Angels Walking

  Tyler hesitated for a few seconds, but then he stood and the two of them laughed the way they had when they were kids. “You’re still crazy, Marcus.” They hugged like brothers and then Tyler held up the car keys. His laughter fell away. “Hey, man. After my appointment . . . can I take the car to Simi Valley? I have . . . a stop to make.”

  Marcus thought he understood. Tyler’s parents lived in Simi Valley. They hadn’t talked about it, but Cheryl Conley said they weren’t in Tyler’s life. “Go where you want. Take your time.” He nodded toward the field. “I’ll be here.”

  With that they parted ways. Marcus jogged down the steps through a door to the locker room. As he went, he actually felt different. Lighter in the soul, happier. As he reached his teammates he realized what the feeling was, and how God had met the challenge. More than all the fame and money the world could give him, God had given him something greater.

  A purpose.

  ANGIE AMES HAD a strange sense lately. She and Bill prayed every day for Tyler—the way they’d prayed since that day the waitress had talked to them. They had looked for her several times since then, but she was never there. No one seemed to know her. Of course, they were still saving money, hoping for the chance to fly to Florida and find their son. Let him know how sorry they were, how they had been wrong to let so much time pass without finding him. They had cut corners everywhere possible.

  They planned to book the flight in a few weeks.

  Maybe that was why lately when they prayed for Tyler, Angie felt a greater sense of hope. A greater expectancy.

  But as Angie’s hopes soared, Bill’s seem to sink. He was more discouraged than ever. “How could Tyler forgive me? Even if we go and talk to him face-to-face?”

  Angie figured they’d need to fly to Florida. Only then it would be obvious how God was working in Tyler’s life. And Angie believed God was working. By now Tyler’s shoulder was probably healed. He would be pitching again, working with a trainer, and finding his way back to the top. He was a fighter. She had always believed in him—even during the years of silence.

  That morning she was working the front desk for the fence company when the phone rang. “Hello?”

  Silence.

  Angie was about to hang up when she heard something. Like the sound of a freeway. “Hello?”

  “Mom?”

  Her breath caught. “Tyler?” She pressed the phone to her face and closed her eyes. How many seasons had passed since she’d heard him? “Where are you?”

  “I’m here in LA. It’s a long story.” He sounded clear-minded.

  “Okay.” She held onto every word. Tyler was here? In California?

  “I have an appointment and then . . . I’d like to come by the house.”

  “We’ll be there.” She closed her eyes, too excited to breathe. Before the end of the day she would see her son again. She tried to focus. “What time, do you think?”

  “Around four. Give or take.” Again there was the sound of traffic. “Sorry. I’m at a pay phone.”

  “That’s fine.” She pictured him standing on the edge of a road somewhere. “Be careful. We’ll see you in a few hours.”

  “Thanks, Mom.” He hesitated. “I should have good news by then.”

  “Tyler . . .” There was so much to say, so many blown-up bridges to rebuild. “We haven’t known how to reach you.”

  “That was my fault.” The sound of traffic grew louder. “We can talk about it later. I have to go.”

  “All right.” Her mind raced. She didn’t want the phone call to end but she had to trust him. This afternoon he’d be home with some sort of news. She squeezed her eyes shut. “I love you.”

  Another pause, and this time she could hear the emotion in his voice. “Love you, too.”

  Angie hung up the phone and stared at it. The call had actually happened, right? She pressed a few buttons and saw proof of the unfamiliar number. Yes, he had called. They had talked for just under two minutes. Which meant later today their boy would be standing in the living room again. Angie shielded her eyes with her hand. She had missed him so much. Every day, every month. The seasons and years lost forever.

  She pushed away the thought. Things would be different now. She could hear it in Tyler’s voice. Thank You, God . . . thank You. The waitress had been right about Tyler and prayer and not giving up. I knew You were doing something, God, and now this! Thank You. She could hardly wait to find Bill in the warehouse and tell him the news.

  Their son was coming home.

