Chapter 15 #2
However, my mind has been circling around what Ruthie told me. How she didn’t want to be an agent. How she’d made decisions because of Cliff or for his parents. Hell, she’s doing something special for me.
Add in the near kiss between us, and her absence from today’s game after I’ve told her how important it is to me that she attends, and I’m a curve ball just waiting to be released from the pitcher’s clutch.
My irritation level is near .246, my batting average, which is actually on the high end for spring training.
When I’m finally back at the apartment, rushing to open the door, I’m vibrating with agitation, prepared not so much for a fight, but an inquisition. Why didn’t she attend today’s game? What was more important?
I can be a hothead, and I know this about myself. I’ve worked myself up into a full lather, as my granddad would say, until the front door pops open and I see Ruthie pacing the living room with a subdued Tulane in her arms.
“What’s wrong?” Spidey senses I didn’t have before Tulane came into my life prickle under my skin, knowing something isn’t right as I close the door behind my blustery entrance.
Ruthie presses a kiss to the side of Tulane’s head. “She has a fever. She’s been extra fussy today. Didn’t want to nap but doesn’t want to play either.”
“A what? How?” I drop my bag, which causes a heavy thud when it hits the floor. In my haste to reach Tulane, I stumble over the bulky bag, catching myself before faceplanting. Eventually placing my hand on Tulane’s back, heat emanates through her thin shirt. “What’s the matter, Tulip?”
Instantly, my girl shifts in Ruthie’s arms, reaching out for me, and I scoop her up. She’s a little bundle of gooey warmth.
Panic escalates. “Did you call a doctor? Give her medicine?”
“Didn’t you get my message?” Ruthie stares up at me, brown eyes wide with concern. She also looks exhausted.
“I haven’t checked my phone.” Why hadn’t I checked my phone? It should have been the first thing I did when I didn’t see them at the game. I’m not used to people checking in with me or checking in on them.
I shake my head. “What did the message say?”
“I called a local pediatrician. They said for now to simply monitor her. Liquids are a must. If she doesn’t eat, that’s okay. Baby Tylenol to help reduce the fever.”
I nod, prepared to ask if I even have the fever reducer, but then remember I do.
“I also felt a little stupid, not knowing Tulane’s medical history, when I’m supposed to be her mom.”
“Supposed to be?” I stare at her around Tulane’s head tucked against my shoulder. It’s been roughly a week of marriage, but it feels like Ruthie has been part of Tulane’s life for months. She is her mom, right now.
My own mother hadn’t known when I broke my ankle or injured my knee. Didn’t know when I had the flu or even a common cold. My dad had been the one to tackle all those things, and I wouldn’t say he handled them well. He wasn’t exactly a compassionate man.
But Ruthie has enough compassion to fill the Grand Canyon.
“Okay. Good point. I’ll find all her records and share them with you.” Tulane had to be up to date on all immunizations before she could enter the United States. She’ll eventually have dual citizenship being born in Japan but parented by Americans.
Later that evening, Tulane won’t stop crying. Every single time I set her down in the crib, she wails.
“Okay, baby. I’ve got you.” But I can’t keep hanging onto her. I have a game tomorrow and need some sleep. It’s bad enough I’m sleeping on a couch that’s too small for my body, not to mention, not great for my back.
By ten o’clock, Ruthie exits the main bedroom, having holed herself up again after a failed attempt at feeding Tulane dinner.
She whispers my name in the dark apartment. The glow of the muted television set is the only light in the place. “You need your rest. I can take her.”
Ruthie is a vision in pajama shorts and a thick-strapped tank top. She’s wearing those red-framed glasses, and her hair is piled up on her head. She looks young and hesitant. Like I might not appreciate her offer of help when I’m growing desperate.
I step closer to her, handing over Tulane who feels like she’s finally nodding off to sleep.
“If it’s alright with you, I’d like to take her to my room. Give you some privacy and hopefully some quiet.” Ruthie runs her hand down Tulane’s back and presses a kiss to her downy hair.
“Yeah. Of course. Whatever you think will work.” As I watch Ruthie walk down the hallway and disappear into the main bedroom, I feel like a failure.
The soft snick of the door might as well be as loud as a metal gate, locking her away.
I don’t like this underlying tension between us, and I especially don’t like how I’m not a great dad.
With a heavy sigh, I collapse on my back on the couch, kicking my feet up on the armrest. I stare at the flash of color coming from the television, a replay of today’s game, and my error.
I curse my body. The crack in my knees. The ache in my lower back.
