by Liza Ketchum
What would Dad do in this empty park? Climb into the Monster Seats? The guy in the booth wouldn’t like that. I close my eyes.
My memories are a blur. I should have kept scorecards so I’d remember specific games, but Dad dismissed them. “Study the field, soak it all in,” he said. “Listen to the peanut guy, the crack of the bat. Smell the cotton candy. Watch for the guy hiding behind the scoreboard.”
I smile. When I was little, I thought that the scoreboard guy lived back there, and I always wondered where he went to the bathroom. Dad’s face is hazy in my mind but I can hear his voice, that slight hint of Canadian accent, the way he said “oat” for “out.” Maybe he’s here, perched on the edge of his seat next to me, sipping a beer, ready to leap if someone hits a foul ball into our section—or, better yet, if the batter smokes one into deep right, bringing three men home.
Of course, when I open my eyes, I’m still alone. I climb over the seats to the first row and lean out over the dugout roof. My first real memory of the park, I was on Dad’s shoulders when we snaked through the crowds, so I was probably what—five? I remember how the flag snapped in the wind, how I thought the giant Coke bottle was filled with real Coke. I was wearing my glove, of course. Dad set me down at the top of the ramp and we looked out over the greenest grass I’d ever seen, the color of emeralds. The players were out on the field, warming up, their home uniforms clean and crisp, smiles cocky. They moved like dancers as they shagged balls and fired them back like bullets. “They make it look so easy, don’t they?” Dad probably said. It was true. Still is.
I studied the field that day. No sign of the man I wanted. “Where is he?”
“Still in the clubhouse, I bet.” Dad led me to the railing near the dugout, where I’m standing now. “Wait here—maybe you can get his autograph.” He handed me a ball and I clutched it, afraid I’d drop it.
When Mo finally emerged from the dugout, my heart raced. He was huge, even bigger in real life than on TV, with legs like tree trunks. His ebony skin gleamed. And his number? 42. Like Robinson.
“Mo!” I cried, and held out my ball. “Mo, over here!” I reached out until I nearly fell into the field.
A miracle: Vaughn stopped, flashed his signature smile, and winked at me. Then he touched the brim of his cap and kept going. “Mo,” I whispered. Like an incantation, or a prayer. And then I realized: I’d forgotten to ask for his autograph.
Dad came up to me then, set his hand on my shoulder—
*
“Ahh!” I spin around as someone grips my shoulder now. “Jesus!” It’s the guy from the ticket booth. I pull away. “Dude—you scared me. Thought you were someone else.”
“Sorry.” The guy raises his hands. “Guess you didn’t hear me. The park’s about to close.” His voice is raspy but kind. “Tough memories?”
“Yeah. My dad died a few weeks ago. That was our spot, up there.” I point to the Pesky Pole, its yellow more intense than usual. It guards this end of the park like a sentinel. “For some reason, whenever Dad bought seats, those were the only ones available.”
The guy leans on the dugout beside me. “Sorry for your loss. How’d he die?”
“Car accident, middle of the night.” I can’t believe I’m spewing my guts to a perfect stranger. He’s quiet, paying attention—which is more than I can say about the so-called “grief counselor” who called me last week.
“Gone with no warning? That’s awful. Out of left field.” He tugs on his mustache. “What’d your dad think of this year’s lineup?”
I manage a smile. “He was psyched. Even though we were eight games out, he insisted this is our year.” We stride down the ramp side by side. “What do you think?”
“Ya gotta believe,” the guy says. “That’s our mantra. But I got a feeling…ever since Damon showed up looking like Jesus, with that beard and hair—this team feels different.”
“Yeah. That’s what Dad said: ‘We’ll reverse the curse this time.’”
We grin, like someone has let us in on a big secret. The guy opens his wallet, hands me his card. “I’m Tony. This is my direct line. Computers are down now, but give me a call tomorrow. I’ll get you two seats to the playoffs, section 93, no questions asked.”
“Seriously? Won’t we jinx them, talking about playoff seats now?”
“I’m as superstitious as they come, but trust me.” We shake hands and I tell him my name.
“Come back anytime, Brandon,” he says. “If I’m at the window, you can walk on through. He’ll find you.”
