Carry You Home

It's been a long time since we've gone out on a date. Where -even for just one night- our lives haven't revolved around the baby. Don't get me wrong; being a dad is everything I had ever dreamed about and more. There's nothing that can even come remotely close to the way I feel about my boy; the unwavering, unconditional love, the ferocious need to protect him from all the bad and evil things in the world, the overwhelming sense of pride that rushes through me whenever someone comments on how smart or adorable he is or he reaches one of the many developmental milestones. I guess I'm your stereotypical 'proud papa'. I talk constantly about how phenomenally beautiful and insanely intelligent he is and I bore people to death with often irrelevant stories; everything from what he ate the night before to what his favourite toys and cartoons are to all the newest words in his ever (and rapidly) expanding vocabulary. I also constantly follow the kid around with a digital camera or keep pictures of him in my wallet, on my cell phone and taped to the insides of my stall first at the old Mellon Arena and then at the CEC. He's my 'mini me'. From the top of his head to the tips of his toes, inside and out.

Unfortunately, it also extends to his ferociously stubborn personality and the way he loves to act like a ham in any and all situations. There isn't a moment where the kid doesn't seek attention. Where he's either repeating some swear word he's heard off of me or one of the other guys, doing something he shouldn't when he's been told a million times that he's going to hurt himself or get an ass whupping (Sloan prefers 'time out', I opt to just threaten him with some good old fashion spanking, even if I would never follow through), and charming the ladies...young and old...out on the street with that little grin and his sparkling blue eyes. “Angel out in public, demon child behind closed doors”, my wife always says, although he's not nearly as bad as she jokes. Sure, he's fearless and precocious and a little bit of a smart ass sometimes, but what kid isn't at some point in their life? To me, he's beyond perfect. Fatherhood is perfect, actually. And I've tried my best...even with all of the prolonged absences that come with being a professional athlete...to be there for my son as much as I can. I devote every spare minute of my free time to him and Sloan. Make the best of the moments -often few and far between- that we're given. Whether it's just wandering the streets or hanging out at the park or taking the little guy to the zoo or just spending some quiet time indoors.

Being five hours away is going to kill me. It's already tearing me apart inside when I think about that kind of distance separating us. I certainly can't make the trip on a constant basis. I can't commute to and from Philadelphia every day, whether it be the long and arduous drive or an hour flight. Right now...after the day in and day out grind of training camp is finally over...our plan is for me to come down every second weekend. Given that I'm not out on the road. It's a fucked up, half assed schedule hastily jotted down on the calendar hanging on the kitchen wall. There's no such thing as routine in this life. No set schedule that dictates when and how often I can see my family. I go by the NHL's rules, not my own. And the more I think about...the more I dwell on how far apart we're going to be and how there's no reason for it except for Sloan's bratty bullshit...the more angry and bitter I become at her. She's using my kid as a pawn in her twisted and immature little game. Punishing me by using the two things that I covet most in this world (her and little Max) against me. Don't get me wrong; she's an amazing mother and she's more than capable of taking care of our boy on her own. She practically does it herself eight months out of the year. But it's times like this...where she acts like she's fifteen instead of a grown woman and a wife and mother...that I seriously wonder if we'd rushed into things. If getting married and having a family so soon was what was best for her.

Maybe tonight won't be as disastrous as I've been imagining it will be. I've been preparing myself for Armageddon. More nasty fights and more horrible, nasty words being tossed back and forth between us. Each one feels like yet another nail in our coffin. Every argument we have...every time we lash out at one another and say things we can't take back...feels as if it's sealing our marriage's fate. As if the next one is going to be what ends it all. That it's going to be so intense and so mean that we'll never fully recover. That will just wash our hands of each other and go our separate ways. I don't want that. No matter how much of a bitch she's being or how much torture she's inflicting on me. We can fix this. We can fix us. As long as we don't let it spiral too far out of control.

“You're worrying,” my mother says, breaking the silence that had long ago fallen on us as we lounge in the living room.

The tv is tuned into the Pirates game but no one is watching it; my mom is busying herself with one of two baby blankets she's knitting for Sid and Bronwyn's twins and my dad is lightly snoring as he sleeps in the easy chair. Worn out from the ordeal of trying to wash his car with a seventeen month old that's hell bent on helping. What had started out as a legit chore had turned into a water fight in the driveway. He and little Max were exhausted and soaked from head to toe and slightly sunburned when they'd finally came inside. And the SUV is still half dirty. Grandpa's partner in crime sits next to me on the couch in nothing but a pair of Pull Up training pants and chocolate pudding smeared across his face. It's a treat he normally doesn't get; we keep him as far away from sugar as humanly possibly because even the smallest amount turns him into a hyper, out of control basket case. And the last thing grandma and grandpa need is to be tearing around the house after him. Sloan and I are much younger and he wears us out.

