Water Balloon

by Audrey Vernick

  Dad stops for breakfast at a diner, and we talk about the Yankees and he somehow gets me to agree to go fishing with him next weekend. I'm so scared that he's going to do the I listen Dad routine and ask me to talk about my anger, revisit all the things I said Friday night. He doesn't. Maybe he's relieved at not having to go near all that stuff again today. I know I am.

  ***

  The hospital itself is kind of depressing, which isn't altogether surprising, since it's a hospital. It's smaller than I imagined—a square yellow brick building surrounded by asphalt parking lots.

  Dad talks to someone at a desk in the lobby and we're directed through a maze of hallways that seem longer than the building looked from the outside. We find the elevator and ride up to the fifth floor. When the doors open, an awful smell greets us. I don't even want to think too much about what it is, but it's truly horrible. We walk down the hall toward room 517. Dad steps in first. There's an empty bed near the door, then a curtain. On the other side of the room, near the window, there's Grandma, sleeping.

  Her mouth is open and kind of drooping. As we walk in, closer, I can see that there's an IV tube connected to the top of her hand, where it's taped on. And a whole horror show of beeping, lit-up machines attached to different parts of her.

  Mom is sitting in a big chair on the other side of the bed, looking up at a TV. "Deb," Dad says, and she stands immediately. She hugs him quickly and then rushes over to me and pulls me to her in a big hug. It reminds me, in a flash of hug-memory, of when she said goodbye, and all the nervousness I felt at staying with Dad for so long. It feels so good to be wrapped in her arms.

  "I was scared you were going to look all different. I feel like I've been here forever. You look the same. I'm so glad."

  It's comforting to think I might be the same person I was, even if I can feel the changes grinding away. She steps back, out of the hug, and reaches out and takes my hand.

  "How's she doing?" Dad asks. He puts his hand on Mom's back. I hadn't thought about this, but I've heard that families come together when in crisis. You see it all the time in movies.

  "She's improving. She's going to be fine. I kind of freaked out about all the blood she lost, but they say it often happens. It was just so hard to see her like that."

  Dad has so much compassion in his eyes.

  "They're saying she might be able to leave by next weekend. They're not sure if she'll go to a rehab place or home. She couldn't stay by herself yet at her house. I'll stay up here with her for a while either way, and see how she's doing, if that's okay."

  "Of course," Dad says. "Marley can stay with me an extra week, or however long."

  I walk over to the bed. I wish Grandma were awake, so we could talk. I wish she felt better, that she didn't look so much older than she did the last time I saw her, just a couple of months ago.

  Still, seeing her, I feel something inside of me—something that is wound very, very tight—begin to relax a tiny bit. Somehow I knew this; I was right. I really did need to see her.

  Mom sits back in the chair on the other side of the bed. "But she's really okay?" I don't know why I need to keep hearing her say it, but I do. Just like I had to come to see her in person.

  Mom nods, her eyes looking into mine. My truth meter is locked in. She really is fine.

  I grab the bag I packed for my mother and show her all the stuff I brought. When I pull out the plastic bottle of jasmine spray, she smiles at my father. "Thank you, Robert," she says. "That was really thoughtful."

  Dad gets all awkward, silent.

  My grandmother's eyes flutter a little, and then she opens them. She sees me and smiles, a sweet, slow smile. I take her hand and squeeze it.

  "Hey, Grandma," I say. "It's so good to see you." It is. With her eyes open, I can see she's still her.

  She smiles, a little loopy from sleep. "Marley Eden, honey," she says. I smile back, even though her speech is painfully slow. "Thank you for coming, sweetheart." Her hand is so warm, soft, just like it's always been. I squeeze it again, so relieved to be with her, to hear her voice. She squeezes my hand right back, weakly. She looks around the room a little until her eyes land on my dad. "And Robert. Thank you too. I'm glad to see you here."

  He gives that awkward nod, but then smiles at her. Everyone loves Grandma.

  She just looks at us for a while. We all smile at her, all three of us. She's only awake a little while. Most of that time she's smiling.

