he’s my grandson.”
“Wait, what?” I almost shot out of my chair except I was so sore I couldn’t move. “His grandmother, but you work for him?”
“Private contractor. I retired from the hospital several years ago and make house calls in my free time. I like to travel, so it works for me.” She pulled out a needle and a few vials.
I gulped.
“He was ornery when he was young. He’s just angry now.” Her laugh was infectious and light as she put on gloves then grabbed a cotton ball and rubbed a spot on my inner elbow. “Once, when he was fifteen, he got sicker than a dog. I told him he needed a shot in his bum and he said he’d rather die, so I told him I would give him two Snickers if he got on his hands and knees and let me stick him.”
I burst out laughing, despite the fear trickling down my spine. “You asked to stick him?” I could only imagine what Matt thought of that, and visions of a handsome teen too cocky for his own good entered my mind. I tried to focus on that, focus on that image of innocence. I would have had the same reaction as a teen. I didn’t have time to be sick because there was soccer and friends and all the things an angsty teen focuses on instead of the real world. Spring days filled with training and laughter, the smell of fresh-cut grass, and people cheering. And then, all of those things started to get mixed in with right and wrong, and crossing boundaries, lines. They were mixed in with tears and sweat and anger and shame.
I swallowed the soccer ball of shame lodged in my throat, and tried to keep my expression happy and my mouth wide instead of lips tightly pressed together, ready to lash out at anything and anyone who looked at me wrong. It was so much easier being angry than being afraid, wasn’t it?
“He was mortified.” April giggled. I hoped I didn’t look like I felt: faint and probably pale. “Mainly because I did it in front of his two friends.” She shrugged. “I figured I’d get him in the exam room one of two ways: embarrassment over his crazy grandma, or chocolate.”
“Smart,” I managed to choke out.
“He took the shot, and I gave him a sticker with a naked chicken on it that said I’ve been shot. I think he’s kept it to this day.” She grinned wide and then patted my leg. “Alright, now I’m going to stick you.” She followed that statement with a wink. “But I’m very gentle. Tell me about yourself.”
“I love soccer.” I started with the truth so she wouldn’t see past the forced smile on my lips or the way I shook whenever I thought about all the memories linked to soccer, the ones that made me afraid. I hated fear more than I hated the shame that was chained to it like a heavy pile of bricks with all of my insecurities scribbled across them in angry black letters.
“Obviously you love soccer.” The first prick of the needle had my body feeling ill as I squeezed my eyes shut.
“He put me through a lot of training yesterday.”
“Who? Your new coach?” How much blood did the woman need?
“What? No.” I licked my dry lips. “I meant Matt.”
Ten vials? Was she taking ten vials?
I swayed a bit.
“Oh,” was her answer. “I mean, that’s interesting. In all my years, I’ve never seen Matt coach one of his clients. He typically pays a trainer . . . something about not getting involved in the specifics.”
My eyes shot open. “Really?” Why did that make my stomach drop? What was it about me? Or was he just that concerned I wasn’t going to make the cut?
“Maybe he just has a vested interest in the pretty ones.” I knew she meant it as a compliment, but the compliment went right past my ears, stabbed me in the heart, and whispered one thing and one thing only.
“That’s all you’ll ever be good for . . .”
The cruel smile.
The smell of peppermint and antiseptic.
“All done!” she announced, placing a blue bandage on my arm. “You can go now, careful as you get up, and for your trouble . . .” She produced a red lollipop that made me nostalgic all over again.
It was a disorienting feeling. Wishing for the past, hating my present, terrified of the future, holding a lollipop between my fingers