A Different Kind of Normal

  “And you want to risk your life for a maybe?” I grabbed my measuring cups and sent them tumbling to the counter. “You have to be kidding me, Tate.”

  “I’m not kidding, Mom. I’m not as aggressive yet as the other kids, but I’m fast and I make points. I created and studied that computer model about shooting—”

  “I know you studied it and it doesn’t mean anything. Stop studying it.”

  “Mom, you don’t know what it’s like. I’m lonely. I’m alone. It’s always going to be that way for me. I know it.”

  I’m lonely. I’m alone. It’s always going to be that way for me. I know it. Crushing words that sank straight into my heart. I stopped banging my way around the kitchen. “You have friends, Tate, and Milt and Anthony, and you have me, your Nana Bird, Caden and his kids . . .”

  “I know, but I want to . . .” A loud sob burst from him, his face red.

  “Tate.” I swallowed hard, my anger gone, my heart splitting.

  “I want to be a part of this, of basketball. The team always loses and I can help them. I know I can. Coach Boynton wants me to play, I can tell.”

  I thought of Coach Robert Boynton. Rangy, tough, had a face like a hardened Mafia leader. I’d known him in high school where he was a star athlete. He was married to my friend, Letty.

  He cried over opera. He cried when kids made baskets who never made them. He cried when he had Letty’s annual birthday bash, calling her, “The best wife a guy could have. I love you, Letty!”

  Letty could not have kids, so they had a round of foster kids living with them at all times. He cried over them, too.

  “All these people were there watching practice today and I made a three-pointer, I shot it with my Road Runner eye, it was my fourth one, and Coach shouted so everybody in that gym heard, ‘Outstanding, Tate, you’re outstanding.’ He yelled it, Mom. And people patted me on the back and Rick Santorini said, ‘That was fuckin’ hot, man.’ He said that. Sorry about the F word, Mom.” He bit his lip, trying to control himself.

  “You are outstanding, and I don’t need a game to prove it. It’s a game, Tate.” I pulled out my mixing bowls. I had no idea what to cook. “Basketball is a game.”

  “It’s more than that to me, Mom. Take your work with dying people. It’s not only a job for you, you’re not only a nurse, it’s who you are. You help people die. You said before that it’s an honor and a privilege, that you love your job even though it makes you cry.”

  “My job is not going to possibly cause me an injury or death, do you get that?”

  “It’s only a slight chance, Mom. Slight. So slight.” He brushed tears off his cheeks, his hands shaking.

  “It’s there.” I did not like to see my son crying or his hands shaking.

  “Mom, what would you do if I took away your greenhouse, your herbs? You wouldn’t be happy, would you? What if I took away your job and helping people? You’d feel lost, you know you would. You’d feel alone, lonely. That’s how I feel, all the time. I’ve wanted to play basketball my whole life, and you’ve always said no.”

  I didn’t tell him that my work was making me feel lost lately or that aloneness and loneliness had stalked me for years, that not having Ethan in my life was a constant sadness. This conversation was not about me.

  “Mom, I’m a junior in high school. These are my last two years. I have to play now or I’ll never get to play. I have to.”

  “No.” My whole body hurt for him as he took a shuddery, pathetic breath.

  “Mom, please.”

  “No. And don’t go to practice tomorrow or you will be grounded and I’ll take your computer and your phone.”

  “Aw, Mom.” He burst into another round of tears and dropped his head on the butcher-block island.

  After a minute I walked around and put my arm around him but he swatted it away, his huge shoulders shaking.

  I tried again and he turned, grabbed his backpack, and stomped up the stairs to his bedroom. He blocked his bedroom door with his dresser so I couldn’t hug him good night.

  Tate was not the only one crying into his pillow that night.

  The next day I drove home after work and Tate was not home.

  Once again, furious, I drove to the high school.

  I slammed the door to my car, my black leather boots thudding on the wet pavement, my long hair soon wet from the rain. I yanked open the door to the school and strode to the gym. As I had attended high school here, many memories assailed me, one in which my friend Bryan Wernerson exploded a toilet and laughed so hard he fell off his chair.

  I tossed the toilet memory aside, though, whipped around the corner, and glared into the gym just in time to see Tate take a three-point jumper in a scrimmage. The ball swooshed, all net. My breath caught.