  The relief is as palpable as a pillow, and I'm so thankful that we're all here together.

  Giant Marley on the Screen

  Dad gets lost on the way from the hospital to Yankee Stadium. He's not a get-lost kind of guy—he's too careful with maps and route planning to allow it to happen. But when he gets off the Major Deegan Expressway for a shortcut he took about a decade ago, we spend the next twenty-five minutes cruising the Bronx and testing out his cursing vocabulary. Eventually he finds a familiar road and gets me there.

  "You have your cell phone in case you can't find Jack or you need me for any reason."

  "I do. I'll be fine."

  "It's my job to very nearly fall apart when I leave my daughter by herself at a ballpark in New York City."

  "I won't be by myself." I grab my bag. "Don't expect me right after the game. Jack said his brother's going to take us out for dinner first."

  "I remember. Have a great time. I'll be listening to the game on the way home, so don't try to run onto the field or anything."

  "Yeah, that's so me. I'll see you, Dad." I shut the door and step out into the madness that surrounds Yankee Stadium.

  It's pretty late—the game has already started—but there are still tons of people walking around the outside of the stadium. People walk fast, seem to know where they're headed. I follow the crowd into a gate, go through something like airport security, and then start looking for our seats. It's not as easy as it is in, say, a theater. This place has hundreds of levels and gates and sections, ramps and elevators and escalators, with people walking in every direction. I finally figure out where I need to be—out past the foul pole in left field. I walk up the small aisle, row D, E, F. There's Jack, sitting in row 10, seat 6.

  "You made it," he says.

  "I did."

  "How's your grandmother?" He stands to let me by.

  "Okay. Not like out-of-bed great, but she's going to be fine." I sit and look around. "Wow," I say.

  I'd been to the old stadium when I was little, and I've seen the new one on TV a ton, but this is my first time here. It's hard to believe all these people—tens of thousands of people—are all here to watch nine guys play a game against nine other guys. The place is literally vibrating with excitement. People are stomping their feet, shouting at the pitcher, and all at once, everyone stands and starts clapping. I look at the scoreboard. There are two outs, and the count is three and two. The crowd is looking for a strikeout. Before I can even focus on the field, find the pitcher and home plate, the crowd erupts with cheers. The people in the rows ahead of us are all slapping high-fives. An inning-ending strikeout! Everyone sits back down.

  Jack reaches beside him and hands me a hat. "I got you this." It's a Yankees hat, a newer version of the one my dad wears.

  "You got me this?"

  "You already have one?"

  I laugh. "No, not at all. It's just, that was so nice of you. Thank you."

  "You are like the perfect baseball hat girl," he says after I put it on my head.

  "And by that you mean..."

  "Not everyone can pull off a baseball cap. Like puffy-haired people? They should not wear hats. But you have baseball hat hair."

  "I'll work to view that as a compliment."

  "It was meant as one," he says. My stomach: flip, flip, flip. So okay. He got me a hat. In some worlds, that might be perceived as a gesture of some kind. It's probably not fair to assume, though, that the Hadley family speaks the same language as mine. The Baird Family Language of the Gesture is complex and unique. The offi
cial ruling from the judges: a nice thing to do. Not necessarily loaded with emotional meaning.

  "You want something to eat?" Jack asks.

  "Not yet, thanks. What do you eat here?"

  "Peanuts. Crackerjacks. Hot dogs. Baseball food."

  "Mmm," I say. My stomach: flip, flip, flip. NO!

  In the outfield, there's a screen where they show video of fans in the stands between innings. It's so funny to watch, because people suddenly see their faces up there, and then turn, as though to find the camera, but then they realize that when they're turned, duh, they can't see themselves on the screen anymore, and they turn back again really fast. Like a toddler trying to catch his shadow. I guess it depends on where you're sitting, because some people start jumping up and down, faces still forward, looking like they've won the lottery twice in a day. It's surprising to me that this isn't only true for little kids, but for older people too.