“Not worrying. Thinking,” I correct her, and nervously tighten and straighten my tie.

It's like I'm sixteen years old and getting ready for my first date. Sweaty palms, butterflies in my stomach, anxiety gnawing away at my chest. I've been with Sloan for a hell of a long time. Nearly seven years if you can't our 'friends with benefit' stage. Yet lately I feel as if I'm married to a complete stranger. There's days I don't even recognize her or know who she is anymore. Where I feel like there's some strange, unfamiliar woman in my bed. Today had been one of those days. I had thought that we'd made some head way in the past couple of weeks. Things had gone somewhat back to normal. She was laughing more and we were having legitimate conversations and she didn't seem ready to bite my head off for every little thing I said or did wrong. We were friends again. Lovers too. And just when I'd started to comfortably settle into a feeling of normalcy, she'd done a complete three sixty.

We'd done our proverbial 'kiss and make up' when she'd finally made her way into the house after our 'incident' in the driveway. I know that she's taking the move to Philly extremely hard. That it's killing her inside to leave Pittsburgh (the only real home that she's had in a long time) and that she's hanging on by a threat to whatever shred of life we have here. Hell, even I'm not ready to let go completely. I'm keeping my foundation in the city and our mortgage on this place is already paid off; even with the new place in Haddonfield and all the bills and responsibilities connected to it, I can still adequately provide for my family and all of their needs while they stay here. It isn't about money. It isn't going to put us in the poor house (it won't even get us into the same neighbour) by keeping our residences here and in Montreal. It's about there not being a solid, decent reason for this to be happening in the first place. I fucked up. God knows I've been doing my best to atone for every goddamn sin I've made. But does she really need to punish me like this? There's nothing keeping her here. It's not like we have kids that are school aged and have their own little lives. Lots of WAGs stay behind when their significant others are traded or signed somewhere else because they don't feel like uprooting the family. Mark Recchi's wife has never left Pittsburgh and he's been gone for quite a while. But we don't have those same kind of reasons. Max is just a baby still. He doesn't even go to daycare.

“Dwelling,” my mom retorts. “You're dwelling. Don't try to fool me, Maxime. I've spent the past twenty seven years as your mother. Do you really think I can't read you like a book after all this time?”

My mother and I are extremely tight. I guess I could be called a momma's boy. There's nothing I wouldn't do for her...no bridge I wouldn't cross to make sure that she's happy and well taken care of...and it had nearly broken me when she'd been going through her battle with cancer. She's always been so strong and supportive of her kids; going without so that we'd have everything that we could ever possibly want and need. And when I'd seen her so sick and so fragile and we'd been told to prepare ourselves for the worst -that she may not make it, that the radiation and the chemo may not be enough- it had felt as if my entire world was crashing down around me. The woman is my hero, no doubt about. One of my best friends, biggest supporters and most loyal confidants. Sloan's a lot like her. Assertive and ballsy. Physically and emotionally stronger than they give themselves credit for. Often afraid to talk about their own feelings or show their own emotions because they don't want to 'burden' those around here. I've often heard that girls marry guys that remind them of their fathers. I wonder if the same thing is true for some men and their mothers?

But while she may think she knows me inside and out...that she's long ago mastered my body language and taught herself how to read between the lines of everything I say...but there's things that even she doesn't know. Like how I'd fucked a stripper behind my wife's back. Sloan and I had kept that between ourselves. Along with the couples' counselling we'd gone through. No one knows about either. Not Pheebs and Alyssa, not Jordan and Godsy or any of the other guys. And especially not Bruno. Bruno would have torn me apart five ways from Sunday. We'd dealt with it on our own. Put on a good front for everyone around us even though it often felt like things were five seconds away from exploding in our faces.

I can only imagine what my mother would think if she'd found out about what I'd done. Family is hugely important to her. Marriage is sacred and not to be taken lightly. And while she may not have agreed with how Sloan and I started out, she'd been thrilled (and slightly relieved) when I'd decided to settle down and have kids of my own. She loves her daughter in law and adores her grandson and if I ever told her about how I'd ever fucked up and almost made her lose both...

“Do you think maybe she'll change her mind?” I ask, and comb my fingers through what's left of my son's hair. 'Just a trim,' Sloan had implored, when I'd offered to take him along with me to the barber. 'He has a weird shaped head and big ears. If you get it cut too short, he'll look awkward'. The look on her face had been priceless when we'd wandered through the door two hours later and we were both sporting near brush cuts. She'd been horrified and amused all at the same.

