“Mitchell Harper needs you,” said the Creator of the universe. “Are you willing to help the boy?”
“Yes,” Wingtip said. “You know how I feel about that kid. I’ll do anything.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, Lord.”
“Even leave your post at a crucial moment in the game?”
“Yes, Lord. You know I will.”
“Ah,” the Heavenly Father said. “You are a good and faithful servant. You are the right person for this job. I knew so from the very beginning.”
“For the job with the Cubs?” Wingtip asked.
“For Mitchell and the Cubs,” the Lord of Hosts told him.
What could make a difference for the team and for Mitchell? Wingtip was about to ask. But he never got the chance to finish his own question. At that moment, he spied Mitchell climbing up the steps in the bleacher seats, weaving his way through the rowdy crowd. No matter how many people stood in his way, the little boy managed to shoulder his way through the hordes.
Even from this distance, just as he’d done the first time he’d laid eyes on Mitchell, Wingtip could sense the little boy was troubled. The baseball fans didn’t pay him much mind as he shoved his way past and kept climbing to the top of the bleachers.
Suddenly Wingtip knew what Mitchell was doing. He’s coming to find me! No young boy ought to attempt such a climb. No young child had legs long enough to make those last precarious steps. A friendly gentleman cuffed Mitchell on the sleeve and said something Wingtip couldn’t hear. Stop him. Please! Wingtip ached to make the man hear him. Don’t let that little guy try the ladder! Ask him where his parents are. Ask if you can help him!
But the man didn’t heed the tug in his heart. He glanced around once, as if he didn’t know what to do. “Hey, kid,” he asked. “Are you supposed to be going up there?”
“Yep,” Mitchell said. “I got a friend up here. I’m going to find him.”
Much to Wingtip’s distress, the guy shrugged Mitchell off and turned his attention back to the game.
Mitchell snuck beneath the scoreboard and started his assent as Soriano snow-coned a catch against the ivy and hurled it toward second base. It was a tricky climb to make it up the spindly metal ladder, but once Mitchell started, he never looked down, only up. The wind blew in from the lake in a steady gale. Halfway up the rungs, Mitchell lost his baseball cap. It blew off his head and probably landed somewhere on Sheffield Avenue. “Bottom game, top floor, American League,” someone shouted to Wingtip. “One run top of the seventh. The score! Who’s changing the score?”
But Wingtip wasn’t about to go higher on that catwalk while Mitchell Harper was in danger. The numbers remained unchanged. It was the seventh inning, and everyone was having a good time; no one thought too much of it. Mitchell was intent on his climb.
“Wingtip?” he called. But the wind blew his voice away. “Are you up here?”
Halfway up the ladder, the metal rungs seemed to widen and stretch farther apart. Mitchell grabbed the next rung and pulled himself up, but not before his sneaker slipped and his knee banged against the metal. He steadied himself and, for the first time, he looked down. A pebble had dislodged from the sole of his shoe. He watched as it bounced against metal and sailed out into open air. Mitchell watched it fall and froze in fear.
Sarah and Joe entered the ballpark at that moment, a security officer in tow. “I’m sorry, ma’am,” the officer was saying at her elbow. “Security’s tight around the scoreboard. They’d never let a kid climb—”
But Sarah gasped and pointed. Beneath the scoreboard, inside a cage of chain-link fencing, Sarah could see a small figure inching his way toward the trap door at the top. “There he is.” Joe grabbed his wife’s shoulders. Sarah gripped her husband’s arm.
He’s going to fall. But Sarah didn’t dare think it.
“Joe,” she whispered. “We’ve got to do something.”
“We will.” This he promised his wife. In that one instant before Joe took off running, the rift between them dissolved. There was too much at stake. Too much to think of losing.
“Help him,” she whispered.
High atop the ladder, Mitchell forced himself to move. With shaking hands, he pulled himself up three more rungs. He’d almost made it to the top. He stretched as far as he could and, with one fist, pounded on the piece of plywood meant to keep everyone out.
It took precious seconds for someone to move the two-by-four that wedged the door shut. The lumber moved with a terrible grating sound. “I’m looking for Wingtip?” he asked the head scorekeeper the minute a crack appeared.