And despite the exhaustion of trying to placate a sick child, I suddenly can’t sleep.
Especially when I hear Tulane crying again and then abruptly stop, like all the gas ran out of her.
Scrubbing a hand down my face, I glance up at the ceiling fan, swirling in a slow circle.
What the hell do I think I’m doing, trying to raise a kid on my own while being a professional ball player?
Moments like tonight remind me how lonely I’ve been, but I’m not alone.
I have Ruthie, holed-up in a large room with a king-sized bed and my kid.
I should be in there with them. It should be me soothing Tulane’s aches, but I won’t be selfish.
I won’t deny her love from all angles. A multitude of people loving on her, like my Hiroshima family had.
Maybe I’d been wrong to return to the U.S.
Thinking here was better than there. Thinking I could do this on my own.
While I have Ruthie, I only have her for a year.
Long enough for my sweet Tulip to fall in love with her and for Ruthie to break her little heart when she leaves . . . like my mom left me.
Not quite the same thing but still the same sensation. A broken heart is a broken heart.
+ + +
In the morning, I hate to leave them. Ruthie looks even more exhausted. Tulane doesn’t look any better. Her little nose is running, and she has a barky cough.
“I’m going to take her to an urgent care,” Ruthie tells me. Dark circles curl underneath her eyes. She’s wearing her glasses again. Her hair is still piled high on her head. Last night she had on shorts and a tank top. Now she’s wearing a sweatshirt and sweats, covering up every inch of her skin.
I nod, grateful but feeling guilty. “I don’t exactly have a nine-to-five job. One where I can take the day off.”
“That’s why I’m here,” Ruthie assures me, weakly. Her voice is groggy.
“You okay?”
“Yeah, just a little tickle in my throat.”
“Oh boy. Are you sick?” Are both my girls ill?
“Haven’t built up the mom-resistance yet, I guess.” Her smile is timid as she glances at Tulane who lies on the couch, eyes forward toward the television where a kid’s program is playing at a low volume.
Ruthie would make a great mom.
“Why aren’t you a mother?” I blurt before realizing how insensitive my question is. I know all about women struggling to have children and how difficult the subject can be. I also understand Ruthie is Tulane’s stepmother, but I mean why hasn’t Ruthie had children before now.
She shrugs, her motion almost as sad as the sudden dullness in her eyes. “Just never got pregnant.”
Her monotone answer reveals only one thing: she’s lying. Another secret. One I don’t press because she looks too worn out to talk.
“I promise I’ll come right home.” So far, I’ve attended practices, participated in games, and come home every night.
The actions are less about being a dutiful husband, but more about keeping my promises and coming home because home is where I want to be.
Duty has nothing to do with my position.
I’m thankful trouble hasn’t found me, but then again, I’m not out looking for it either.
The only kind of trouble I want involves my wife, and trouble is the furthest thing I’d call her.
Within minutes, I’m dressed, gear collected, duffle bag full of snacks and an energy drink, and turn back when I’m at the front door, hand on the knob, but not opening it yet.
Ruthie is sitting on the couch with Tulane in her lap, both girls staring at the television as Ruthie softly sings some kid song I don’t know.
Everything in me wants to stay. Wants to take care of my girls, but I need to go.
“Hey, flower. Call me if it’s anything more than a fever, yeah?” I’ll be checking my phone as often as I can today.
She turns her head, leaning it against the back of the couch. “Of course.”
I nod once and then turn the doorknob. While facing the door to exit, Ruthie calls out to me. “Hey Bolan?”
Spinning around, the door whacks me in the knee because I’m startled by the sudden call of my name.
“Yeah?”
“Catch all the catches.” She further shocks me by placing her fingers on her lips and blowing me a kiss.
I lift my hand, spreading my fingers wide to catch that kiss in my palm before squeezing my fingers tight to close my fist.
“Got it,” I call out, like I’m racing for a pop fly that’s gone behind home plate, hoping to catch the ball for an easy out.
Only, I don’t want to strike out with my wife.
With her kiss in my hand, I make a big show of tucking it in my pocket, patting over the spot to emphasize where I’ll keep it safe.
Ruthie softly chuckles which is the first happy sound I’ve heard from her in days. “Anyone ever tell you that you’re ridiculous?”
“Yes. And from you, I’m taking it as a compliment.” Just like her tossing me a kiss made my day.
Especially when the Anchors lose again, and I come home to find Tulane tucked on Ruthie’s lap, both girls bundled under a blanket on the couch.
Both of them sick.