The Tales of a Professional Hockey Player

Chapter 4: Gift

~Ben~

I didn't call Eleanor. I texted her this morning saying I would love to see Ophelia for her birthday. She only replied with her address, which, I noticed, is not the same as the last time I was here, meaning that she moved out of Matthew's place. Or that they got a bigger apartment for the two of them. I shake my head to erase that awful image of them apartment shopping. I replace it with the memory of Eleanor and I at IKEA when we were arguing over plates and glasses, but I find myself needing to erase that one as well because of how painful it is to think about the times we were happy together. I also can't think of when we were fighting since I'd rather be fighting with her than not have her at all. The best option, I found out, is to not think of her at all, but it's not an easy thing to accomplish. She's everywhere, even in the places she never was like my room in Germany or this hotel room. I keep imagining what she'd say or how she would look sitting on my bed reading or exploring the streets of Nuremburg with Ophelia in her stroller. Her voice constantly fills my head with arguments about how I should have put the bed the other way or complains about the pile of dirty dishes in the sink. I used to think people who said they didn't feel whole without their loved-one were weak until I lost Eleanor. I understood how these people felt because, when I left New York in December, I left a piece of me too. A piece I won't get back until I am in the same room as her again. I wish, so very deeply, that I left with a piece of her too. A piece that I'm the only one who can give it back to her. Maybe it's selfish, but I don't care. All of this to say that I didn't call her because I couldn't bear to hear how sad her voice would have been or worse, how detached she could have sounded. I chose the ambiguity of a text message. I prefer to imagine her typing than hearing her talk. That's how weak I've become.

I woke Alexander up at seven-thirty. I can't say I slept much after coming back from McDonald's. I kept thinking about what I would say to her until I decided to text instead. I then wondered what I could buy my daughter for her birthday. I don't know what she already has nor what Eleanor bought her. That's because you haven't seen her in six months, the devil in my head reminds me. I have had this voice reminding me all the things I regret for a while now. It shows up unexpectedly like rain on what was, up to then, a sunny day. I spent the rest of the night googling idea gifts for one-year-olds. I didn't come up with much. So, I woke Alexander up, dragged him to McDonald's for breakfast, and forced him to come with me to Schwarz, the Disney Store, and even the Lego store.

"She has one of those," Alexander said as I looked at what was announced as a learning table. "Her dad got her one as a late Christmas gift," he added after seeing my puzzled look. I hated the fact that he knew what Thomas bought Ophelia for Christmas and I didn't. I exited the store after that. Nothing felt good enough.

It's now two pm and I still haven't found anything I liked. It's just that I feel like I have to impress Eleanor with this gift as well. If I buy something good enough, maybe it will bring us closer. I know it's a lot of pressure to put on an object, but I have a feeling that something important will happen tomorrow, and I have the weird impression that my gift will determine if said thing is positive or negative.

I don't know why I walked into the bookstore. In fact, I very well know why I walked into the bookstore. Nothing speaks more to Eleanor than books. I make my way to the infant section and start browsing through the many books available. Every album looks good, but not great. They don't hold any meaning to me. I start to lose hope, pulling on my hair with my hands hard.

"Hey man, it's not a gift that will make everything ok, you know. It doesn't have to be the greatest gift of all times. Oph is one, not nine. She won't remember the gift you got her for her birthday," Alexander intervenes, his hand on my shoulder. He doesn't get it. This gift is so much more than a first birthday one. It's the thing that will set my future. "It's not just for Ophelia, isn't it?" I shake my head. "It's for Eleanor too," he adds, and I nod.

"Eleanor will remember, Alex. She will remember what I got Ophelia for her first birthday. I just keep thinking that, if my gift is good enough, it'll be easier to get back into their lives. I know it's stupid, but just go with it, please." He nods and stays quiet as I keep looking at the unending rows of buoyant books.

And, suddenly, the word "pride" appears in the corner of my eye. I stop walking causing Alexander to bump into me, but I don't mind. On the side of a purple cover is written "Pride and Prejudice." I pull it out and start looking at the pages. It's the same story but adapted for kids and the drawings are absolutely beautiful. Images of Eleanor sitting on the couch in our old Windsor apartment reading an adapted version of one of her favorite books flash through my mind. It's the best possible gift I could buy because it's not only a book, it's an experience that will bring Eleanor and Ophelia closer together. I start looking at the other books in the same collection. They have Alice in Wonderland, Jane Eyre, The Nutcracker, Romeo and Juliet, Emma, and many more. I grab Emma, Pride and Prejudice, andWuthering Heights, three of Eleanor's favorite classics.

Absolutely thrilled with myself, I head to the cashiers. As we wait in line, I spot a pale blue cover with what looks like an ice-skate in the background in the new arrival section. I give the three books to Alexander without looking at him and head towards that section of the store. Her name is written in small white letters above Matthew's. The Tales of a Future Hockey Wife is written in bold italic letters covering most of the background picture. They used her blog title for the book. I didn't even know it had hit stores. Without hesitating, I grab a copy.

"What's that?" Alexander asks when I joined him back in the queue.

"Answers as to what I did wrong."