  29

  TYLER CLIMBED BACK INTO his friend’s Hummer and just sat there, not moving. Sweat beaded along his brow and his hand shook as he gripped the steering wheel. Good thing he hadn’t eaten in a few hours because he would’ve lost it all. Of all the things he’d done in his life, placing that call was maybe the hardest.

  I did it. He looked in the rear view mirror. I actually did it. She doesn’t hate me.

  He remembered to exhale. If Virginia were here, she would’ve cheered for him. In her world, there would be no question whether a son would call home. He would always call. If he failed a class or crashed a car or struck out in baseball, he would call.

  But Tyler’s life had been very different. Until now.

  It took a full minute, staring at invisible memories through the windshield, before he let the relief come. He had made the call and now he was ready to face whatever came next. Instead of the yelling and criticizing and ranting about being disappointed, his mother had been kind. Happy, even.

  When his breathing returned to normal he started the car and pulled back into traffic. This was the day he had longed for and dreamed about. The day he had planned during his chats with Virginia. He would talk to the surgeon about scheduling the surgery, and together they would make a plan to get him pitching again. Then he was going to drive home and see his parents.

  The whole thing felt like the most wonderful dream.

  As he arrived at Dr. Shawn Walsh’s orthopedic office, Tyler thought about Sami. She was only an hour away. He wondered if she’d seen his message from yesterday and if she’d responded. He had no way to tell until he could get to a computer. Which wouldn’t happen until tonight at Marcus’s house.

  Tyler parked the car, locked it, and stared at the beautiful building. This is all You, God. Here goes! He could picture how the next few hours would go, and he could hardly wait. This was the miracle Cheryl had prayed for! On the third floor he signed in and after a few minutes he was ushered into an MRI room.

  “It’s been so long since your injury, we need to do another MRI.” The nurse smiled. “Besides, this is the best machine in the world. Dr. Walsh will need the clearest view of your shoulder.”

  Another reason to be grateful. Maybe his arm wasn’t as badly damaged as the doctor at the Pensacola hospital had thought. The test took forty minutes and then Tyler spent another thirty in the waiting room before he was called back to an exam room. Something big was about to happen. Dr. Walsh would make him better than new.

  This time around, he would soar through the minors.

  The exam room had a wall of windows overlooking palm trees and mountains. Tyler was ready to work, ready to do whatever it took to get back in form. The surgery couldn’t come soon enough. There was a knock at the door. Tyler sat up straighter, his right arm tucked in its brace again. “Yes?”

  An athletic-looking man opened the door and stepped in. “I’m Dr. Walsh.”

  They shook hands. “Tyler Ames. Thank you . . . for seeing me on such short notice.”

  The man smiled. “Marcus is a friend. He says I have to get you back in a uniform.”

  “Yes, sir.” Tyler liked this doctor. The man didn’t look a day over thirty—younger than he had expected. He’d probably played the game himself before med school.

  For a few seconds, Dr. Walsh read the notes in what must’ve been Tyler’s chart. Then he set the folder down and drew a long breath. “Let’s take a look at your arm.”

  Tyler ease
d it free from the brace and undid the latches at the back of his neck and his waist. When the brace was off and on the table beside him, Dr. Walsh stepped up. “I’m sorry you’re only getting help now.” He shook his head “Those no-injury contracts should be illegal. If you’re well enough to play ball, they should cover you. Period.”

  As much as Tyler agreed, there was no going back. His heart pounded in his throat, anxious for the next step.

  “Can you do this?” Dr. Walsh raised his elbow out to his side. “See how far you can go.”

  Tyler tried. He really did. He lifted his arm an inch, maybe two, but the pain was like burning knives through his shoulder and neck. He winced. “Sorry. I think . . . my muscle isn’t what it used to be.”

  “That’s fine.” The doctor tried again. “Let’s do this.” He straightened his arm and lifted it directly in front of him. “Go ahead.”