  I saw him shuffle back to play defense as two teammates gave him a high five. I saw him steal the ball from his opponent and charge back down the court. I saw him come close to dunking the ball, the ball slipping through the net. I saw him pass the ball off to Anthony, who made a basket. I saw Anthony point at him in thanks. Tate passed it twice more to teammates, all who credited him with a laugh or a hoot.

  I saw him, pass, steal, shoot—and he made almost all his shots.

  There were about twenty other boys and girls watching practice, and for each three-pointer that Tate, or anyone else made, they cheered. The thing was, Tate was making almost all the three-pointers.

  I wanted to charge onto the court, grab him by the ear, and haul his butt out for blatantly disobeying me, but something stopped me and I hovered by the door so Tate couldn’t see me.

  The scrimmage continued, the kids cheered, Tate played the whole time.

  At the end of practice, I saw Coach Boynton joke with the whole team, “Okay, my peeps, gather ’round. Come to me, come to me, behold your miraculous coach.”

  A bunch of sweating high school boys laughed and gathered ’round.

  “Now we’re going to play a game here with our newbie, Tate.” He clapped a hand around my kid’s shoulders. “Ole, Tate, here, who should have been playing basketball for years. We could have used him last season, couldn’t we?”

  “Oh yeah . . . yeah, man . . . yep,” the boys said. Milt grabbed Tate and started shaking his shoulders. “Dude! Dude!”

  I watched Tate beam, his smile lighting up that gym like a strobe.

  “Peeps, I’m going to let Tate here take a shot,” Coach Boynton said. “If he makes it, I’m takin’ the whole team to pizza, my treat.”

  Oh, they cheered and yelled, they wrestled around, they banged Tate on the back, oh those boys, they do love to eat. My stomach twisted.

  “Okay, my peep, Tate, not to put too much pressure on you, man, right?” Coach Boynton jokingly put Tate in a headlock and messed up his red curls. “No pressure, man, but . . .”

  Tate was laughing, the team was laughing.

  “Gentlemen!” Coach Boynton yelled, arms thrown out. “I am going to ask Sir Tate to shoot from . . .” He walked toward the free throw line. “Not here.” He kept walking across the court, to the three-point line. “Not here, either.” He grinned at Tate as the boys made those manly groaning-man sounds.

  “Here!” He pointed at a place about two feet outside the three-point line. “Tate, baby, you make this shot, and we’re going to pizza.”

  Oh, the boys hooted, they linked their arms around Tate’s back. One gangly kid, Charlie, who had braces and tight brown curls, kneeled in front of him and pleaded, “Tate, make it, buddy, I’m starving, starving! I haven’t eaten in days!”

  Another kid, tall and skinny Kendrick, who reminded me of a gecko, said, “Tate, please don’t mess up my pizza night,” then jumped on his back so Tate was forced to hold on to him piggyback.

  I felt sick. All that on Tate’s shoulders? That hard of a shot? I felt myself getting angry. Did Coach Boynton have to set Tate up for failure in front of all these kids on his team and also the kids up in the bleachers?

  Coach Boynton tossed the
basketball to Tate.

  Tate kept smiling.

  “Good luck, man.” He clasped Tate on the shoulder, man to man. “Remember: The impossible is possible. A shot can be made on a wing and a prayer. Wish upon a star, you know . . .”

  Tate bounced the ball in front of him, all nonchalant and cool. “Okay, Coach, I’ll take that bet.” He kept bouncing the ball, real slow, as if he was deeply pondering the bet. “You’re gonna buy us all pizza if I make this shot?”

  “Yep, I am, Tate. Pizza for all, even though you guys are garbage disposals with teeth.”

  “What about drinks?” Tate said.

  “Ha. How about some beer!” Milt said.

  “No beer,” the coach said, pumping his chest out jokingly. “But I’ll buy pop, too. Don’t think I’ll have to, though. Nope, nope, nope.”

  “Whoaaa . . . oh man,” the boys groaned.

  I was nervous and getting more nervous by the second.

  “Hmmm . . .” Tate tossed the ball up in the air, up and down. He pondered some more. “The pizza parlor also has ice cream, too. I like chocolate.”