We both know who he means. “Thanks.”
I leave the park with a quick step. A fresh breeze cools my face. Like Dad always said; like this guy Tony says now: Ya gotta believe.
Phone call: Quinn on Digby Neck, to Cat in Baddeck, Nova Scotia
Hey, Cat. Got a minute?
Listen, I’m still trying to get a copy of my birth certificate. Dad claims he doesn’t know where it is, but says he’ll look. Should I believe him?
Anyway, I told him how the hospital has no record of my being born. He made some lame joke but I got angry. Then he has a coughing fit—
Yeah, totally fake. I even ask him, point blank, if I’m adopted. He gets all huffy, says of course not; people don’t keep that a secret these days.
Take it easy, Cat. I’m getting to that part. So then he asks me, like he doesn’t know: what hospital did I call? I tell him and he says: there’s your problem. You were born in Halifax, in a birthing center.
Wait: it gets worse. I called a friend, a Halifax midwife. She says the place never existed. I tried the hospital in Halifax, like she suggested, got the names of all the babies born on my birthday. Couple of boys, but no one named Quinn.
I know; sounds like they’re hiding something big time. Gives me the creeps. The hell with Puerto Rico. This is bigger than that now.
Can’t come home: the fog’s lifted. Tourists are showing up for a change. If I don’t get out on the water soon, I won’t make my rent. It’s up to you.
Of course I’m serious! The safe deposit box is our only hope—
Come on, Cat. You’re my sister. Who else can I count on?
Okay. I admit I’ve been a jerk. I thought about your offer to crew on Little Blue. It’s not a bad idea. You’d need to take the boating safety test, but you know that stuff already, eh? I could use you. Seriously. My first mate took off last week.
Deal? Okay. The key to the safe deposit box should be in the bank file. They may not let you in, given you’re a minor and all. You’ll need a letter with Dad’s signature, saying it’s okay for you to have access.
I’ll forge it for you. How do you think I skipped class at school?
Cut it out. If I’m an alien someone left on the doorstep, how come everyone says I look like Mum?
Clutch Play
I’m in the Twilight Zone now. Just when you think the weirdness is over, something else happens. I get home from a grueling practice, find the light blinking on the answering machine, push the button—
And a woman from a doctor’s office comes on, reminds me I have an appointment at Faulkner Hospital tomorrow at 4 P.M. “Please call twenty-four hours ahead if you can’t make it—otherwise you will be charged for the appointment.”
Huh? I glance at my watch: 4:35. I listen a second time, write the number down. No way I can miss our big meet tomorrow, unless I’m ready to quit the team. (Which I am, some days, but swimming numbs the pain.) I call the hospital number, punch in the extension, wait through ugly Muzak—and finally a voice tells me I’ve reached cardiology.
Cardiology? What the—?
I tell them who I am. “Apparently I have an appointment with you—but there must be some mistake.”
“Hold on.” Computer keys click on the other end. “Your father made the appointment,” she says. “He must have forgotten to tell you about it.”
“No kidding.”
She clears her throat. “Excuse me?”
“My father’s dead,”
I tell her. “So he’s not making appointments for anyone. You’ve got the wrong guy.”
The silence goes on for a while. “I—I’m terribly sorry,” she says. “Will you hold a minute? Please don’t hang up.”
For once, I’m grateful for the bad music and the crummy recording about staying healthy. It gives me time to calm down, wipe my sweaty palms on my pants. A man’s voice startles me.
“Mark Spivak, cardiology nurse,” he says. “I’m sorry about the confusion—but you do have an appointment.”
“Since when do I have heart trouble?” My heart is in pieces, but no doctor can fix that.
Now the nurse clears his throat. That office could use some lozenges. “Is—is your mother home?”
“Nope.” I hang up on the guy and back away as if the phone is an IED. What the hell’s going on? It’s like a trig problem that’s beyond me. Even Marty the math whiz couldn’t figure this one out. Dad had one son in Canada. Supposedly. And another son here in Boston, for real—who needs to see a cardiologist.
What else did Dad hide from us?