  Again Tyler tried. He put his arm in the right position, but even straightening it was beyond painful. As he went to lift it he felt a pop and he cried out. Not loud or long, but he hadn’t expected the sudden pain. He hadn’t tried anything like this since he’d been injured. It hurt enough just getting through the day in a brace.

  Dr. Walsh ran him through a few more drills, all of which Tyler failed. Basically, he couldn’t move his arm more than an inch or so. It was simply too torn apart, too painful.

  “This is what I was afraid of.” The doctor leaned against the nearby counter. “Tyler, your shoulder’s worse than you thought. I read the doctor’s report from the hospital in Pensacola.” He took the chart and opened it again. “The damage appears to be far more significant.” He set the file down once more and came alongside Tyler. “Your labrum runs around the shoulder socket.” He lightly touched Tyler’s shoulder along the front and back. “We usually explain tears by varying degrees. A 30- or 60-degree tear, and sometimes—in worst-case scenarios—we might see a tear that goes halfway around. One hundred and eighty degrees.”

  Tyler nodded. He’d heard this before. He was ready to get to the part about fixing him.

  “In your case, though, there really isn’t any labrum left.” Dr. Walsh pressed his lips together. “I look at baseball players’ shoulders all day long. I work with college players and pros and some high school kids.” He turned his eyes to Tyler. “I’ve never seen a case this bad.”

  What was he supposed to say to that? The pain was still shooting through his body from the effort of trying to move his arm. “So . . . when can you fix it?”

  “Well, that’s not all.” The doctor gave a single shake of his head. “Looks like your rotator cuff is shot, too. Sometimes when the labrum suffers a catastrophic blow, the rotator takes the brunt of the force.”

  Tyler felt sick to his stomach. “So . . . a longer recovery?”

  Dr. Walsh returned to his spot against the counter. He looked at Tyler for a long beat. “I’m really sorry. I don’t know how else to say this.” He crossed his arms. “There’s no way you’ll pitch again, Tyler. You’ll be lucky to toss a ball to your son someday.”

  What? Tyler blinked. None of the doctor’s words made sense. Strange ocean-type sounds crowded out Tyler’s hearing. He stared at the doctor. The man’s mouth was moving, but no words came. Nothing he could understand.

  “Tyler? Are you tracking with me?”

  “Sir?” Tyler rubbed the back of his neck. He needed his brace. That would help his recovery, right? He grabbed the brace from the table beside him and snapped it back into place. Carefully he slid his right arm safely inside. There. Everything was going to be okay.

  “Tyler?” The doctor moved closer. He put his hand on Tyler’s left shoulder. “Are you okay?”

  Am I okay? “I’ll work harder than anyone. As soon as . . . as soon as you fix my shoulder. So I can start rehab and training and—”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t think you heard me.” The man exhaled hard. Clearly whatever he was trying to say wasn’t easy. “It looks like a grenade tore through your shoulder. You’re done pitching.” Dr. Walsh barely paused. “I’m going to try to put you back together. I’ll use cartilage and muscle and try to build you a labrum from that.” He stared at Tyler. “But you will never pitch professionally again. Do you understand?”

  The words were getting through now, but Tyler couldn’t believe they were for him. God had arranged this surgery. This was supposed to be his miracle. “Isn’t it possible? I mean, you could go in and it might not be so bad. You repair it and I’ll work harder than anyone you ever operated on. I could make it back, right? Things like that happen.”

  This time Dr. Walsh wasn’t going to argue with him. Tyler could see it in his expression. “I haven’t seen that with your kind of injury. But yes, sometimes a patient will surprise us.”

  “Okay, then.” Tyler could breathe again. “When can you operate? I’m ready anytime.”

  “I have an opening in the morning. If you can be here by six-thirty. Our surgery center is on the fourth floor.” He explained that the operation would take place around eight and he’d be in recovery after that. Someone could drive him back to Marcus’s house late that afternoon.

  Tyler didn’t hesitate. “I’ll be here. I’m ready now.”

  Hesitation shadowed the doctor’s expression. “Don’t get your hopes up. I can’t overstate the fact: your injury . . . it’s one of the worst I’ve seen.”

