Page 120 of Off Court Fix
“It’s in here,” I say, tossing the large bag at Hunter, smiling as he curses when some of his drink slops out of the glass, landing on his shoes. “Go ahead and enjoy whatever is left over after you fix your car.”
Hunter looks up from the mess, confused as I take my racket and raise it over my head, swinging it to his windshield. I want him to see that I don’t flinch when shards of glass fly in my direction. I want him to see thatthisis a crack in the surface of the hell I can unleash. Because hell hath no fury like a woman used to further a man’s gain.
And then, as I hop into the Bronco and speed away with Hunter watching opened-mouthed and a crowd of people pouring out of the back door of the bar, I call my father.
“This just came for her.”
I look up from the glass of hydrangeas I clipped and find an orderly holding an unusually large package, a rather flat, rectangular box. Rising from the chair, I take it, looking at the label.
He ticks his head, probably noticing the skepticism on my face—it’s not as if my mother is able to order anything from Amazon Prime. “Should I open it?”
“I’ve got it. Thanks,” I say, eyeing the box now in my hands.
I sit back in the chair with the box over my lap and look at my mother, who hardly notices the movement. She doesn’t notice much—or do much—these days apart from sleep, not that I expect her to. How long she might remain in this state, the doctors can’t say. It could happen quickly—within a few days—or she could hold off several months. It’s both torture and a relief. Because, in some ways, it feels as though my mother has been gone for quite some time. But in the years since her disease progressed, she’s had to fight. And now, she can rest comfortably.
And wait for it all to be over.
Digging my keys from my pocket, I use one to slide through the tape over the opening of the box. I push past the internal padding and even though the contents are wrapped and protected, I know what’s inside.
When I pull out the keyboard, I find two notes, one addressed to the staff asking to place the keyboard in my mother’s room, even if she won’t use it, and another, smaller envelope addressed to my mother, Judy.
I promise, I’ll look after Crosby.
-Maxine
I have to remind myself to breathe. I lean forward, the keyboard folding into my chest, and I rest my elbows on my knees so I can hide my face in my palms. I’m swept up in emotion, in the pending loss that goes beyond my mother lying in bed on hospice.
I’ll lose time with Maxine, time I suddenly no longer care is behind closed doors. Because the thought of not having her strangles my chest and makes my body ache for her touch, which I still have for another few days before I essentially give myself up so she can have everything she deserves.
Putting her first is the right thing to do, I remind myself, trying to slow my anxious breaths. Taking the fall so she can live her dreams is the right thing to do, because it’s my past mistakes that threaten them all. I just wish it didn’t feel like I was also dying inside.
I straighten in the chair and unwrap the keyboard. It barely fits on the end table beside Mom’s bed, and I have to remove the hydrangeas and place them on the windowsill, but I manage to plug it in, giving the instrument a place in her room.
It’s not an organ.
It’s not a piano.
But it’s more than enough.
Turning the chair so I can face it, I fiddle with the keys and volume, glancing at Mom to see if she notices. She continues to stare blankly at the foot of the bed until I begin to play the only song I know by heart—“Somewhere Over the Rainbow.”
It’s rusty, and I drop a few notes, but after a minute, Mom turns to me.
And she smiles.
* * *
“I’m going to need you to stop doing that,” Maxine says, not looking up from the counter she wipes.
“Doing what?”
She steps back, reaching to pull out the drawer where the trash is so she can toss out the paper towel. I take in the shape and silhouette of her body—long, strong legs covered in leggings, a loose white tank top hanging off her shapely shoulders, leading down to toned, strong arms, hands with callouses, short, unpainted nails.
“Looking at me like I’m about to disappear.”
I sigh and push off from the opposite side of the counter and make my way to where Maxine stands, now starting the dishwasher. I give her ass a playful swat, turning her by the hips and lifting her on the counter so I can drop a kiss to her lips before I pull back and focus on their shape, the tiny, almost invisible cleft in her chin below them.
“Crosby.”