  “Yeah, Coach! Pizza, beer, and ice cream, if Tate makes it!” Charlie yelled.

  “Sure. If Tate makes this shot I’ll buy pizza, pop, no beer, and ice cream. Somehow, though”—Coach Boynton rocked back on his heels—“I don’t think I’m going to have to buy anything. I think I’m gonna go home with a full wallet, money flowing over the top. I’ll take my wife out instead. A date night.”

  “Hmmmm . . .” Tate tapped his temple. “I don’t want to ruin your and Mrs. Boynton’s date night. You need some time to have deep conversation, you know, plunge the depths of life, get all philosophical. Women want that stuff, I hear.”

  “Hey, ruin it,” Coach Boynton said. “Ruin it. I dare ya, buddy.”

  “Come on, Tate!” his teammates yelled.

  “You need a date night, Coach,” Tate said. “It’ll help you get in touch with your feminine side.”

  The kids howled. I had to laugh at that. I put my hand over my mouth.

  “My feminine side!” Coach Boynton shouted, his Mafia face fierce. “I’m already in touch with my feminine side. Can’t you tell?”

  Oh, how those boys fell all over each other.

  The coach pointed to his bald head. “I am a feminine thinker, Tate. I am a sensitive and loving husband!”

  Too, too funny, those boys thought.

  But I knew Coach Boynton. He was sensitive. He was a loving husband.

  “A date with your wife would add romance to her life and to yours,” Tate teased. “Champagne, caviar . . .”

  “Romance? I’m a regular Renaissance man. I’m a romantic knight! A rescue-the-fair-maiden sort of knight!”

  Ho ho ho.

  In the stands, a bunch of kids started yelling, “Tate, Tate, Tate!”

  His teammates joined them, “Tate, Tate, Tate.”

  Tate’s smile was huge. I couldn’t believe it. I would have thought he would be nervous, with his whole team hoping he would make an impossible shot for pizza. Wasn’t he worried his teammates would be disappointed in him? I was. I was so nervous my knees were about knocking. Tate didn’t need this, didn’t need the failure.

  Tate threw the ball up and down a few more pondering times as the kids yelled, “Tate, Tate, Tate.”

  “I’ll make it easy on you, Tate,” Coach Boynton said, expansive, funny. “If you make one out of three shots, I’ll still take you all out to pizza, the whole works. You up for it? That fair?”

  Tate stopped bouncing the ball and stared up at the ceiling, as if contemplating the deal. “At the risk of you missing a romantic and productive date night with Mrs. Boynton, I’ll take it.”

  The team cheered and the kids in the stands raced down to stand on the edge of the court.

  “But I’m not going to need three shots, Coach.”

  “Whooo!” the boys hooted.

  The team cleared back as Tate took his place in Coach Boynton’s designated spot. I cringed, my stomach flipped. I didn’t want my son to fail in front of all these kids. I didn’t want him to miss. I didn’t want to see his face, to see all those kids’ faces fall when he didn’t make it. He’d made it before, but now they were all staring at him, depending on him for pizza.

  I knew it was in fun, I knew Coach Boynton would take the team out to pizza anyhow, but my son did not need any more pain or disillusionment or embarrassment in his life. Damn. Double damn.

  Tate positioned himself, bending his knees.

  He didn’t need to fail in front of all these kids.

  I felt nauseous.

  Tate stared at the hoop.

  He didn’t need kids to groan at him, to moan, to act as if he’d let them down.

  I thought I was going to be sick. Why? Why was this happening?

  Tate brought his arm back. He was going to pelt it at the hoop.

  Why did Coach Boynton do this? Did he want Tate to feel stupid?

  The kids kept chanting, “Tate, Tate, Tate.”

  It was an almost impossible shot.

  “Remember, you get three shots, Sir Tate,” Coach Boynton called out.

  For a second I saw Tate close his eyes. He does this when he’s lost in his thinking, whether it’s about a math problem, physics, or organic chemistry. He’ll close his eyes, dig down deep, and think think think.

  I glanced at Coach Boynton, and I saw that underneath the humorous bravado, the showmanship, he was tense. Tense and tight. He wanted this for Tate. He wanted Tate to make it.