*
No way I’ll mention this to Mom. Luckily, she and I barely see each other until the next day. I’m at the pizzeria at the start of my shift, setting out fresh napkins and silverware, when the door sensor beeps and Mom rushes in, her face pinched. She whispers something to Frankie. He listens, nods, and waves me away. Puffs of flour make smoke around his hands. Mom pulls me toward the door. “Take off your apron—we’re leaving.”
I toss the apron over a chair and follow her outside. “Mom, give me a break! Did you see the look on Frankie’s face? You want to get me fired?” A swarm of bad thoughts buzz through my head. “Did something happen to Pop?”
She doesn’t answer. I hustle to keep up. “What’s going on? Why aren’t you at work?”
The Honda sits in a No Parking zone with its flashers on. Mom starts the engine and grips the steering wheel, but we don’t move. “You didn’t tell me you canceled a doctor’s appointment,” she says.
“I didn’t ‘cancel’ anything. That office had the wrong guy. Since when do I need a cardiologist?”
Mom twists sideways in her seat to look at me. “I hope you don’t.” Her voice trembles. “The cardiologist called me at work this morning. He hadn’t heard—about Pat’s death.”
“Am I missing something?”
“Apparently we both are.” She’s so pale, even her lips are ashen. “Your father—” she gulps. “Had a very rare disease of the heart. It’s got a long name—I wrote it down. This doctor diagnosed it, right before…”
“Wait.” I mash my knees against the dashboard to keep them from jumping. “That’s why he died?”
“The doctor thinks so. He’s going to call the medical examiner, try to speed up the autopsy. They can do that if it’s an emergency.”
“Jesus.” My thoughts whirl. Mom puts her head down on the steering wheel. “Mom, I don’t get it. What does this have to do with me?”
“It’s—it’s congenital,” she says.
Damn. I should have paid attention in bio. “Meaning?”
“Don’t you see?” She stares at me like I’m a creature out of a zombie movie. “Pat made the appointment—to find out if you have it, too.” She crumples in the seat and wails. I swear. It takes everything I’ve got to stay in this metal shoebox.
I grip her shoulder. “Mom, stop! I’m fine. The way Coach pushes me, I’d be dead by now if my heart were screwed up.” In fact, my ticker’s going like a jackhammer. I jerk my thumb toward the pizzeria. “Frankie’s still pissed about my fake sick day last week.”
Mom turns off the tears, as fast as twisting a faucet, and fastens her seatbelt. “That’s the least of our worries. We’re going to the cardiologist right this minute, to see if you have this—this syndrome.” She gropes in her purse for a slip of paper. I read over her shoulder. “Ideopathic hypertrophic cardiomyopathy,” she says, stumbling through it.
“Sounds like a weird sea creature.”
“Brandon, this is not a joke.” She jerks the car into reverse.
“Mom, hold it!” I clutch her sleeve and she slams on the brake, throwing us against our seatbelts. “No offense, Mom, but you can’t drive. Switch places, or I’ll call a cab.”
“You’re right,” she whispers, and climbs out.
I drive the J-Way with care, taking the rotaries like a new driver. As we navigate the last one, just before the hospital, the pieces fall into place, like marbles down the chute Dad built for me in second grade. “Now I get it,” I say. “That’s why Dad—”
“Right,” she says. “He was worried about his sons. Both of them.”
I bite the inside of my mouth. “When was he planning to tell us?”
She’s quiet for so long I wonder if she even hears me. She points to the hospital turn, then to the garage entrance. I pull into a space and start to get out when Mom says, “Wait. This must be why he asked me to take that day off from work—he wanted to tell me about the diagnosis.”
“You didn’t know he’d been to the doctor?”
“No. That’s so like him—he wouldn’t want us to worry, if it was a false alarm.” Her voice is small. “Bran—he must have been so afraid.”
Afraid? Try scared shitless. The hospital looms above me like a prison. “What will they do to me?”
“I don’t know—listen to your heart, maybe schedule some tests. They said they can tell, pretty quickly, if you have it or not.”
“Or not. Let’s get this over with.”
Bravado works until the antiseptic smell hits me. We find the office on the directory and step into the empty elevator. Mom slips her hand into mine. Who’s the kid here: Yours Truly, or Mom? Who cares. Fine with me if she needs to hold tight. That way, maybe I won’t keel over.