“Kid! You can’t be up here. What do you think you’re doing? Why didn’t someone stop you?”
“ I—I’ve got to talk to Wingtip.”
“There’s security down there. Supposed to keep idiots from climbing up here.”
Mitchell was crying. “He’s up here, he’s got to be. He can do anything. He could make them stop fighting.”
“Who? There’s not anyone named Wingtip that I know of. Just us scorekeepers.” The man reached to pull him up. “Good heavens. Kid, grab my hand. Let’s get you safe.”
Mitchell reached up. Their fingers brushed. But before the man had a good grasp of the boy’s knuckles, a wind gust came off Lake Michigan, stronger than most.
The whole scoreboard moved. The huge flags and their lanyards clattered against their poles overhead. The tin walls vibrated.
The numbers shuddered in their windows.
Mitchell lost his balance… and fell.
Wingtip had stayed in his corner of the scoreboard scaffolding, watching, waiting. And in this split second, he finally understood. All these years he’d thought he was here to nurse the Cubbies through a century of losing, to help them make it through the play-offs and, finally, to emerge victorious in the big game. But now he knew he’d been put on this earth for something else entirely. He’d been put on this earth to be a guardian angel for one eight-year-old boy who needed him, for one family that deserved another chance, for one woman who longed to be whole.
Wingtip flew into the Windy City sky without counting the cost to himself. The Heavenly Father might have to do some searching; angels might have a few reservations about overseeing the Lovable Loser Cubs these days. But Wingtip had no doubt that God could assign the Chicago Cubs another angel someday. It was time. For him to do the job he’d been called here to do.
And from where she stood across Wrigley, Sarah caught a glimpse of her son falling. At the same time, she thought she saw something else. She saw another silhouette catch up and pause in midair. A flash of motion, and then all went still. The action on the field went silent. All Sarah could hear was the heavy flap of feathered wings, and she could only think that the sound was the seagulls as they dipped and screeched and wheeled over the ballpark, knowing there would be plenty of snacks to scavenge after the game ended.
For a long time the people who saw it would speak in reverent whispers of the day a boy fell from the scoreboard with only a broken arm to show for it. They would talk about how the boy’s father came racing up the bleachers, the woman right behind him, only to find their kid sitting up and looking confused and asking what had happened.
Only the Heavenly Father knew why the momentum switched and the Cubs suddenly lost a game they had been winning. Only the Heavenly Father knew that a trustworthy angel had made a choice to forget about his favorite baseball team. Only the Heavenly Father and a grateful mother and a relieved father knew that Wingtip had saved a little boy’s life that day.
Sarah stood in the hallway and peeked into her son’s room. Joe and Mitchell were reading a chapter book together, each of them taking a page, their heads drifting together as they drifted closer to sleep.
When Joe came to the end of his page, he didn’t hand the book over. Instead it fell into his lap, and he began to snore. Mitchell didn’t complain because he was already sound asleep.
Sarah watched father and son for a long
time before she tiptoed across the room and awakened her husband. “Hey,” she whispered when he lifted his head. She spoke in a tone that let him know she wasn’t afraid anymore, that she wasn’t protecting herself from being hurt, that let Joe know everything was going to be all right. “We need to have a long talk.”
He smiled back sleepily. “I think so too.”
“Are you going to stay in here all night, or are you going to come with me?”
Joe smiled again. “What do you think?”
She asked Joe to come downstairs and sit on the couch with her. They both got comfortable, and as Sarah started to talk, tears filled her eyes. “Joe,” she said, “I have an amazing story to tell you.”
She told him in vivid detail everything she had seen during the time she was gone. She told him that she now realized she had been living all wrong and that all of her motivation for what she had done was selfish. She tried as best she could to help him understand how fearful and insecure she had felt all that time. When she finished, Joe was visibly moved.
Their eyes locked.
