SINGLE
COLLETTE WEST
Dedication
To those dreaming of a summer rose.
Chapter One
Luke
An ungodly wail blares through the house, jolting me awake. The smoke alarm…
I bolt out of bed, flinging the covers aside. No, no, no… Please God, no… Running out of my room, I take the stairs two at a time. But once I see a dark wisp of smoke trailing out of the kitchen, I don't waste any time hurling my body over the railing. Bursting in, I gaze around frantically.
Where is she?
Through the haze, the toaster is glowing red-hot on the counter, flames licking out of the top of it. An entire loaf of bread is resting above the slots still in its plastic-windowed paper bag that's now on fire and oozing down the sides. Coughing, I tug the collar of my shirt up over my nose as my eyes start to water. Oh God, is she in here somewhere? Dropping to my knees, I crawl hurriedly across the kitchen floor to the cupboard beneath the sink as a wave of intense heat rages above my head. I wrap my shaking hands around the fire extinguisher and go at it, coating everything around me in a layer of thick, white foam.
After emptying the contents of the canister, I wipe the back of my arm across my brow, letting my shirt fall back down below my chin. The fire's out, but I still don't know where she is.
"Mom!" I call out, my heart beating fast.
I try again, but my throat tightens up, reminding me of just how much I need to breathe. Tripping clumsily over my feet, I stagger toward the back door. I fumble with the knob but it's already unlocked, and dread fills my soul. She's left the house. She could be hurt. She…
I charge into the backyard, and every terrible thought leaves my head the second I see her, staring off into space, rocking back and forth in her chair.
That crazy, kooky chair… After Dad retired, he put it together out of his leftover collection of baseball bats, the ones he deemed not worthy enough to use in a real game, the ones he designated for the scrap heap—which is exactly where I ended up when the New York Kings' organization decided to let me go. Apparently, their investment in me as one of their up-and-coming prospects wasn't enough to make up for my questionable recovery coming off an injury.
That is, they weren't interested in me until now…which is why Mom's out here on the patio, seemingly unaffected by the smell of melted plastic, escaping into the damp morning air. She doesn't know that they want me back, but she's certainly picked up on my agitation after their phone call last night—her ability to mimic my emotions a part of her Alzheimer's I don't think I'll ever understand.
"Mom…?" I sputter, choking on the remnants of smoke that are billowing by me. "Are you okay?"
She stops and pulls the charred cuffs of her nightgown down over her hands. "Breakfast's almost ready." She smiles at me. "I can't send my little Lukey off to school on an empty stomach, now can I? That wouldn't be good." She shakes her head and starts rocking again. "No, that wouldn't be good at all."
I blink. She doesn't even realize that she almost burned the house down—with me in it. I want to go off on her for scaring the hell out of me like that, but her doctor said to always keep a ray of sunshine in my voice whenever her mind decides to retreat into the past. But right now, it's really hard not to be angry with her.
I look up at the dull, gray sky and will myself to calm down. She's here, safe with me in the backyard. I can always get someone to come in and repair the damage. It's probably my fault this happened anyway. I took the toaster out to make us some sandwiches last night, and I must've forgotten to put it back in the locked closet where I've been hiding every household item she can possibly hurt herself with—the iron, the sewing kit, the culinary knife set I got her two Christmases ago, when she was still able to cook.
But I got distracted when my agent called to tell me the Kings were finally giving me another chance. The second baseman they were going with for their Triple-A team, the Stockton Beavers, tore his ACL on the last day of spring training. Now they're in a bind, and knowing that I live right here in Stockton, they're offering me my old job back, at least temporarily. Yeah, it's nothing more than a glorified tryout, but still, I should be ecstatic. I never thought I'd get another crack at making it to the majors. In the back of my mind, I'd always hoped that I would, and I worked hard over the past year to get back to where I was before I got hurt. But in baseball, there are no guarantees. My eyes flicker to the blank expression on Mom's face. Just like in life…
I shuffle toward her and crouch down by her feet to examine her hands. There are burn marks on her palms, and I feel terrible that I almost yelled at her, letting my fear take over. "C'mon, Ma. Let's get you inside." I drape my arm over her shoulders, and when she shivers uncontrollably against me, I'm overwhelmed by regret. Why didn't I wake up sooner? How long has she been out here? It's early April, but we're in a mountainous region of Pennsylvania, so it's not exactly springlike outside. Hurt, cold, and alone… What if she'd wandered off and I couldn't find her?
