Eyeful (Gladiators of the Gridiron Book 2)

by C. R. Grissom

  He threads our fingers. “I keep thinking about my dad’s car.”

  “Okay.” I’m not sure where he’s going with this, but I’ll hear him out before interrupting.

  “See, my dad drove a 1977 Mercury Grand Marquis four-door thin pillar hardtop. He loved that car.”

  There’s a long pause. I fill the silence by asking, “That’s the super-long one, right? The style that takes up four parking spots on the street?”

  He nods. “Yeah. Burgundy in color. The car was a bitch to park. But it had an eight-track tape player. He played The Jazz Singer album by Neil Diamond all the time. The thing with eight-track is that songs could cut off in the middle. There’s a pause while the tape jumps to the next track. Sometimes it would seem like a full minute before the music started up again. I don’t think I’ve ever listened to the song ‘Love On The Rocks’ without a long pause in the middle.”

  His jaw clenches. “It’s similar to what Avó, my grandmother, is going through. The pause before switching tracks. It’s like someone keeps hitting the button to advance her thoughts to the next track. No rhyme or reason to it. She has Alzheimer’s.”

  Living with seniors has taught me the terror that word inspires. “Oh, Tiago. I didn’t know. I’m so sorry.”

  “To be honest, I’m stalling. I’m sitting here praying that by the time I get back she’ll be her normal self. Instead of being hurt, she’ll be happy to have an unexpected treat.”

  I lean over and pull him into a hug. I don’t know what else to do. I want to comfort him, but I know nothing can be done. You’re forced to watch the person you love forget you.

  He squeezes me, holding on tight, which tips my chair toward his. He picks me up and drags me to his lap. Burying his face in my neck.

  “Tiago, I’m so sorry.”

  Shudders run through his body. I rub his back.

  “Her birthday is April 13th.” He doesn’t look up. His forehead still rests on my shoulder. “That day I bought her filhós for breakfast. Mom made milho frito, a kind of Madeiran fried polenta. Dad made espetada, which is beef skewers. It’s her favorite meal from the old country.”

  He raises his head to make eye contact. “Today she comes down to breakfast dressed for a celebration. We thought she was ready for Mass, but the fact that it’s Sunday isn’t on her eight-track playlist.”

  “I’m sorry for your gran, that she thinks you all forgot. But most of all I’m heartbroken for you and your parents. You all bear the weight of her confusion.”

  “Yeah.” He glances down, his discomfort clear. “I shouldn’t have dumped this on you.” He loosens his hold on me.

  I use my index finger to raise his chin so we can see each other. “My grandmother is the most important person in my life. I literally have no one else. If this happened to her, I’d be fucking lost. I feel you. I’m here for you.”

  I stand, and give him my hand to pull him up, too. “Go to her. Maybe the fog cleared or maybe she’s just hungry for donuts. Whatever else she’s going through she loves you and she needs you.”

  He pulls me in for another hug. “Thanks for the reminder, and for getting it.”

  “Always.”

  “Hey, next Sunday there’s going to be a festa. There will be a parade, food, and even dancing—though, no costumes required. I’ll introduce you to Portuguese culture if you’re up for it. You’ll have to meet me early. Like nine in the morning.”

  My stomach clenches. It’s kind of like a date. Possibly. Maybe not? Regardless, it feels like we’ve turned a corner. Or we’ll solidify our friendship. Either way, I want to experience this festa. “Sure, sounds like a fun time.”

  “Stay out of the sun for the rest of the day.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  He takes the bag of donuts with him. He doesn’t glance over his shoulder as he strides to his car. I’m the exact opposite. I can’t find the willpower to look away.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Tiago

  When I pull into our driveway, I force myself to unclasp my hands from the steering wheel. One finger at a time. I concentrate on this one act. I have no idea what it’s going to be like inside the house—been gone too long. Mom sent four texts on my drive home from Goose’s place.

  Tiago, where are you?

  Tiago, what is taking so long?

  Tiago, I’m worried.

  Tiago, call me.