“Like daddy!” little Max had excitedly announced, and vigorously rubbed his head. “Big boy like daddy!”

Now he looks up at me with a broad grin and a devilish twinkle to his eyes and offers me his snack. “Pudding?”

“Yours,” I push the tiny plastic cup away. “Your pudding. And you better eat it before your mom comes out here and sees it. You want daddy to get in trouble?”

“Maybe,” he answers, and then giggles and quickly says, “Nooooo” when I scowl down at him.

“You're going to be a good boy, right? When daddy's gone? You're going to be a good boy for mommy?”

“I 'spose so,” he replies.

“No 'I 'spose so'. You need to be the man of the house. Take care of things while I'm gone. Keep mommy on the straight and narrow.”

“More like on her toes,” my mother grins.

“You need to be a good boy,” I encourage, even though he most likely only understands half of what I'm saying. If that. “Mommy needs you to be good, okay? I don't want to be getting any phone calls telling me you're being bad. Can you do that? Be a good boy for daddy?”

“I 'spose so,” he heaves a huge, over dramatic sigh. As if behaving will seriously cramp his style.

******

“So do you think she will?” I ask once again. “If I play my cards right tonight? Think she might change her mind about coming with me?”

“Maxime...” my mom sighs in exasperation. “...why are you doing this? Why...?”

“I'm not above begging,” I admit. “Do you think maybe if I do enough of it she'll change her mind about coming with me?”

“I think you need to just leave well enough alone. I think you need to back away and give the girl some space.”

“She's my wife, mom. Not just some girl. Husbands don't give their wives space. They don't just walk away and give up. They don't...”

“This is what she needs to do. This is what's best for her. What's best for both of you. Why can't you see that? Why can't you just took a good, long, hard look at yourself and at Sloan and realize that you're both just hanging on by a thread. Don't you see all the holes and all the tears? The harder you push, the more she's going to pull and the next thing you know, there''ll be so much damage that you can't put it or each other or yourself back together again. Is that what you want? You'd rather ruin it for good than take the time to try and fix it and make it better than ever?”

“Of course not,” I grumble. “But...”

“There's no buts. There can't be any this time around. When the bad times start far outnumbering the good, it's time to step back and figure out a way to get back to where and how you were. Or at least some semblance of it. Or better than ever, in some cases. If you would just stop feeling sorry for yourself and start acting like a grown man and a husband and a father instead of a spoiled little boy, you'd realize that this is what's for the best. You there and Sloan and the baby here.”

“How can that be for the best?” I challenge. “How can me being away from my family be 'for the best'?”

“Do you want her to go to Philly and have things stay the same? Or get even worse? Is that what you want? Because that's what will happen. No doubts about it. A change of address and scenery isn't going to make things better, Maxime. All of that anger and all of that hurt is still going to be there. On both your parts. Just because you move away from Pittsburgh, doesn't mean that all of that gets left behind. Do you want to put the baby through that? He's already seen and heard enough, don't you think? All of the meanness and all of the fighting? Doesn't he need a break from that? Doesn't he deserve that?”

“He deserves to be with his mommy and his daddy,” I stress, and running a palm over the top of my son's head, lean down to press a kiss to his forehead when he beams up at me. “I know I'm not around that much to begin with during the season, but this is just going to make things even worse.”

“What he deserves is a home that's stable and calm,” my mother informs me. “I love you. You're my baby. You always will be. Whether you're a little boy or a grown man with children and grandchildren of his own. And you know that I've always supported you. No matter what. And that I love Sloan like she's my own daughter. That she's everything I could have ever wanted for you in a wife and a mother to your children.”

“But...” I press. “...I know there's a but here somewhere.”

“But I don't like what I'm seeing. From either of you. I don't like these back and forth games that the two of you are playing with each other. One minute everything is fine and you're getting along and you're so in love and the next you're attacking each other. It's not right. It will never, ever be right. And my grandson is stuck in the middle of this. He's seeing it and he's hearing and he's at a very tender age where things like this could really do damage to him. I don't like that one bit. And neither does your father. Did you know that we've been talking about what would ever happen if it could too far out of control? That we'd be more than willing to take Max for a little bit? So that you and Sloan can get a handle on yourselves and each other? That we'd bring him to Montreal and...”

“Never,” I interject. “That'll never happen. Ever. He's not going there. He's my son. Not yours.”