  It's a great ball game. Every time the other team goes up a run, the Yankees come back in the bottom of the inning to tie it or go ahead again. The crowd is really into it. I'm having as much fun looking at all the people as Jack is watching the game.

  There's a row of four guys in front of us, all wearing Yankees baseball caps in different shades of blue. The guy sitting in front of me sticks a red Coke bottle cap on top of the hat of the guy sitting in front of Jack. The other three just keep yukking it up, sneaking sideways glances, and slapping each other and their own legs when they realize it's still there. It's so stupid, but for some reason, Jack and I keep cracking up about it.

  There are a lot of things, like stadium rituals, that everyone else seems to know instinctively. It's hard to get the knack of it, though. Like, everyone will start clapping that clap/clap, clap/clap/clap, clap/clap, clap/clap rhythm at once, and then repeat it, and then they'll all stop at once, while idiot me is still sort of clapping, and then looking around to see if anyone saw me clapping after everyone else had stopped. There's no pattern to it—sometimes they'll clap out the rhythm once, sometimes three times, or twice. Everyone around me seems to get it. Then there's me. Clap, clap, clap. Oh.

  All these people—adults!—shout out players' names when they're at bat, cheering them on. They don't look even the tiniest bit self-conscious. Even Jack does this when his favorite player comes to bat.

  I must be missing some basic genes. I can't pull off a patented Leah Stamnick Casual Arm Touch or Flirty Hair Flip. I can't look people in the eye when I meet them for the first time. And I most certainly cannot cheer out loud without feeling like the world's biggest idiot.

  The guy in front of Jack pats his head—what makes him do that?—and finds the cap. He looks at his friends as though he wants to kill them, but in a good way.

  The Yankees do it again in the bottom of the sixth—they're down by two, and then they go ahead by a run. The guy in front of Jack has another bottle cap on top of his hat. I didn't see them put it there, but there it is.

  The seats are pretty close together here, and though I couldn't tell you a thing about the woman sitting to my left, I think I've memorized everything about the guy to my right. Jack's legs are pale and thin. They look especially thin in his baggy, dark blue shorts. He crosses one leg over the other, bouncing his black low-top Converse-clad foot in a slow, basic rhythm. The shoelace on his right sneaker is frayed. When he leans toward me, his clean almond smell rises above all the baseball smells, to my nose's great pleasure. In fact, all my senses are in a state of heightened, deeply contented awareness. I want him to reach out for my hand, or casually put his arm around me. He doesn't. I could just grab his hand, but what if I'm just his good old Marley-and-Me- dog-movie baseball-loving neighbor-friend?

  After the third out in the inning, there's a commotion to the right of us, and I see that the man on the outfield screen is actually sitting two sections away. He's dancing this awful hip-shaking dance (and he has very ample hips to shake), and I see his daughter, about my age, sinking down in her seat, leaning all the way to the left, to try to stay off the screen. Finally, she just stands up and walks away.

  There are some really lame fathers in this world.

  And some really bratty daughters.

  I look away from the real dad to watch the dad on the screen, but the camera's panning now, and there's something familiar up there. It's my shirt. It's me. It's me and Jack. On the giant screen in the outfield of Yankee Stadium. Yes, of course. Why not? What next? Jack grins, looking at the screen, not me. I just stare, because that giant girl up there looks so different from how I think of myself. Look at her in her new Yankees hat! She looks perfectly comfortable. At ease. Happy and relaxed. Here at Yankee Stadium with one fine-looking guy.

  And then the camera slides back to our right, where that dad, the big-bellied one, is still doing his hip-rolling boogie.

  "Wow," Jack says.

  "Amen," I say.

  "You want to walk around a little?"

  "Sure."

  We go downstairs, where there are concession stands and carts selling everything from hot dogs to blender drinks and beer and cotton candy. "What can I get you?" he asks.

  "Not hungry," I say.

  "You will eat," he says.

  "Aren't we going out with your brother? I'll just eat then."

  "You're always supposed to eat at a ballpark."