  She leads with my name. Every. Single. Text. I can’t pass it off as a cute habit right now. Because each text is a separate plea. Guilt slashes at my heart while dread makes my arms and legs heavy as though filled with wet cement. Avó’s forgetfulness this morning brings us one step closer to her not recognizing us. Each time her brain hits that blank spot, it marks another loss. I don’t want to move.

  Fuck it.

  I’ve got to man up and remember what Phoebe said about the fact that my grandmother loves me. Regardless of this roller coaster, we’re all belted into, she’s my avó. This is about her, and not me.

  I grab the bag with the donuts and cross the lawn to the house. If Dad were on the porch, he’d kill me for walking across the grass. But he’s in his room, disconnected from us all, and no longer gives two curly turds about the precision of his lawn, or the emotional state of his family.

  Going through the front door is another thing I shouldn’t do. I’m breaking all the house rules today. Mom will freak. You have to pass through the living room to get to the kitchen. The living room is designated for company. Everything is perfect. Avó covered the vanilla-colored, floral print, Queen Anne-style couch and wingback chair of the same style in sturdy plastic. They stay that way until we have guests.

  They haven’t been off since Dad’s accident six months ago.

  Arranged between family pictures in vintage frames sit porcelain vases and antique Meissen-style bisque figurines of dancers dressed in colonial clothing. They crowd the surfaces of the fireplace mantel, and the coffee and end tables. Over the mantel hangs a picture of my grandparents on their wedding day in black and white. There’s another picture of my parents on their wedding day. I’m on another wall. School pictures of me march along in chronological order. Kindergarten through my senior graduation pic. Happier times.

  She bought this furniture with Vovô years before he died, and he’s been gone for, like, twenty-four years. At a guess, it’s three to four decades old, but still showroom quality. You don’t step into this room unless you have a dust rag, furniture polish, and a vacuum cleaner. Otherwise, expect to get a lecture and a swat on the back of your head.

  It’s a risk I’m willing to take to see if I can shock Avó to her normal self.

  “Tiago,” Mom admonishes. “What are you doing in here? Where have you been?”

  The fact her face is ashen instead of fiery red for my living room trespass tells me things haven’t changed much since I left. Now that Phoebe’s not with me, I’m losing the courage I need to face Avó. To see her silent accusation of our forgetfulness and unreliability.

  Swallowing the bile that hit the back of my throat I ask, “How is she? Any better?”

  Mom glances over her shoulder. “She’s at the table. She hasn’t opened her mouth since you left.”

  I blow out the breath I was holding. “Okay. Let’s do this.” When I pass Mom, I kiss her forehead. “Mãe me desculpe.”

  Telling her I’m sorry doesn’t excuse the fact I ditched her and this situation, but it’s a start. The next thing to do is to trudge into the kitchen and confront my grandmother. Whatever day she’s trapped in.

  “Bom dia, Avó—look what I brought.”

  She glances up from her inspection of the kitchen table. Her expression remains blank. I force my lips into something that might look like a smile. “Filhós.” Rattling the bag I set it in front of her.

  She opens the bag and peers inside. “Too late for breakfast.”

  I glance at the clock, which reads eleven thirty. “It’s never too late for donuts.”

  G
rabbing three plates from the cabinet I arrange a donut on each plate. “Mãe, come eat.”

  Mom stands frozen in the kitchen doorway. I dealt with this new, frightening turn by running, completely forgetting Mom is stuck. Stuck because of Dad and Avó. I’m such an asshole for abandoning the only person who always has to be on point under this roof.

  My shift doesn’t start until two today. I can control this one thing in an out-of-control situation.

  “Here.” I pass Mom a plate. “Do me a favor. Go. Take some time for you. I don’t have to leave the house until one thirty.” My voice pitched low so Avó won’t hear.

  She takes the plate from me. “Where?” Her breath stutters. “Where do I go that doesn’t cost money?”

  My fists clench. I’ve been so fucking selfish. Not recognizing the fact she doesn’t get any breaks. Grocery shopping does not qualify. “The only thing that matters is that you get out and clear your head. Take this time for you. While I’m here to help.”

  Tears fill her eyes and drive another nail into my heart.

  “I’m going to church. I need to find peace with this, Tiago. Anything but this. Perdendo suas memórias. I don’t wish this on an enemy.”

