Heather left the clinic in December. Rick heard from a coworker and did not tell Lisa and then told her because the drawer still had the phone and the new rule was no deleted sentences. Lisa said good. She did not ask where Heather went. Where was a city she did not need. The shirt was already enough geography.
Cole’s soccer season ended. Rick came to the last game because Cole asked and Lisa allowed the ask. He stood on the far side. Lisa stood with Pam. Cole scored by accident and looked for both sidelines. Lisa lifted a hand. Rick lifted a hand. The hands did not meet. Cole ran back to the pack. The accident goal was the only cheer of that Sunday that was not a television. Lisa let it count. Counting small cheers was how she stayed in a body that had held a phone over a plate of nachos.
At Christmas Rick came for an hour with a gift Cole had asked for, a controller, and left before the cookies. The jersey bag stayed in the garage. Nobody suggested he put it on. The replica was in Cole’s drawer, clean, unworn that day. Teams were allowed to be clothes again later. Not yet.
In February Lisa changed the bedroom wall color. Not because the photo lived there, because she had never liked the gray and the gray had become evidence. She painted it a dull green Pam said looked like a bank. Lisa said a bank was fine. Banks were boring. Boring was safe. Cole helped with the tape. He asked if Dad would be mad about the wall. Lisa said the wall was not his to be mad about this year. Cole smoothed a strip of tape with his thumb. The thumb left a mark. They painted over the mark. Painting over was not the same as deleting. The thread was still in the drawer. The wall was simply no longer the background.