  "I see your point." I buy us two pretzels and a Coke, trying not to think about the fact that it costs nearly a day's worth of my twin-watching salary. "Mustard?" I ask.

  "On a pretzel?" he says.

  "Some people do."

  "Not this people."

  "Yeah, me neither."

  We go back to our seats and watch the rest of the game. At one point, Jack leans forward and puts a soda bottle cap on the head of the guy in front of him. The guy feels it immediately, and turns to give his friends some grief. Then he turns around to Jack with a big laughing smile.

  I just sit back and take in the baseball scene, glad I never said anything to Jack about maybe not being such a big Yankees fan. Because I like this. I really do. It's not just sitting next to Jack. It's the whole thing, this place where everyone's sitting together in their little groups, but also part of a big, 50,000-person crowd.

  I keep thinking about the giant Marley on the screen. I'm so glad I saw her. She looks like she's doing great.

  Just Another Loser Kid

  I have never in all my thirteen years been in a crowd as thick as this one. I wouldn't have described myself as the claustrophobic type, but as we move along, carried by the masses, I long to rise above it and walk on everyone's shoulders. To pull in a deep breath of fresh air. I'm crammed on all sides. I concentrate on staying next to Jack and breathing.

  Once we're out of the gate and we round the side of the stadium, a lot of people head to the subway and the crowd thins a bit. Jack points with his chin at the McDonald's across the street. I nod.

  We walk around the outside of the building and then check inside. Dean's not there yet. Jack grabs us some fries and we sit on the concrete outside and watch the people leaving the stadium. There are all these little boys in their Yankees shirts, each with a player's name and number on the back. "I think my dad always wanted a son. A little Yankees boy, you know?"

  "Why do you think that?"

  "He doesn't exactly get me. The things he likes to do are all just boy things. It's like we don't have a single common interest."

  "Well, I'm glad you're not a boy."

  I hate to quote Leah, even in my own head, but OH! My God!

  Jack stands up—ts his face flushed red? He peers down the street both ways, then sits down again.

  "You want to call him?"

  "He's probably just stuck in traffic. It's hard to get here when a game lets out. I hope you don't mind just hanging a bit. He'll get through eventually. What time is it?"

  I pull out my cell phone. "Ten to five," I say. "What time did he say he'd be here?"

  "Four thirty."

  The streets
are clogged with cars trying to get out of parking lots, lined up to get on the highway.

  "Yeah. Let me give him a call."

  He dials a number and waits, then hangs up. "I didn't even get voice mail. I don't know—sometimes he doesn't pay his bill. He might not even have service right now."

  "Do you want to call your parents and see if he left a message?"

  "Nah, I don't want to freak them out. Let's give it a little longer."

  So we sit there, talking about nothing and everything. But it gets later and later, and I can see him growing quieter, more upset, angry-looking.

  "You want a soda?" I ask. "I'm going in for a Diet Coke."

  "No, thanks."

  Inside I use the bathroom, taking a quick look in the mirror. It must be the hat, but I really look like some other person, a smaller version of Marley on the Screen. When I come outside again, Jack's holding his phone, looking even more pissed.

  "Did you call anyone?"

  "Yeah. I just called my parents to tell them I'd be later than I said. I didn't mention anything about Dean not being here, but they didn't say anything either. Listen, I don't want you to freak out your dad, but do you think you should call him?"

  Ugh. I guess I have to. I'd rather not. He was so nervous about me being here. I can't just not come home when he expects me. I call, but he's not home. Where is he? Over at the Krolls'? I just hang up.

  "So what do we do?" I ask.

  "I don't think waiting is going to do it," Jack says. "I'm really sorry. He can be such a..."

  "No, listen. I had a great day. I would have come even if I'd known there was no dinner and no Dean to take us home. Should we just take the train or something?"

  "Do you think your father might flip out?"

  "Yeah. Let me try him again." I call, no answer. I leave a message this time, telling him what's going on, that we're taking the train, around when I expect to be home. I also mention that he might want to think about entering the millennium we live in and invest in a cell phone all his own.