  I’m with Mom. I wouldn’t wish memory loss on anyone either. Mom heads down the hall toward Dad’s room. I’m sure she’s planning on handing him her plate. I’ll check on Dad later.

  Sitting at the table, I pull the untouched plate toward me. “Want to watch the telenovela? Find out how Valeria will rid herself of Santiago and go back to Alejandro?”

  “I already know.”

  “Yeah?” My heart lifts. “How?”

  “I watched it.”

  “Hey, no fair,” I tease, but honestly couldn’t be happier she’s tracking and remembered the episode. “You’re not supposed to get ahead. You can’t learn about Valeria’s troubles without me.”

  “You work. You have school. I stay here all day in the house and keep your mother company while she takes care of your daddy.”

  Knocking my head against the table would not be the correct reaction right now. But I feel like it. Of course, she’d feel hemmed in, too. I’ll have to figure out where to take Avó so she gets a change of scenery. It has to be somewhere familiar—I don’t want to trigger fear or confusion.

  “Where would you like to go, if you could take some time out of the house?”

  She sighs. “Years ago, your vovô took me to a beautiful place. A garden. Japanese style. Você conhece o lugar?”

  Do I know it? “Sure. You mean the Japanese Friendship Garden?”

  “Sim, Tiago. That one.”

  “I promise to take you soon. We’ll go on the next day I’m off work and school, okay?”

  “You’re a good boy. O festa da banda é no próximo domingo. You take me.”

  The festa next Sunday. I’ve invited Phoebes. My throat clamps shut. Now I’ll need to figure out how to entertain them both at the same function. Separately. Maybe Mrs. Silva, Mom’s bestie, can help out? I can’t let Avó grill Phoebes about her family.

  Well, she’ll face cross-examination. It’s hardwired into every Portuguese mama’s DNA to interrogate any potential partner. Doesn’t matter if they gave birth to you or not. That saying about it takes a village to raise a child, these women act on that theory and get up into your business like they have every right. They’ll push for info about Phoebe’s family, how we met, and whether she goes to church on Sunday. Avó will lead the charge since Mom will stay home with Dad. Shit.

  Avó squints at me, waiting for my answer.

  “Sure. Sure. Now let’s go watch the telenovela and I’ll catch up.”

  I click through the settings to get to the DVR playlist, but in the two minutes it takes me to cue it up, Avó has fallen asleep on the couch. How many times have we watched telenovelas together? How many times has she fallen asleep in that same spot? My heart clutches. I want to carve this memory into my brain. How tiny she looks. How her head rests against the cushion so she doesn’t get bedhead.

  I hit play just in case she wakes up, but turn down the volume so she isn’t disturbed by the noise.

  Phoebe got that call from jail while we were on our way to CW’s, reminding me what’s at stake. She didn’t accept, but she was with me. She also admitted she doesn’t have anyone else. Fortis is her fresh start. She can’t be shielding her mother. Trusting my gut on this can’t be stupid.

  I’ve got to check on Dad. Make sure he doesn’t need anything. He’s bed-bound because of his injury. He has a catheter. There’s a nurse practitioner who comes to check on him. Check that he doesn’t have a urinary tract infection. Make sure he doesn’t have bed sores. That sort of thing.

  Mom can’t turn him. I’m on hand when she wants to change the sheets. And move him. He can move his upper body. Feed himself. To walk he’d have to be both less and more stubborn. Less stubborn about the cost, more stubborn about doing the physical therapy required to maybe walk again. Each day he delays physical therapy, he risks his chances of ever walking again.

  The thought of him never walking again—of never having another conversation with Dad—claws at my heart.

  It all comes down to money. That’s why I need to get drafted by the NFL. I need a contract that will provide the money to pay off his medical bills. Pay for his physical therapy so he can walk again. The fact he won’t work with a therapist is wrapped up in cost and drives me to the fucking edge of my endurance.

  I rap on his door. It remains partially open so we can hear him if he calls out. He doesn’t ever choose to speak or ask for help. He stopped using his voice when he found out about his legs and the fact we’re out of pocket for outpatient services.