At that moment, Sarah felt free. Taking responsibility for her behavior, being completely honest with Joe about everything, lifted a weight from her that had made her more miserable than she could have ever imagined. Sarah knew, at that precise moment, that no matter how difficult it might be, she would always be completely honest. No more pretending for Sarah Harper. She was going to be real and genuine with everyone, especially with her husband.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Just past four o’clock, Sarah logged onto her computer and entered the Web site for www.nannyrating.com. It had been far too long since she’d checked how Mrs. Pavik and Kate were doing. But these days she found herself not checking into the Web site nearly as often as she used to. She punched in her ID number, and new data began to load. The site appeared, and Sarah scrolled down the page.
“Your nanny has one new post,” the screen announced after completing its search. Sarah clicked and found the message. It surprised her that this one came with a phone number attached. She read through it. And read through it again.
“Your nanny is doing a terrific job,” the post said. “You should know that your baby appears totally happy. She eats well, and it’s no wonder that she appears quite chubby. She loves to watch the polar bears. If you decide you don’t need your nanny anymore, I’d like to have him. And actually, I don’t even have a child. But this guy is just so cute with the baby.”
That’s when Sarah remembered Joe had closed the shop for the day. He’d regally invited Kate to accompany him on a father/ daughter date to the Lincoln Park Zoo to celebrate the completion of his latest engine transplant in his latest Miata. And Kate, in her fist-chewing, toothless way, had shot him a grin that meant she, as princess of the household, royally accepted.
Sarah glanced at the time on her real-time commodities tracker. She could either panic and partake in a mad dash to the trading floor, or she could take a deep breath and realize how well Leo had it covered here. She grinned. Just let them do without her for five minutes. They were talented people and knew how to do a great job.
Sarah perched on the edge of her fancy swivel office chair and placed her calves side by side, her feet flat on the floor in the desk’s kneehole. She retrieved a pile of financial reports and tamped their edges even.
Since she was about to pay homage to Joe’s role as husband and father, she wanted everything strictly in order. She aligned the pencils and pens inside the trough of her drawer. She swept rubber bands together in the corner so none of them could escape. Then she began typing on her computer keyboard with the same finesse a pianist would use in Orchestra Hall.
“Thank you so much for your thorough report on my nanny,” she pounded out. She leaned back, surveyed her work from a distance, and liked what she saw. Her fingers tripped over the keys again. “I am pleased to hear of his exemplary performance.” Then, “My nanny is wearing a wedding ring, in case you hadn’t noticed. He is married to me, and I wouldn’t give him up for anything in the world.”
She left the cursor there for a time, just watching it blink before she signed her name. She typed Sarah Harper with a flourish and then printed a copy.
Joe was going to love this.
She swiveled in the chair, just thinking about it. She couldn’t help it; she laughed herself silly.
Sarah sat on the edge of her mother’s table, watching Jane peel apples. Harold told her that Jane was making jelly, so Sarah had stopped over to help.
The recipe in Annie’s handwriting, faded and spotted, stood propped against the sugar bowl. Jane was peeling apples in the same round curls Annie had made.
“Mama,” Sarah said. “We have to talk.”
Jane dropped apple slices into the kettle with a soft kerplunk. “We have nothing to talk about.”
“Mama, we do.”
And even though Jane stood as stiff as a rake handle, even though her jaw stayed set in a stubborn square, Sarah knew she had to try to make a start somewhere. She knew telling Jane her whole experience with Annie and Wingtip would be too much for her right now. So she simply and softly said, “Mother, I know that somewhere in your life you were terribly hurt and disappointed. Someone stole your dreams, and I am sorry about that.”
Jane stared at her.
“I am really sorry, but it wasn’t my fault, and it’s time you stopped blaming me. God loves you, Mama, and he wants you to be happy and enjoy the rest of your life.” Sarah waited in silence, hoping her mother would say something. “I’ve been praying for you, Mama, and I know that God is going to change your heart.”
She waited for a reaction, but Jane didn’t respond.
“You were hurt, and you hurt me because of it. I want you to know that I forgive you, and if you ever need me, all you have to do is call.”
Sarah was prepared to leave and just trust that God would someday make things right. She headed for the door. She stopped, though, when she heard footsteps behind her.