“Don't test me, Maxime. Don't push me. Because I see what's happening to him. All the things that he's picking up from both of you. The way he's acting out. If Sloan goes to Philadelphia, that's only going to get worse. He's only going to get worse. And I know you don't want that. I know that you love your little boy. That you're a good husband and a good father. So please...” she reaches out to lay a hand on my knee, her eyes filled with tears. “...please...think of him. Think of him and realize that this is for the best.”

I hate seeing my mother cry. Or even close to it. There's two women in this world that I love more than life itself; my wife and my mother. And when I have to bear witness to any sort of negative emotion from either of them...

“Mommy!” Max Junior squeals as Sloan wanders into the room. “Pretty, mommy...” he praises, and brings a palm to his mouth to blow her a kiss. “Like a pin-cess.”

That's a gross understatement if I've ever heard one. In fact, beautiful doesn't even begin to come close to describing her. Just a hint of make up gracing her smooth, nearly flawless features and all of that thick , wavy auburn hair gathered together and piled up onto the top of her head in a messy sweep; several loose tendrils tumbling down the sides of her face and tickling her shoulders. She's wearing an outfit I'd never seen before. A bouncy, knee length white skirt decorated with hand stitched green, yellow and orange flowers and a Creamsicle coloured top that ties around her neck and is cut extremely low at the back. The sight of her makes my throat go dry and my heart pound in my chest. There's no words to describe how she makes me feel in this moment.

Other than I'd like to rush her off to the hotel and lock ourselves in the room for the rest of the night. To hell with dinner reservations.

“Does that make you my handsome prince?” she asks, ruffling what's left of our son's hair before dropping a kiss on the top of his head. “Or does that make you the king of the castle? And what's that you got there? What are you eating that you shouldn't be? Who gave you that? Was it grandma?”

“I refuse to take responsibility for this,” my mother defends herself.

“Was it grandpa? Or was it daddy? Something tells me that it was daddy. Daddy's always doing things he shouldn't.”

I know she didn't mean anything by it. At least not anything pertaining to our current situation. That she's really referring to my inability to say not to my boy -brought on by the guilt of missing so many important moments in his little life because I've been on the road or too wrapped up in my career- and how I spoil him rotten any chance I get. But for some reason, her words cut deep.

“Daddy did dis!” Max squeals. “Pudding!”

“Well when daddy gets home tomorrow, grandma is going to give him what for because she'll be the one up all night having to peel you off the ceiling.”

“Mm...hmmm...” my mom agrees.

“We're going to go out for a little while,” Sloan explains to our toddler. “Daddy and mommy are going to go out for a bit.”

“I come?” he hopefully inquires. “I come too?”

“This is a night out just for mommies and daddies. You're going to stay with grandma and grandpa. Have a sleep over with just them. You'll be a good boy, right?”

“I 'spose so,” he answers with his favourite new expression.

“You better be,” she warns, and taps a finger tip on the end of his nose. “You be a good boy or no more chocolate pudding ever again. Got it?”

“Okay...okay...” he rolls his eyes and gives a thumbs up. “...you da boss applesauce.”

“You're cheeky,” she scolds, and he shrugs in response. “You really are exactly like your daddy.”

“It's a wonder I ever survived,” my mom sighs. “Can you imagine raising him and Frank and Will?”

“You deserve a medal of valour a solid gold statue erected in your honour,” Sloan declares. “Are you ready to go?” she addresses me. “Wow...” she eyes me from head to toe as I stand up, and then tightens and straightens my tie before smoothing it against my shirt. “...very nice...very, very, very handsome.”

She stands on her tiptoes to kiss me. Her hands on my shoulders and her body leaning into mine. Here's the old Sloan again. Come out to play while the new, unimproved version of her is off somewhere for the time being. Or maybe even permanently. One can dream, right?

“Rent a room!” my father grumbles from the easy chair, sleepily eyeing us in disgust.

“They already have one,” my mom reminds him. “What we should be telling them is to go and make us another grand baby. We've waited long enough for a second one, don't you think?”

“Dear Lord...” the old man mutters, and shifts his position so his back is towards him. “...there's some things I don't want to discuss. That's one of them. I don't want to think about how the grand babies come about, okay?”

Mom rolls her eyes. “You'd think after three children of your own and horror stories about your sons, you wouldn't care about things like that anymore.”

“We'll let you guys fight this one out,” I tease, and lay a hand on the small of my wife's back. “You look beautiful,” I praise, and place a kiss to her temple. “So beautiful. I miss you. This version of you.”

“I miss it too,” she says in response, and brushes her lips against mine.

Maybe this night won't turn out so bad after all.