Page 110 of Scoring Chance

But for now, I have bigger things to worry about. Des. His test. He said there’s very little chance of a recurrence, but that’s not zero. I never expected to go biking with my wife and have her die twenty-four hours later. Things happen.

He hasn’t called or texted all afternoon. As the day wears on, my nerves get more heightened, until I find myself chowing down on two red velvet cupcakes at For Goodness Cakes. Lulu and I joined Cal there for his weekly ‘You Made It Through Another Week’ red velvet cupcake. But not even Cal’s theatrics could distract me.

I check my phone at every red light on the way home.

“Dad, you can’t text and drive,” Lulu says.

“Sorry, sweetie. You’re right.”

Things will be okay. They will. If Des has a recurrence of cancer, we’ve likely caught it early. He can get treatment. He got treatment last time.

I keep thinking of him in that hospital bed, in the chemotherapy chair. We played cards and watched hockey games together, and I could tell he was in pain. But he kept it to himself.

At a red light, I close my eyes and say a silent prayer. There are so many people in the world who are hurting. I am low on the list of priorities for the big guy in the sky. But please let Des be okay. But let our family stay intact.

“Dad, why are your eyes closed?” Lulu asks.

“Can you think really good, really happy thoughts?” I ask through the rearview mirror.

“Like about ice cream?” Lulu asks.

“Exactly.”

She squeezes their eyes shut. Lulu mumbles to the Lord her request for ice cream. It’s so cute how unself-aware little kids are. There’s nothing so pure.

My heart pounds louder and louder in my ears when I pull onto our street. It becomes full-volume bass between my ears when I spot Des’s car in the driveway.

Did he forget to text because he’s fine? Or did he get bad news he’s afraid to share?

We go in the house; nobody’s there.

“Hello?” I call out.

The silence is eerie. My house is never this quiet. The opening of a door makes me jump. Dean exits the bathroom. A flash of parental approval distracts me when I notice his hands are wet and freshly washed.

“Hey, Dad,” he says nonchalantly.

“Where is everyone? Where’s Des?” I ask.

“We’re all outside.” Dean strolls through the living room and kitchen to the sliding patio door.

Des runs with a football through the backyard, my three oldest kids chasing after and tackling him in the end zone, as the sun shines above us. Their overlapping laughter echoes in the wind. It’s an image reserved for catalogs.

“That’s a touchdown! That counts! I’m still holding onto the ball,” Des says, wiping grass off his old T-shirt.

“The ball touched the ground. It doesn’t count,” says Davy.

“Where’s the instant replay?” Lena manages through laughter.

“According to official NFL rules, I was over the line with the ball in my hands. Counts. Now if you’ll excuse me, I gotta do my touchdown dance.”

Des struts a few steps back and spikes the football. He proceeds to do the most ridiculous dance I’ve ever seen from him. Something between a moonwalk and the funky chicken. “Stepdad Des for the win!”

“I wanna play!” Lulu wails.

“Lulu’s on my team!” Des cheers. He squats down so she can give him a double low-five. “Alright!”

“You’re going down!” Lulu taunts her siblings.