil wearing her pie-baking apron, sailed past the kitchen window and into the night. She sighed and returned the ice cream to the freezer, then went into the living room to put away her hastily abandoned knitting.
She found the television stil on. The man Emily had nearly destroyed her mother's favorite petit-point pilow over was being interviewed. His face was a mess, but Catrina could see the strength in it. His voice was deep, pleasant, educated. He smiled readily and sweated profusely as he offered the interviewer a wry, almost self-deprecating wit. He seemed happy enough about the win, but his eyes lacked the devil-may-care sparkle she would have expected from a man who'd risked life and limb to save his team from elimination. Instead they bespoke of pain, and not the kind one got from slamming his opponents into wals at breakneck speed.
"So that's the way the wind blows,” she murmured, then picked up the remote and turned off the television.
Robbie emerged from the bathroom, dressed in his Batman pajamas. “Where's Mom?” he asked as he scooted into a chair at the kitchen table. “Isn't she gonna have ice cream with us?"
Catrina set their bowls on the table, thankful her grandson had been too wrapped up in his own excitement to notice his mother's heartache. She smiled softly, her own heart aching a little as she feathered his hair back with her fingers. It didn't look as if Emily and Robbie would move to Turnersvile anytime soon. “She went for a little walk."
He roled his eyes. “Again?"
Catrina laughed. “Again."
* * * *
But if he hadn't given himself that final push, he would have let Granger beat him again. He closed his eyes, smiled, and savored the stunned look on Granger's face when he'd realized Eric had snatched the cup out of his greedy grasp at the last second. It had been worth every screaming muscle. Stil was. Even if he did feel more dead than alive.
more dead than alive.
Doc Springer had ranted and raved when Eric told him he was going back out on the ice, but Eric had refused to listen. He wasn't about to concede defeat just because some goon decked him from behind. As long as he could skate, he could play. And it wasn't as if he had anyone other than himself to consider. No one sat at home waiting for him, worrying about him.
Which was why he'd ordered Doc not to release his condition to the media. “Keep ‘em guessing,” he'd said, not wanting the Bombers to think he was shark bait just because he'd taken a clip to the jaw. A whopper of a clip, he amended, pressing the ice pack to his chin. He winced, remembering the jabs he'd taken in the ribs as he went down. But he'd repaid that debt, as wel.
Two goals for two bruised ribs. Not a bad deal.
He fel asleep wondering if Emily had seen the game.
* * * *
Emily knew better than to pretend she didn't know what her mother meant. Ever since she'd returned to the house, dry-eyed and drained, to find it teeming with the first arrivals for the weekend, Catrina had run interference for her. Emily had managed to greet Tom and Sharon and their two children, and Mark and Jil and their newborn with the appropriate amount of enthusiasm, but when it newborn with the appropriate amount of enthusiasm, but when it came to answering questions that required coherent thought, she'd found it too much of a strain. Her mother's tactful interruptions had saved her more than once.
"There's nothing to talk about. It's over."
Catrina entered the living room, where Emily had retreated with a novel after everyone left to bunk down at Suzanna's. “He ended it, then?” she asked as she joined Emily on the couch.
"No, I did.” Her voice was dul and flat.
"May I ask why?"
Emily closed her book, studied the author's smiling picture on the back, and wished she could crawl into bed and lose herself in the pages. She didn't want to have this conversation. She'd made her decision. She didn't want to lay it open for questions. The answers hurt too much. Although it had little to do with the truth, she chose the most obvious response, and hoped it would be one her mother could relate to in light of her own experience.
"He's a hockey player, Mama."
"So?"
Emily sighed and forced the words out, feeling as if she were sticking a knife in Eric's back. “You saw him tonight. You saw what he—"
he—"
"Al I saw was a man determined to do what he could to see that his team won."
Her head came up. “But the violence—"
"Is part of his work. I doubt it's part of the man."
"How can you say that? You don't even know him."
"But you and Robbie do. Quite wel, I understand."
"You've talked with Robbie about Eric?"
"No, Robbie's talked about Eric with me. I've simply listened. I didn't consider it my place to offer opinions on a subject you clearly didn't intend to discuss with me."
Emily flushed as if she'd been caught lying. Catrina settled deeper into the sofa. I don't mean to embarrass or pressure you, Emily. In fact, I try to make it a point not to meddle in my children's lives. But you're hurting, sweetheart, and that tears me up inside.
"I've known since you arrived that you were troubled about something, and when you talked about everything but a certain man your son thinks the world of, it wasn't hard to put two and two together. I saw the way you reacted to the news he'd been hurt.
The house could have burned down around you and you wouldn't have noticed."
Emily stared at the blank television screen and remembered the sight of Eric, bruised, battered ... and laughing. “My reaction doesn't change anything, Mama."