CHAPTER 44
“Mattie. Mattie, wake up.”
The lights are too bright. The first things I notice clearly are the incessant beeping and the sterile, stuffy air. I squint at my sister and fight the urge to rub my eyes. Oliver offers me a coffee, staring at me like he doesn’t expect me to accept it.
“Thanks.” The coffee is perfect. An iced espresso with plenty of cream and a dash of cinnamon, that I know he didn’t get from some vending machine or even the hospital cafeteria. I take another sip, relishing the flavor and the hit of caffeine. For the first time in so long, I’m actually grateful that he knows me so well. “Thanks, Oliver. I needed this.”
He stands and stares at me in surprise. I can’t blame him. Three years we’ve been broken up, and I’ve never really stopped being a dick to him. After a minute, he sits down in the seat across from me.
“Any news yet?” I ask Nessa.
My sister takes her seat beside Oliver. When she reaches for his hand, he looks at me nervously, and I can’t help laughing. Maybe it’s the adrenaline and the nerves of rushing here only to wait while my mom is in surgery, but I can’t stop laughing once I start. It’s like the fog of resentment I’d harbored toward Oliver has finally lifted, and every tense interaction between us since is suddenly almost comical.
He is sitting there, looking at me like I’m going to come for his throat for holding my sister’s hand, as if his engagement ring hasn’t been on her finger for months. As if I don’t know that they must have done far more than hand-holding since they got together a year ago, after Leila brought Oliver back into my family’s life, and my sister couldn’t help falling for the man I once loved, no matter how hard I know she tried for my sake.
“The surgery went well,” my niece says, sitting next to me as always. “The doctor said they’re moving lola to a private room, and then we can visit once she wakes up.”
I give her a half-hug and slide my phone out of my pocket. Between the two planes and cabs it took to get here, I haven’t checked it in hours. Not since I sent Ramirez a vague message and called Skip to let him know that I wasn’t going to make it to the ballpark today, no matter the consequences. Ramirez deserved better than my series of texts; I should have called her on my way to the airport.
But the call telling me that my mom had fallen getting out of the shower and been rushed to the hospital left me too shaken to have a conversation with someone who sees more of me than the grumpy, aging ballplayer. I was too afraid that I’d fall apart the second I heard her voice, and I know how horribly unfair that is to her.
Of course, my screen is completely dark. The battery is dead, I don’t have a charger on me, and I haven’t memorized a number in years.
“You didn’t need to miss your game for me, Mattie,” my mom says, embarrassed that we’re fussing over her.
My sister adjusts the pillows behind my mom’s back while I sit next to her making sure she gets enough water. Leila sits on the arm of my chair, holding her grandmother’s hand and flipping through channels, knowing how much my mom hates missing her soap operas.
“I wouldn’t be anywhere but here, mom.” Looking at her in this hospital bed, it’s setting in how true my statement is.
I’ve noticed her getting older, but now that she’s in the hospital gown, propped up by pillows and surrounded by beeping machines, she looks so small. For the first time in my life, she looks fragile.
Baseball is my life, but there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for my family. Sure, I felt bad moving away when my team signed me, but I offered to buy her a house closer to me, and she didn’t want to move. When she didn’t want to leave the little duplex we grew up in, I paid it off for her. I have done everything I could to make sure she wants for nothing without stepping on the fierce independence that she passed onto Vanessa and me. During the off-season, I spend more time visiting her in the Bay Area than at my lonely house in southern California. I drop everything except practice and games when she comes to visit.
I really thought it was enough, but now I think of every single time I turned down an opportunity to take a trade to one of the Bay Area teams. One trade, and I could have been here, local for my family.
One trade, and I wouldn’t have met Ramirez.
I don’t realize that I’ve tensed up or that I’m sitting ramrod straight at the edge of my seat until Leila stops flipping channels and puts one hand on my shoulder.
“Turn up the volume,” my mom says.
Leila does as she’s told. She’s fidgeting on the armrest, but my eyes are locked on the small screen. The announcers reach a clear volume, reviewing the score and the last play of the game as Ramirez takes her place on the mound, shakes her head at Williams, and turns into her wind-up stance.
“She’s beautiful,” my mom says.
She has no idea.
Three perfect pitches later, the batter heads back to his dugout, and I finally let out the breath I’ve been holding. I know that Ramirez has the talent–that she doesn’t need me in order to claim success of her own–but seeing her prove it makes me so proud my chest aches.
Nine pitches, and Ramirez ends the fourth inning without a single error. I think my family is cheering, the announcers are analyzing whether or not the team has a chance to turn things around without me to head up the line-up, but all I can think about is Ramirez.
“We can change it to your program.” It takes far too much effort to make myself say that to my mom.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Mattie,” my sister interrupts. “There’s no way any of us are missing this game. We never miss your games, and that doesn’t change because you’re here.”
We watch the game crowded around my mom’s hospital bed while she waits for updates on her hip surgery and clearance to go home. At some point, I must have checked my blank phone screen one too many times, because my niece hands me a charger without a word. Inning after inning flies by, with our offense struggling to make a come-back, and weirdly, I couldn’t care less about the score. My shot at a championship is fading with every run-less at-bat, but I’m too thrilled watching Ramirez throw her fourth shut-out inning to be upset.
I check my phone during the commercial break and see her text and missed call. Only one of each, waiting for my response and giving me space. She shouldn’t have her phone in the dugout with her, but I refrain from sending her a million messages just in case. The last thing she needs while having a game like this is me breaking her focus for nothing.
There’s one other notification that catches my attention. It’s a number I saved years ago, even if I never planned to act on it.
Turning my attention back to the screen, I tell myself to ignore it. I tell myself that, if anything has changed, it’s my commitment to Ramirez. A commitment that’s new, fragile, and came when I least expected to find anyone.
I shake it off and watch my teammates turn things around in the final inning. Out of nowhere, after eight innings of errors and getting caught staring at the ball, our line-up manages to get the bases loaded with two outs. My family loses it when Dante steps up to the plate. When he knocks the ball out of the park, I’m pretty sure we’re about to get kicked out of the hospital for cheering so loud.
Just like that the game is tied.
Castillo hits the next ball out of the park, and I have no doubt the doctors are working double-time to get my mom cleared to leave.
Moments later, our room goes silent. Beeping machines and bated breath are the backdrop to Ramirez stepping up to the mound for one final inning. My girl is three outs away from a potential five-inning shut-out, and that feels almost as good as thinking of her as my girl.
We’re still celebrating her win, watching Dante and Pe?a douse her in ice water on screen, when my phone begins to ring. Turning it face down to ignore the number that can only want one thing, I turn back to the television and watch my girl give her post-game interview.