She turned to look. Even though Jane’s jaw was still set with stubbornness, she managed to say, “Sarah, thank you for coming today,” and they both knew that was a beginning.
Sarah knew her own heart when it came to her mother. Someday she would have the joy of seeing Jane completely healed from her past. She knew that God wanted to do that. And if the Heavenly Father wanted to use her in the process, Sarah prayed for the grace to be whatever he needed her to be, ready to do Jesus’ bidding, so she could help Jane make her own journey toward understanding how much she was worth.
The best thing about having a broken arm, Mitchell told his dad, was how everyone in Mrs. Georges’s class at school (Kyle, Ryan, even Lydia—especially Lydia) used the coolest Sharpie colors they could find to decorate his cast. “2 nice 2 B 4gotten,” Mrs. Georges had written with a shy smile. “Way to go, dude!!!!” wrote Kyle Grimes, and beside that he drew a picture of a swimming shark. Ryan had added in green marker, “Don’t ever break your arm.” Add to that, people everywhere he went, even in the aisles at the grocery store, stopped him, gave him sympathy, and asked how he’d done it. When he told them he’d done it trying to climb inside the scoreboard at Wrigley, that an angel he’d once met had rescued him, that everything had ended up just the way it was supposed to end up, they usually set the jar of mayo or the bag of chips—whatever they happened to be holding at the time—inside their basket and glanced over his head at his mother with an Ah, the imagination of a child look, expecting to see a conspiratorial twinkle in her eye. But his mother would nod her agreement every time and shoot them a small tilt of a smile.
“That’s the story, just the way Mitchell tells it. What do you think? We’re so grateful.” Which would make them look a little askance at him and find something fascinating to read about on a cereal box before they wished him well, gave him one more dubious glance, and pushed their carts along up the aisle.
The worst thing about having a broken arm, Mitchell told his dad, was trying
to get the sleeve of his Cubs jacket over his cast. Which is the reason he stood at the door this minute with his cap sideways on his head and his jacket dangling halfway off his shoulder.
“Let’s see what we can do about this,” Joe said. And as Sarah watched him kneel in front of their son, as she rested in the peace and joy she had, she knew she wanted to spend the remainder of her life helping others find what she had found through Jesus. She and Joe had already agreed that they, along with Mitchell and Kate, would spend one evening a week visiting homeless shelters and helping in whatever way they could.
Forehead to forehead, Joe helped Mitchell slip his arm through the sleeve and do up his coat. “How’s that?” Joe fastened a few snaps. “You okay?”
Never mind Mitchell’s blond hair and Joe’s dark locks. Never mind one being young and the other, well, middle-aged. As Mitchell nodded, the eyes, the jaw, the jut of noses, gave perfect reflections of each other.
“Honey?” Joe called. “You two ready?”
Sarah slung the diaper bag over a shoulder, lifted Kate from her high chair, and held her overhead. “Hello,” she said to the clear, sun-struck blue eyes of her daughter as Kate thrust a drool-covered fist toward Sarah’s nose. “What are you thinking?” For a moment, the tiny, open face was the only thing in Sarah’s range of vision. When she kissed the baby’s cheek, smelled the milk on her breath, the entire world paused, became beautiful. “Are you ready for this?”
She would have taken Kate to the Cubs game tonight even if Mrs. Pavik had been available for babysitting. The last pitch of the regular season had been thrown. It just seemed like something the Harpers needed to do, being there together for a post-season play-off in honor of Wingtip, as the Cubbies contended for a shot at the series.
Sarah had encouraged Mrs. Pavik to take time off. She and Joe wanted to pay for her trip home to Poland so she could drink in the details of her own daughter’s face and hopefully jump-start proceedings to bring her child to America. Even though Sarah and Kate would make do with someone else for a while, the nanny position would be available when Mrs. Pavik returned. Sarah promised. And Sarah also offered to accompany Sophia to the imposing glass tower of the Federal Building when it came time to file Elena’s visa petition, not because Sarah had pull at government offices but because her presence could offer a healthy dose of moral support. She and Joe would also point Mrs. Pavik to a social-service agency that could help with the little girl’s medical expenses.
Any Minute: A Novel Page 23