Chapter Thirty-Two
Reed
“I’d wake up at night with the smell of the ballpark in my nose, the cool of the grass on my feet…the thrill of the grass.”
—Shoeless Joe Jackson, Field of Dreams
My father, dressed in uniform, walked with me toward the empty, familiar diamond of the sandlot. Thunder rumbled in the distance, and a cool, damp breeze drifted over the infield.
A single baseball lay on the mound surrounded by dead grass and dry dirt.
Dad picked up the ball and smiled at it. “You know what I loved the best about pitching, son?”
“What?” I asked.
He pressed the ball into my hand. “The control and power it gave me. It was the one place in the world I felt like I had any control over my life, over what happened to me.”
I rolled the ball back and forth.
“But that didn’t stop me from taking risks.
” Dad faced me and put both of his big hands on my shoulders.
“Don’t be afraid of the things you can’t control.
Baseball brings it all in balance, but to do so, it has to have something else to balance with.
Don’t let it be the only thing you love and fight for. ”
“Reed,” a voice from far away floated through my head, and the ballpark and my father disappeared. A soft hand brushed my cheek.
“Reed,” it said again. Closer now. Clearer. “Come on, honey. Wake up now.”
I tried to speak, but clawlike fingers raked themselves down my throat. Something heavy sat on my chest, and a sharp, searing pain burned on my upper-left arm.
I opened my eyes and quickly closed them.
Too bright.
A steady beeping sound came from my right. And the same soft touch that brushed my cheek now squeezed my hand. “Turn off one of those light switches, Louis,” the voice said.
Nana?
I opened my eyes again, and this time, two familiar figures blurred into focus, like heat waves on a paved road in the dead of summer.
“Wh-where am I…?” Jagged spikes caught my voice. Bandages covered my left arm above my elbow.
“You’re at the hospital, dear.” Nana leaned closer to me and patted my hand. “You’ve been out of it for almost twelve hours. They took you off oxygen just a couple hours ago.”
Granddad rubbed my shoulder. “You gave us quite the scare.”
“Your mother is here too.” Nana kissed my forehead. “She got in early this morning but stepped out to take a phone call.”
Granddad poured water into a small, pink cup and handed it to me. I winced as the IV tugged on my skin but gulped the entire cup down. Water never tasted so good.
“What about Eliza?” I tried sitting up. Damn, my chest hurt. “Is she okay?”
“She’s okay.” Nana gave her famous warning glare to Granddad before speaking to me again. “Just a bad scratch on her cheek.”
Thank God.
“And Ben?” I asked. I had found him collapsed near the stage with singed clothes and tried to drag him out, but there was too much smoke. I must’ve passed out because the next thing I saw was a fireman standing over me. And then I must’ve blacked out again.
Granddad and Nana exchanged another look. She smoothed the thin, itchy blanket by my leg. “He’s in the ICU. The police have been outside his room for the last couple of hours—”
“The police?” Shit, Ben. What the hell did you do?
Nana cleared her throat. “We believe they’ll charge him with fourth-degree arson.”
“Basically, it means he was acting reckless when he set fire to the Lyric,” Granddad added. “But judging by the damage to the building…”
“How bad was it?” Based on their faces, though, I already knew the answer.
“Total loss, honey.” Nana squeezed my leg.
I sank back into my pillow. “Total loss”? That theater had been around for decades. Had helped so many families. And what about Eliza’s grandmother? She had passed away years ago, but the tradition she’d been a part of had still stood. Her legacy had lived on.
Till now…
“Eliza Crowley sat outside your room for hours before finally going home,” Granddad said, his voice tense.
She was here?
“Got something to tell us, Reed?”
“It’s a long story,” I said.
Granddad crossed his arms.
I sighed. “We were together for a little while, but now we’re not.” The deep ache in my heart after leaving her in the treehouse almost a week ago resurfaced. And everything suddenly felt very cold. “It’s…it’s over, Granddad.”
He huffed. “It should’ve never begun.”
Yeah, I tried to tell myself the same thing. Didn’t work.
Nana hushed him and moved around the bed to pour me another glass of water. “A girl sits outside your room for hours, cries as her father practically has to drag her out of here…” She handed me the cup. “Doesn’t sound like something that’s over to me.”
Granddad mumbled under his breath and moved toward the window. “Honestly, Joyce, how can you encourage—”
“Oh, get over yourself, Louis,” Nana snapped. “I don’t need to encourage anything. You can’t fight what’s meant to be.”
But if it were meant to be, why does it have to be so damn hard?
Mom appeared in the doorway. I smiled and was about to say hi but stopped.
Her eyes were bloodshot and puffy, and the hand that held her cell phone trembled at her side.
“Susan?” Nana stood. “Susan, what’s wrong?”
Mom didn’t speak. She stared at me, blinking slowly before stepping into the room and closer to my bed.
“Mom?” I sat up straighter.
She sucked in a sharp breath. “Your father…There’s been an accident.”
No. Please, no. Not now. Not ever.
Nana gasped. Granddad hurried over to the bed and put his arm around her. “What do you mean, ‘an accident’?”
Mom wiped her eyes. “It was an IED. His unit went down in the attack. They…” She swallowed hard. “Not all of them made it.”
“But Dad?” My voice cracked. “What about Dad?”
Mom put her phone on my bed and took my hand. “They’re not sure. They’re still identifying the bod”—she sniffed—“the bodies. Three were taken in for injuries.”
“Well, that settles it, then. He’s one of those three. I’m sure of it,” Granddad said. “Patrick’s strong…strongest person I know. He’ll be fine.” He patted Nana’s shoulder. “He has to be.”
Please.
Please let him be.