  Maybe he talks to Mom. Football players are all too aware that one hit can change your life. I’ve tried to convince him to start physical therapy, but it’s like talking to a blank wall. I don’t know how to reach him. You can’t make someone want to heal by sheer will alone. They have to fight for it, too.

  “Hey, Mom left to go to church. Do you need anything?”

  Silence.

  I sit at the chair next to the bed. Picking up the remote, I lower the sound on the TV. Maybe if I act like nothing is wrong, we can both pretend it isn’t. “I’m not sure Mom told you, but Avó isn’t tracking well these days.”

  Staring hard at Dad, I study his face for any change. Any emotion that shows me he’s listening to what I’m saying and reacting to this news. But I see nothing. His complete lack of expression devastates. I don’t know why I bothered.

  “I’ve met a girl. I shouldn’t be falling for her, but I am. Faster and harder than I ever did for Aubrey. She’s not Portuguese, and I couldn’t care less.”

  Saying the words out loud settles me. The truth and the depth of my emotions toward Phoebe gives me freedom from the roadblocks I built against caring about her.

  “She’s a good person. She doesn’t have family besides her grandmother.” I believe this in my heart. Is it fair for me to blame Phoebe for something her mom did? “You’d like her, but I know you’re never going to get to know her because you’ve checked out. You’ve stopped caring about us.”

  Dad blinks, but that’s not even an indicator of whether he’s listening or not. Everyone blinks—it’s just a matter of time and body function. He takes the remote, raising the volume on the TV.

  It’s a dick move. But at least I got a reaction.

  I check to see that he has a full glass of water. It sits next to the plate holding the untouched donut Mom brought him. I don’t have to worry about meds. She doles out his pills on a schedule, and she wouldn’t have left the house without letting me know he was due for a dose.

  Whatever. The guy who gave up—the one ignoring me right now—isn’t anything like my dad. I don’t like this version much. I want out of this room. “Good talk. We’ll have to do it again sometime soon.”

  I would never have gotten away with this kind of disrespect before his accident. In the family room, I care
fully sit on the couch with Avó. The telenovela is still on. Valeria just slapped Santiago. I need to concentrate on something else. Phoebes. She’s never far from my thoughts these days.

  Discovering her dancing on the corner in that ridiculous costume gave me a reason to stop and to loiter. A chance to see her. Make sure she was okay. I felt compelled to stop and check. I meant to pick up where we left it last night to better explain about Aubrey. Boy did I ever fuck up. I have no idea why I mentioned Aubrey to Phoebes. Maybe it was CW telling me I don’t know how to act around someone who might be worth keeping?

  I didn’t get to have the conversation I meant to have, but I did have one I didn’t realize I needed. Phoebe gets it. She understood the simple terror Mom and I face with Avó.

  “Tiago, it’s too low. We can’t hear what they say,” Avó mumbles sleepily.

  Reaching for the remote I ask, “Do you want me to restart from the beginning?”

  “I saw this one before. This time you watch. Maybe you learn what’s important about love.”

  I lean over and kiss her forehead. “I already know about love. You’ve shown me every day of my life.”

  Maybe her brain will be able to touch this simple memory when she loses the thread of time. Something bone deep that stays with her no matter what, that shows how much I love her.

  She holds my hand. “You’re a good boy. A good man. It’s a terrible thing what happened to your daddy.” She squeezes my hand. “But sometimes good comes with the bad. You’re here, in my house, and sleeping under my roof. That is a gift to me, Tiago.”

  She leans against me, and points at the television. “Alejandro sees Valeria walking on the pier with Santiago, his arm around her. He doesn’t see how she holds herself stiff, that she doesn’t let her body relax against Santiago. This posture shows no affection, only defiance. He forces her to stand beside him. His arm is not around her in love but in control.”

  Avó clicks her tongue, a sound she makes when she’s impatient. “Anger makes him blind to the truth.”

  On-screen Alejandro takes one last glance at the ring he bought to propose to Valeria. He’s carried it ever since the day Santiago took her from him. He clenches the hand holding the ring. When he opens his hand he skips the ring into the waves crashing under the pier in a fit of anger.