  “Then my recovery will be that much more of a miracle.”

  “I’ll do what I can.” The doctor excused himself to write up the orders for tomorrow.

  “Thank you.” Tyler watched him go. Then he stood and walked to the window. Down in the parking lot, other patients were coming and going. People with broken bones and busted dreams. Tyler clenched his teeth. None of them wanted it the way he did. He would get better and he would pitch again. He had no doubts. Not a single one.

  But by the time he left the office thirty minutes later, weariness had set in. He’d be lucky to throw a ball to his son one day? Was that really what Dr. Walsh believed? My shoulder looks that bad? Tyler focused on the road ahead. He didn’t need a map to know where he was going. The 405 to the 101 to the 118. The Simi Valley Freeway.

  The miles disappeared beneath the Hummer and when Tyler began to see signs for Cochran Boulevard, a heavy cloak of doubt fell over him. He was supposed to be bringing his parents good news. He was getting his surgery. He was going to be okay. Rehab would start next week and before they knew it, he’d be back pitching again. Running hard after his dream.

  Their dream.

  But now . . . how could he walk in and say that? Dr. Walsh had given him no hope whatsoever. So why was he going to his parents’ house, anyway? What am I going to say? He should’ve gone to college. If he’d gone to UCLA he wouldn’t have gotten into trouble. He would’ve dominated the conference and come out a champion. He would’ve been in the majors by now—just like Marcus Dillinger.

  And he never would’ve been on that Blue Wahoos pitcher’s mound desperate for perfection. He skipped college and now . . . now he was an out-of-work janitor who might never pitch another . . .

  He let the thought die there. With the greatest determination he pictured Virginia, while he sat beside her. One of their conversations came back to him. I don’t love you for what you can do or for what you might accomplish. He could see her smiling, feel her love still. I love you because you’re my son. That’s enough.

  For Virginia Hutcheson, yes.

  But would it be enough for Bill and Angie Ames? He had promised them good news. Now the best news he could give them was the fact that his surgery was in the morning. Anything beyond that would be an exaggeration. A lie even.

  He took the exit and made a left turn at the bottom of the off-ramp. His parents lived in a tract house in the Valley Heights subdivision. Nothing fancy, but more than enough. As Tyler turned past the sign he was struck by the way it looked older than he remembered it. Not as clean and well kept.

  Nothing stays the same, he thoug
ht. Not even home.

  By the time he pulled into his parents’ driveway, his heart pounded in his throat so loud he could barely think. How long had it been since he’d seen his parents’ house? The house he’d grown up in?

  His stomach was in knots. Maybe he should scrap the idea, turn around, and wait another six months. Let the surgery happen, do the rehab, and figure out whether Dr. Walsh was right. If he could prove the man wrong, if he could fight his way back to a professional pitcher’s mound, then . . . then he could come home.

  That would be the sort of news his parents would want to hear.

  Yes, that was a much better idea. He was about to put the Hummer in reverse when his mother opened the front door. She looked thinner than before, her hair shorter, grayer. Sorrow and fear seemed to tighten the lines around her eyes. She didn’t stay on the doorstep. Instead she hurried down the walk to the driver’s door of the Hummer.

  He had no choice now so he opened the door and stepped out. His shoulder was killing him.

  “Tyler.” His mother held her ground, didn’t rush at him or try to say too much at once. The years had created more than one kind of distance. She noticed his brace. “How are you?”

  Her concern touched him. No matter how broken the trail of yesterdays, she would always be his mother, always have a connection to the condition of his soul. “I’m fine.” He walked to her and slipped his good arm around her neck. The hug wasn’t long or particularly full of emotion. But it was a start.

  He was too distracted for anything more, too busy wondering how he would tell them this latest bad news or whether he would tell them at all. Tyler took a deep breath. He searched her anxious eyes. “Thanks for letting me come.”

  “Of course.” Her expression showed her restraint. A smile softened her face and she linked her arm through his. “Your father’s inside.”