  That’s the kind of coach he is, the kind of man he is.

  “Tate, Tate, Tate!”

  Tate opened his eyes and I wanted to cower into a corner and cover my head. He took a few steps back to power himself forward.

  I could not stand this. I could not stand the self-recriminations he’d belt himself with later, the harsh judgment.

  “Tate, Tate, Tate!”

  Tate drew his arm all the way back, his muscles strong and tight.

  Oh dear God. I put my hands over my eyes, then slit my fingers so I could peek.

  His arm lashed through the air, quick, like a wink.

  I felt my throat constrict, my heart palpitate....

  That ball arched, arched, arched, spinning, spinning, spinning.. . .

  I could not breathe.

  Closer and closer and closer . . .

  Oh please, oh please, oh please.

  Whoosh.

  A clean shot, all the way through, nothing but net.

  Pandemonium.

  Later that night I made a cup of lemon mango tea and puttered in my greenhouse.

  I hung up another strand of white Christmas lights, threading them through the rafters, then checked my bulbs, picked off dead leaves . . . and thought about Tate.

  After the ball slipped through the net, his teammates whooped into happy hysteria and tackled him to the floor, the kids on the edge of the court streaming toward him like stampeding buffalo. Coach Boynton leaped into the air, arms raised high in victory, and shouted, “I knew it! I knew he’d make it! I felt it in my bones!”

  He pulled Tate out of the pile of kids and hugged him, hugged him off his feet.

  Tate caught my eye, seeing me because I had thrown my hands up in the air and cheered a truly high-pitched screech of triumph.

  We stared at each other, me hooting, he shocked to see me, more shocked to hear me hooting, and then a smile, this huge amazing smile spread across his handsome face, his teammates and the other kids jumping up and down and yelling.

  “Tate, Tate, Tate!”

  Tate, Tate, Tate.

  They lifted him up on their shoulders and ran around the gym. I saw Coach Boynton discreetly wipe tears from his eyes.

  Later they all went to pizza, pop, and ice cream. I was told that Mrs. Boynton joined them there, sort of a romantic date night, and they toasted Tate with root beer.

  Overcome, I slipped into a wicker chair, held the cross, heart, and star charms in my
hand, and cried. I cried like I hadn’t cried in years.

  Cried and cried.

  I remembered that Grandma Violet told Brooke, Caden, and me that Faith and Grace often cried, too, although they tried to do it privately without, as she said, “Too much self-pity. Everyone has their burdens to bear, but I’m told they understood the power of a strong cup of tea with a shot of whiskey, herbs, and a pretty parasol.”

  Faith and Grace lived through that wretched journey across the Atlantic and when they arrived in South Carolina, filthy, bug infested, emaciated, nauseous, and exhausted to the bone, they were half-dead.

  “They itched,” Grandma Violet told us one summer day as she kneaded a loaf of bread. “Their hair was matted to their heads with grease, grime, and probably vomit, their own and from others on the ship they tended to. Their long dresses had swept the decks of the ship and were caked with defecation, rancid water, rat droppings, body fluids, seawater, and rotted food. There was something wrong with their stomachs. They had another petticoats-on-fire sort of problem, indeed they did.

  “Anyhow, Charleston was bustling. Men in top hats and suits and women in swishing hoop dresses and flowered hats, their hair in ringlets, stood right next to sailors and merchants, laborers, con men, pompous business owners and beggars. There were carriages and dogs, slaves with their masters, horses and livestock, and a cacophony of languages from the French, Scottish, Caribbean, Jewish, Bermudan, and German people who all lived there together.

  “Faith and Grace were attacked by two men that first day off the dock who ran off with their raggedy bags and the velvet satchel, which held their witchly items and all their money.” Grandma Violet pounded the bread with her fist, as if even thinking about it made her mad.

  “The women followed those scoundrels into an alley and fought both men with the knives their brothers had given them.” She dropped the dough in a pan with a heavy thud. “They were so weak but they were desperate for that satchel. The men tried to attack their womanhood and they ripped their dresses. Faith and Grace used our family’s most potent and fiery witch spells, stabbed them, twisted the knives, grabbed their tattered bags and satchel, and left them crumpled in the alley.”