Janice Johnson - Mummy Said Goodbye

Brett loped beside Malcolm, the two finishing near the head of the string of boys.

Robin set up her lawn chair near the picnic table and several other mothers. Brett’s grandfather shook hands all around. The others seemed momentarily startled, turned to look at Brett, but smiled and included the boy’s grandfather in their idle conversation.

Robin paid more attention to Brett’s play than she did to her son’s. Brett wasn’t as rusty as she would have expected. He must at least have been kicking the ball around. He couldn’t have tossed it in a closet and left it there, or he wouldn’t have been dribbling the ball deftly between cones, heading it to other players, passing with fair accuracy when he and another player raced down the field exchanging the ball.

He acquitted himself well when they scrimmaged, too. By the end of practice, he was as sweaty as the rest of the boys and was in the midst of them when they grabbed water bottles and drained them, listening while Coach mentioned a few weaknesses and said, “We’re playing Puyallup Saturday and they went undefeated last year. Let’s make sure they don’t repeat that feat this year, shall we?”

“Yeah!” The boys high fived.

“Good practice,” the coach finished briskly. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

The cluster broke up into twos and threes that started toward the parents on the sideline and the parking lot where others would be pulling in to pick up offspring.

“Brett,” Coach added, “I want to talk to you before you go.”

In the act of folding her chair, Robin froze. Oh, no! Had Brett not done as well as she’d thought? She saw the boy’s face go expressionless in a way she’d seen every day in school and come to dread.

“Sure,” he said, shrugging as if he didn’t care.

Malcolm hung back, too.

Stacking cones, the Coach said, “I’d like to try you out at goalie tomorrow. You still interested in playing the position?”

“Yeah! Sure. That’s cool!” His back was to Robin, but she heard the animation in his voice, saw the way his shoulders relaxed.

She relaxed, too, and smiled at his grandfather who had also been listening. “He did great today.”

She repeated the compliment to Brett as the two families walked back to the parking lot together.

Mal scoffed, “Nah, he was so slow I could have stolen the ball from him any time I wanted.” His foot shot out.

Brett turned his body, blocking the steal and then going for Malcolm’s ball. After roughhousing the entire way, the two boys were grinning when they reached the cars.

“See you tomorrow!” her son called as they separated.

“Yeah.” Brett picked up his ball. “Tomorrow.”

There was hope in the way he said the word, and a little bit of surprise. As if he hadn’t anticipated tomorrow in a long while.

Robin had to blink some moisture from her eyes before she could unlock the car.

That night, after Malcolm had gone to bed, she sat at her computer and typed an e-mail, deleting and correcting half a dozen times, as if she were writing the cover letter for a grant application.

Dear Craig.

She frowned at the salutation, changed “Craig” to “Mr. Lofgren,” then questioned the “Dear.” Finally she deleted the whole dang thing. It was too formal anyway.

In the end, she was left with a few bare sentences.

Just wanted you to know that soccer practice went really well today. Brett hasn’t lost any skill, and he seemed to have fun. He’s to try playing goalie tomorrow. Oh, and he got a 90% on a spelling quiz today!

She added and deleted comments on how nice Craig’s father was, how much Abby had grown, how she hoped his flight was turbulence free.

Honestly! They weren’t pen pals.

The next night, she had a return e-mail from him.

Thanks for the report. I was hoping Brett would e-mail, too—he has his own Hotmail account—but no. He’s probably not wanting to make too much of this. Thank you, Robin.

Nothing chatty. Although he had used her first name. She was glad she hadn’t said, “Dear Mr. Lofgren.”

She hit Reply and typed,

No more thanks, please. Another good day. Brett was dynamite as goalie! I suppose he felt he had to prove something, but he made some spectacular stops. Josh, who is the team’s regular goalie, seemed especially determined to crack him. But after Brett skidded ten feet across the turf, stopping a hard drive to the far corner, Josh ran over and congratulated him. Well, he whacked him on the back and then they exchanged high fives. Preteen male congrats.

After a moment, she signed “Robin” and hit Send.

The next night, he had replied again.

I wish I’d been there! I did get an e-mail from Brett today, who said, “Soccer is okay. I need new shoes. Mine are too tight.” I should have thought of that. We can stop somewhere on the way to practice Friday, or Saturday morning before the game. If not for your e-mails, I’d be trying to decide how okay “okay” is. It’s just okay? He’s not having fun but is determined to give it a chance? He’s having the time of his life? So, once again…no. You said no more gratitude. Can I at least thank you for helping me stay connected? Tokyo feels like a world away, not just a few time zones. Craig

Robin didn’t hit Reply this time, although she felt a pang of regret. She’d been rather enjoying their exchanges. Tomorrow, he’d be home to see his son play.

She hoped he wouldn’t be disappointed if Brett didn’t see much action Saturday. Although as well as Brett was playing, the coach might put him in. Without a good backup goalie, Josh had been playing both halves in a mask and pads, but he was a heck of a forward, too.

Robin had no trouble picturing Craig on the sidelines at the game. She’d always noticed when he showed up for the occasional practice and every game when he wasn’t working. She’d tried to reconcile the husband Julie talked about so casually, and increasingly grumbled about that last year, with the handsome man who paced the sidelines yelling encouragement, who ruffled his son’s hair and said, “Don’t worry about it. That was a heck of a shot on goal you took earlier,” when Brett had made a mistake and was slumped despondently on the ice chest after being pulled from the game.

The two people—the tall, athletic man with unruly dark hair and the demanding but indifferent husband—never quite lined up and clicked into place in Robin’s mind, and she knew why. Face it, she’d thought. You think he’s sexy and can’t imagine what she’d been grumbling about.

But even then she had known that the exterior was often deceptive. Then, she’d reminded herself that beauty was only skin deep, etc., etc.

Now she reminded herself that some of the most famous serial killers were both handsome and charming, à la Ted Bundy. Some wife-killers looked like every woman’s dream husband.

Craig Lofgren could have murdered his wife and still be a caring father. In fact, he might have killed her for that very reason: he didn’t want to lose his children.

So don’t be an idiot, Robin told herself when her heart gave a faint flutter at the idea of seeing him. Concentrate on helping Brett.

THE NEXT DAY, the team had already begun running laps when Robin glanced idly over her shoulder—not that she was looking for anyone!—and saw Brett tearing across the grass from the parking lot, kicking his soccer ball before him.

When he reached the sideline, panting, he dropped his water bottle, spoke briefly to Coach and took off after the other boys.

Robin was careful not to look over her shoulder again. As a result, her start was genuine when a slow, deep voice said from just beside her, “Did you see the totally cool new soccer shoes?”

She pressed a hand to her chest. “You scared me!” Then she laughed. “Yes, I did. You had to buy top of the line to make all the other boys jealous?”