Andrew looked at Amy from his place at the other end of the table. Sara had made the shot, just as Amy had predicted, and one of the parents had offered to take the whole team out for pizza to celebrate. Amy was being hailed as a hero, and Sara's shot was replayed in detail over and over. Amy was talking and laughing with her friends, but Andrew could see something in her eyes: some deep sadness that no one had enlightened him about yet. And if there was one thing Andrew hated, it was being in the dark about something. But still, what was he to do?
Finally, the evening was over, and Andrew helped Amy back into the car. "That was a good play you guys ran," he started, pulling into traffic.
"I just did what any coach would do." She said quietly.
"Hey. Amy." Andrew took his eyes from the road just long enough to look at her. "It's ok to be proud. You really came through. I wouldn't have known to do that. Without you, you probably would've lost." Amy sighed. "What's really wrong?"
"Nothing."
"Amy." Andrew said, disgusted with himself. He pulled abruptly into a parking lot and turned off the car. "Come on. This is not healthy. You gotta talk to me."
"Why? I know there's nothing you can do." Her voice began to crack. "You can't bring my grandfather back."
Andrew leaned back in his seat. It was so simple. Why hadn't he thought of it himself? "Why didn't you go to Florida?"
"Why would I? As far as my parents know, I haven't spoken to my grandpa since he and grandma moved. They don't know about the letters he wrote me when I was so scared I wouldn't make the basketball team. They don't know about the tape I made of my singing because he said he wanted to hear me again, that he missed my singing from when we used to visit. They don't know that we had a running game of chess by mail that was almost over, that would be over by now, except he's dead. He's dead, and I can't—I—" Amy looked out the window. No tears. Andrew reached over and put a hand on her back. Immediately, she stiffened. "But that's no reason to sit here all night. I'm tired."
Andrew wanted to push a little more, but the Father gently nudged his hands toward the steering wheel. He sighed and continued the drive home.
Finally, the evening was over, and Andrew helped Amy back into the car. "That was a good play you guys ran," he started, pulling into traffic.
"I just did what any coach would do." She said quietly.
"Hey. Amy." Andrew took his eyes from the road just long enough to look at her. "It's ok to be proud. You really came through. I wouldn't have known to do that. Without you, you probably would've lost." Amy sighed. "What's really wrong?"
"Nothing."
"Amy." Andrew said, disgusted with himself. He pulled abruptly into a parking lot and turned off the car. "Come on. This is not healthy. You gotta talk to me."
"Why? I know there's nothing you can do." Her voice began to crack. "You can't bring my grandfather back."
Andrew leaned back in his seat. It was so simple. Why hadn't he thought of it himself? "Why didn't you go to Florida?"
"Why would I? As far as my parents know, I haven't spoken to my grandpa since he and grandma moved. They don't know about the letters he wrote me when I was so scared I wouldn't make the basketball team. They don't know about the tape I made of my singing because he said he wanted to hear me again, that he missed my singing from when we used to visit. They don't know that we had a running game of chess by mail that was almost over, that would be over by now, except he's dead. He's dead, and I can't—I—" Amy looked out the window. No tears. Andrew reached over and put a hand on her back. Immediately, she stiffened. "But that's no reason to sit here all night. I'm tired."
Andrew wanted to push a little more, but the Father gently nudged his hands toward the steering wheel. He sighed and continued the drive home.