Lost in the Lights
In a tough practice after losing a meet, when Coach tells you to lay on another twenty laps; when your shoulders burn, your legs throb, and your heart pumps into your ears—the only way to go on is to enter The Zone. You shut off the sounds (flutter of Marty’s kick in the next lane; echo of voices bouncing off tiles; shrill of Coach’s whistle) and let your mind float up above the blue water into the rafters.
“Instant death is often the first symptom of the disease,” the doctor says. Calmly. As if he’s describing a skin rash. Instant death? Those two words take you into The Zone. Your mind is like a ball Big Papi hits so hard, it’s lost in the lights high above the park. The baseball seems to float there forever, hanging in slo-mo above 35,000 screaming fans.
You stay in The Zone for hours. As you strip to a hospital jonny. As the doc holds the stethoscope to your chest for one endless minute after another, eyes closed. As a lab tech jabs a needle into your vein and fills vial after vial with crimson blood. As they clamp cold electrodes to every vital spot on your body—including some spots that make you glad the nurse is a guy—and you wait while the needle hammers out your heart’s rhythm on paper. As they settle you onto a table and the doctor asks, in a cheery voice, if you’d like to watch your heart pumping away, live on camera. No thanks. Who wants a close-up of the organ that could kill you? Instead, you stay in The Zone.
You’re still in The Zone when they tell you to get dressed, when you slug the OJ they force you to drink, when you follow the nurse down one corridor, then another, back to the doctor’s office. The nurse carries the pictures from the echocardiogram: your death sentence—or your reprieve.
The Zone is safe. Not comfortable, but better than reality. It’s where you went during the wake and the funeral. It’s where you go when someone asks, trying to be kind, “How’re you doing?” And it’s where you are now, while the doctor flips through papers, brown eyes intent on the numbers, as he studies your file, which has gone from an empty folder to a fat one in a few hours.
And then—the miracle: The doctor smiles. No, he positively beams. You tumble out of The Zone and into the room. Just like the home run ball that careens over the
wall and shatters a car window on Landsdowne Street. “So far, so good,” the doctor says. He reaches out to shake your hand, as if you’ve just won a race. Or the lottery. Or something even better.
“Yes!” You leap to your feet—and your mom keels over. She does it so gracefully, you can’t move. All hell breaks loose. The doctor dives and catches her before she hits the floor. Alarms sound, hands push you out of the way, a nurse steers you from the room as Mom’s eyes flutter open. Someone asks her the question you should have thought of yourself: “When did you last have anything to eat or drink?” You find yourself in the waiting room, cell phone in hand. Your heart pounds in your ears; sweat streams down your face. You’re out of The Zone—and grinning like a fool.
Those two words—instant death—no longer apply. You will live.
Off the D.L.
The nurse pokes his head out the door. “Your mom’s fine,” he says. “We’ll keep her quiet for a bit, check her vitals, but it was probably the shock and worry. Anyone in the family you can call, to help out?”
I’ve punched in Cora and Leo’s number before I even think what I’m going to say. When my uncle’s deep voice comes on the line, I almost get down on my knees to thank Someone—except, like Dad, I’m not sure Anyone’s out there listening. Instead, I tell my uncle we’re at the Faulkner, that I needed some tests, that Mom and I are okay, but she fainted—
“Hold tight,” Uncle Leo says. “I’ll call your cell when we get there.”
Before long, Cora, Leo, and Janine blow through the glass doors as Mom and I find seats in the lobby. Mom’s cheeks are pink again and she smiles as the family pulls chairs into a tight circle. Janine grabs my knee when Mom explains why we’re here.
“Mom, tell them the important part: I’m okay.”
Aunt Cora’s eyes fill; so do Janine’s. Maybe it’s the late afternoon shadows gathering on the lawn (have we been here that long?) or all that poking and prodding, but suddenly I need air. I point to my phone and head for the door.
Marty answers right away. “What the hell happened? You missed the meet—Coach is ripshit.”
The meet. I’d forgotten all about it. The hospital wall holds me up as I give him the abbreviated version. “My dad had a rare heart condition. The main symptom is instant death.”