"You smell like a darn chimney," she grumbles, scrunching up her nose at me. "If your father catches you smoking, he'll…"
And just like that, that old aching wound throbs anew within my heart.
Dad died of a heart attack last spring. Losing him as unexpectedly as we did changed our lives forever, but Mom, for the most part, doesn't even remember that terrible day—her Alzheimer's granting her a reprieve. But I remember. I remember enough for the both of us. When Mom was first diagnosed, Dad swore he'd never put her in some nursing facility—and now that he's gone, I intend to do everything in my power to honor his promise to her. This is her home. This is where she feels comfortable. And this is where she's going to stay. It's what Dad would've wanted. Even though I don't know how we're going to be able to afford to keep living here for much longer once Dad's life insurance policy runs out. It's not like I can go out and find another job. Right now, taking care of Mom is my full-time job.
Rising to my feet, I gently ease her off her throne of Louisville Sluggers. But I can't gloss this over. We came close to losing everything this morning, and I was here. I don't even want to think about what could've happened if I hadn't been. Sure, our next door neighbor, Mrs. Jenkins, helps out once in a while, but only for a few hours at a time. There's no way I can tell the Beavers yes. How can I even think about going back to baseball after what just happened? It's time I let go of my stupid dreams and face reality.
Tired, Mom sags into me, and I hug her with all my might, kissing the top of her head. "I love you, Ma. I love you so much," I whisper through a sigh as she pats me on the back, like she's the one trying to make me feel better.
She pokes me in the ribs upon reentering the house and seeing the state of her kitchen. "Luke, how many times must I tell you? You're too young to go near the stove!"
I try for a smile. "Don't worry about it, Ma. I'll clean everything up later."
"You'd better."
I grab a clean dishtowel out of the drawer and run it under the cold water before wringing it out. Guiding her out of the kitchen, I pat one of the cushions on the living room couch, coaxing her to sit down. I don't care about the smudges of soot she has all over her. Right now, my main priority is taking care of her hands.
"Here, Ma. Hold this, okay?" I place the makeshift compress into her outstretched palms which are now all red and swollen.
She's still shivering, so I go over to the thermostat and turn it all the way up, hang the expense. I know I got lucky today—and it's only a matter of time before my luck runs out. Sure, I'm disappointed to have to tell the Beavers no, but I'll deal with it. The alternative is losing Mom, having to put her away somewhere, and that's something I just can't do.
I know what's most important to me, and she's it. We'll make do somehow. We always do.
My phone rings, and I curse under my breath. Witnessing my irritation, Mom tosses the compress aside and winces as soon as she starts wringing her poor, sore hands, already forgetting that they're burned. "Luke, if that's your father, tell him that…"
I give her an obedient nod and hand the compress back to her as she continues to ramble on. The house is a wreck. I'm a wreck. But I can't bring myself to tell her that it's not Dad. I stalk back into the kitchen because I really don't want anyone hearing her when she gets like this.
But I needn't worry when I'm immediately greeted by six feet of ginger-bearded enthusiasm on the other end of the line.
"Did you get the text? What am I saying? Of course, you didn't get the text. You're probably not even back on the roster of active players yet. That's why I called. To tell you myself."
When it comes to the eccentricities embodied by left-handed relief pitchers, Dan O'Malley is far and away the quirkiest one I've ever met. The guy never stops talking, which is probably why, in the past, I've always gotten stuck sitting next to him in the front of the bus when traveling to and from away games. But Dan's as loyal as they come. He's aware of how bad Mom's gotten lately, and he's never said a word to anyone about it—which is probably why the team thought I'd jump at their offer. They have no idea what I'm dealing with at home.
