Page 148 of The Pucking Coach's Daughter
sydney
Banging wakes me up.
I lift my head, sleep trying to drag me back down. The banging is distant. Disorienting. It doesn’t stop, even when I smother my head under another pillow.
It just goes on and on and on, until I climb to my feet.
I creep toward my apartment door, check the peephole, and undo the lock. Pull it open. Come face-to-face with my father.
“Are you sick?” The worry in his voice is too much.
The emotion wells up in my throat, and before I can stop it, I start crying.
The first sob that wracks through me, surprisingly strong, unsteadies me.
He hugs me, then seems to just… take charge. I don’t even need to tell him that I haven’t been out of my room, haven’t eaten anything of substance, haven’t taken care of myself in days. He might know from the smell alone. Or the condition of my hair, slicked up in a bun on top of my head.
Once my tears abate, he urges me to the bathroom with an order to shower.
Going through the motions is exhausting. I sit after I wash my hair. I stay sitting for the conditioner, leaning forward and rinsing my hair upside down under the spray. And I consider staying there longer, but the water turns cold.
I wrap myself in a towel and sit on the floor instead.
There’s a knock, and then the door cracks open.
When I don’t say anything, it swings inward wide enough for Perri to stick her head in. She seems to consider something.
The door closes.
When she returns, she has clothes in her arms. She sets them aside and perches on the closed toilet lid. She picks up a lock of my wet hair and combs through it. Without saying anything, she first combs my whole head, squeezes out the excess water, then brushes through it again.
My eyes close sometime during it.
When the hair dryer starts, I flinch. Her cool fingers touch my bare shoulder for a second, as if to steady me, then she continues. She pats the clothes and moves the pile closer to me, and she leaves me alone again.
Slowly, I unfold. I touch my dry, warm, clean hair. I pull on the shirt, underwear, jeans. A sweatshirt over the top. Tall, thick socks. The bra she picked tends to itch at my spine, and I don’t really care enough for one. That’s the only thing I leave behind.
“There she is,” Perri says.
I shuffle out into the open, curling my arms around my stomach. I clear my throat and will my voice to work.
“What day is it?” I ask.
Her expression stays smooth. “Thursday.”
Oh.
I don’t bother to tell her I thought it was Wednesday.
Somehow I lost a day?
“Do you…” Perri frowns. “You know what we need?”
I shake my head.
“Ice cream.”
Oh.