“Well, if you’d bothered to wake for breakfast on the plane,” his brother mumbles, “you wouldn’t be giving yourself cavities this morning.”
“When did you turn fifty?” Ollie’s gaze slides to Liam, but he continues to stuff gummy sweets in his mouth, chewing and talking. “You act older than Dad.”
I’m about to intervene when Carl opens the driver’s door and gets in. The engine roars to life, and he turns over his shoulder, tipping his hat.
“I believe there’s a soccer academy waiting for its future stars,” he says with a grin.
The boys clap their hands together, a few sweets flying through the air. They bounce again, this time resembling jack-in-the-boxes released from their prisons. Liam looks at his brother, then throws his arms around his shoulders.
“I’m so pleased we’re doing this together,” he says. Ollie freezes for a moment, then ruffles his younger brother’s hair. There isn’t much in it, but he is the older of the two. And sometimes, it shows.
“Me too, mate,” he tells him. “Me, too.”
Thirty minutes later, we’ve cruised through the center of Chicago, past leafy suburbs, until the buildings seem almost on top of one another. Then the landscape opens to more greenery, and we make our way along Lake Michigan toward the University of Chicago.
There’s something tranquil about expanses of water within city limits; I love London’s River Thames myself. But it’s a hive of transportation and tourism; the lake here is entirely different, highlighting a more casual vibe.
Another turn and we’re facing International House, halls of residence for the university, and my sons’ home for the summer. Registration is tomorrow for the summer academy, but check-in is today. That gives me one final night with my boys before I’m on the return flight home tomorrow—alone.
Trees frame the old limestone building set at a busy intersection of the city. Our driver stops, and we climb out, then collect our suitcases. I pass Carl a thirty-dollar tip, unsure what is sufficient and slightly in awe of the industrial building in front of us. The red roofs reflect the now mid-morning sunshine. The whole place gives a temporary but permanent feel: somewhere people pass through, but don’t stay forever.
The main doors are thrown open as we climb the front steps. Teenagers—boys and girls in soccer strips—swirl around their parents with armfuls of bags. We all move in silence, each one of us staring in different directions. Finally, we reach the reception desk, and an elderly woman smiles back, complete with twin-set pearls and a tight, gray perm.
“Well,” she says. “We don’t get many twins checking in here.” Her eyes lock on my sons, standing one behind each of my shoulders.
“Not twins, brothers,” I correct.
“You must’ve been busy then.” Her smile tightens, then disappears entirely. She glances between them before lowering her gaze to the desk, shuffling a few papers. “Names?”
“Oliver Jones and Liam Corrigan-Jones.”
“I.D.” I pass her the boys’ passports that I’ve been keeping safe in my shirt pocket. She extracts two pieces of paper—registration forms, one for each boy. “Look them over, ensure all details are correct, then sign, please, Mr. Jones.”
“Doctor,” I say, now miffed by her clipped tone after I corrected her assumption of them being twins. It’s not the first time someone has jumped to that conclusion, but it’s always better to ensure the right information is in place.
“Dr. Jones,” she mutters, not looking up.
I take the forms, reading them over. It all seems in order, so I simply sign both, then pass them back. She slides over a room key and two plastic folders with the University crest on the front.
“All information is in there,” she says. “There’s a welcome meeting at nine tomorrow morning. You’ll meet your mentor then. For now, please stay on the university grounds. If you plan to leave, do ensure you both sign out here at reception.”
“I’ll be taking them for a meal this evening,” I say.
“The canteen is open.”
“Not quite what I was thinking. I’ll ensure they sign out.”
She tuts, clearly not happy that I want to take my own sons to dinner. It only makes me more determined.
“Room 653,” she says, waving in the direction of the stairs behind her. “Sixth floor. Have a good day.”
“That’ll be us then,” I mutter. Ollie sniggers, then picks up his case. His brother says nothing. We all walk off in the direction as instructed.
The climb to the sixth floor is worse than a combat class, but the line for the elevators made waiting a less-than-appealing concept. Finally, we’re standing outside the scarred wooden door to the boys’ room. Liam slides in the key, and it clicks open easier than you would expect the rusted old lock to move.
Inside, there are two single beds, a bathroom, a small kitchenette, and a sofa. Bleak, gray, but adequate for their needs. The brochure showed plenty of communal spaces to meet friends and hang out. All meals are included in the camp fees, which cost a small fortune; training takes place on the university campus and at the local professional soccer team's stadium.
Both boys throw a suitcase on a bed, ultimately claiming their space for the duration. They turn to me, still standing in the doorway. For the first time on the trip, I choke, not knowing what to say.