I grab a mop out of the closet and slide the pail out with my foot. "Well, you're right, Danny Boy. I didn't get the text probably because I didn't give them an answer yet. I said I needed to think about it."
"What?" Dan roars in my ear. "Mike Landry, the G.O.A.T., the greatest pitcher of all time, just bought the ownership rights to the Stockton Beavers, and you're telling me you're not jumping at the chance to play on his team?"
Understand this, Dan is a diehard New York Kings fan. He has been his whole life. And there's no one he admires more than the former ace of the staff, Mike Landry. In fact, he's borderline obsessed with the guy.
And I have to admit, the timing of all this is curious. Landry's an old friend of Dad's, and it's well within the realm of possibility that he pulled some strings to get me back on the team—which only makes what I have to do that much harder.
I squeeze the dirty water out of the mop and purposely dodge Dan's question. "So you've finally come to terms with Landry's retirement, then? No more tweeting about how bummed you are or forcing people to sign your stupid Facebook petition, begging him to come back?"
Dan huffs loudly. "Dude, he won the World Series with the Kings last year. And with the number of innings he still has left in that arm, I'm telling you, it was way too soon for him to be calling it quits."
I lean on the mop handle and smile. "You just wanted him to stick around long enough so you could say that you played with him."
"Of course, I did!" he exclaims, making me laugh. "But maybe this is better. At the rate I'm going, who knows if I'll ever make it to the Kings? But now that Landry's our new boss, I'll be sure to meet him, right?"
I roll up my sleeves and turn to empty the pail into the sink. I don't get bent out of shape about encountering major leaguers the way Dan does, probably because Dad had so many of them over to the house when I was growing up, had them sitting in this very kitchen, as a matter of fact.
I set the pail back down on the floor. "C'mon, Dan. Isn't that why he retired? To get away from crazies like you?"
"No, wise guy. It was because of his kids, and I don't blame him for that," Dan concedes. "It must've been hard for him after his wife died. But the Kings sent that caretaker chick to help him out, so I don't understand why he couldn't keep playing."
My ears perk up at that as I open the top drawer. "Why? Isn't she with him anymore?"
"You mean Roberta… What's her name?"
"Bennett. Roberta Bennett."
Pulling on a pair of oven mitts, I bend down to examine the toaster, that appears to be melted to the countertop, my face turning about as red as the flames that were shooting out of it.
"Wait, dude… You know her?"
"Yeah…sort of," I grunt while trying to pry it loose. "She was with Arnold Heimlich in his office the day the Kings honored Dad for his twenty seasons with the Beavers."
"Wow, Arnold, the big boss man," Dan whispers in awe. "That name still has the power to strike terror into the heart of every baseball player on earth. If not for his stroke, he'd still be the owner of the Kings, and I'd never have a snowball's chance in hell of playing in New York."
I chuckle. "Nah, I think it's that rat's nest on your face that's been holding you back."
"Hey, don't knock the chin hair, bro. You know I've been growing this baby ever since Rookie ball."
"All the way through Low-A, Single-A, Double-A, Triple-A…" I rattle off. "But when—not if—you get called up to the Kings, you're gonna have to shave it off. There's no facial hair allowed under the bright lights of Kings Stadium, my friend."
"All right. Deal," he fires back. "I'd gladly make the trade. And so would you."
I grin, happening to catch sight of Dad's picture that's hanging on the wall, the frame now covered in a smoky, greasy film. Yet I'm still able to make out the goofy buck-toothed mascot on the front of his Stockton Beavers uniform. My dad, Luke Singleton, Senior… He was about twenty-three when it was taken, the same age I am now, and it's like looking in a mirror. His reddish-brown tufts of hair are sticking out of the sides of his cap, and his socks are pulled all the way up to his knees, accentuating the short, stocky build that we share. But it's his ever-present goatee that draws my attention, the one I never saw him without…the matching one I grew in honor of him.
"But that still doesn't answer my question…" Dan trails on. "What's so special about this Roberta chick that you, of all people, would remember her name?"
I use all my strength to yank the toaster free. "I don't know."
Dan just laughs.
"What? I thought she was cute. That's all."
"You don't know anything about her, then," he replies ominously.
I pause in what I'm doing. "What do you mean?"
"She's supposedly with Landry now… But in the past, she's been linked to Jake Woodbury, Scott Harper… Dude, she's practically worked her way through every guy on the Kings."
I squeeze the toaster in my hands, denting it even more. "You don't know if that's true."
"When has the gossip that flows between the Beavers' clubhouse and the Kings' clubhouse ever been wrong?"
He's got me there, but I'd rather not dwell on it, so I ask, "Do you think Landry will bring her with him to Stockton?"
"Really, dude? Mike Landry—a verified pitching god—just gave you your old job back, and you're thinking about going toe-to-toe with him over some chick? If I didn't know any better, I'd swear you've lost your mind, Single."
Okay, when I was on the Beavers, the guys liked to bust my chops about my never-changing relationship status—which is how I ended up with the nickname, Single. But let's face it, when I was playing, it wasn't easy to get women to look at me—not when I was standing on the field next to all of them, the little scrapper trying to hack it with the big boys. And ever since leaving the team, I haven't helped my cause any. By taking on the role of Mom's primary caregiver, I haven't had time to shave, much less date.
Which is why I can't help thinking back to how Roberta was that day with Arnold Heimlich. She didn't even hesitate to wipe the drool from his chin while he sat in his wheelchair, and the unselfishness of her gesture made a distinct impression on me. At the time, Mom was in the beginning stages of early onset Alzheimer's, and here was a girl around my age who was taking care of someone with dignity and grace. That image of her stayed with me, and after losing Dad, it made me think that maybe I could take care of Mom by myself, that maybe I could hold everything together just like she did.
I jump when the volume on the TV in the living room goes from soft to loud in a matter of seconds.
"Dude, I was trying to be polite and not say anything, but what the heck is going on over there? Are you having a party without me?" Dan shouts above the racket.
I sigh, tossing the remains of the toaster into the trash and shucking off the oven mitts. "Nah, it's Mom, acting out again. Listen, I gotta go."
"Luke, you have to tell the Beavers about what's going on with her. Maybe they can help…"
"Sorry, man. I don't think so. I don't want anyone's charity."
And I especially don't want Mike Landry butting into my life.
"C'mon, Single. At least come to the mandatory team workout tomorrow morning. It's at Beaver Field at ten o'clock," he urges.
"You mean, before or after I tell them no?"
"Whatever, man. But I think you owe it to yourself. The paycheck would come in handy. At least think about it."
I pinch my brow. "All right, I'll think about it."
"Now go check on Mrs. S. before she burns the house down," he jokes.
And I can't bring myself to tell him the truth. "Okay. Later, man."
One last morning with the team could be just the thing I need, then maybe the nightmares I've had since I got hit would finally stop. As long as I don't fall into the trap of letting myself believe that somehow I can have it all—that I can play baseball and be there for Mom.
I shove my phone back in my pocket and hurriedly slosh my way across the wet, grimy floor. I peer around the corner and Mom's still on the couch. She has the remote in her hand, scared to death of all the noise she's created. Leaving a trail of grimy footprints in my wake, I gently take it out of her grasp and punch the down button until I'm finally able to hear myself think. In the face of so many unknowns—her health, my career, our finances—nothing's clear. Everything's a blur.
And my heart aches inside my chest because that's probably how she feels all the time now. Lost… Confused… Alone…
So I do the only thing I can think of. I put the compress back in her hand and gently wrap my fingers around hers, letting her know it's okay.
Single (Stockton Beavers #1) Page 1