Angels Walking

  “Ben was playing the baseball game of his life.”

  “First base.” Her mother cast worried eyes in her direction. “He plays first base.”

  “Yes, that’s right. First base.” Cheryl leaned back in her chair. “It was the playoffs and this was the season’s biggest game. Two outs, game tied at three apiece.”

  A slow smile lifted her mother’s weathered cheeks. She sank a little deeper into the pillows. “Prettiest day of the year. Perfect day to be at a ball park.”

  “The batter up was a hot hitter from Santa Rosa Beach.”

  “Nothing but home runs and triples.”

  “Exactly.” Cheryl looked toward the curtained window. “Only this day he hits a grounder to short. Shortstop bobbles it and recovers. He sweeps it into his glove and fires it to Ben at first base.”

  “Ben makes the out!” Her mother was staring at the air in front of her, seeing the game as if it were happening again.

  “Three down, Pensacola High up to bat. Last inning. Bottom of the seventh.” Cheryl could see her brother, see the determination in his face. “The first three batters get on. A walk, a hit pitch, and a single. Bases loaded.”

  “Ben’s up next.” She looked straight at Cheryl. “He batted cleanup, you know. This is a true story.” A few blinks and she wrinkled her face, studying Cheryl. “I’m sorry. Do I know you?”

  “I’m telling you a story about Ben.”

  Her mother’s vacant stare stayed several seconds before some sense of light returned to her eyes. She nodded barely. “That’s right.” She shifted her look back to the imaginary game in front of her. “Ben’s up to bat.”

  “That’s right. He walks to the plate. Six-foot-three and muscled arms. The outfield knows him.”

  “Yes, they do.” Her mother chuckled. “They all back up. Almost to the fence.”

  “Yes, but Ben just knows there’s nothing they can do to stop him. Not this time. His blond bangs hang just below his batting helmet. His eyes focused.”

  “Such beautiful eyes.” Her mother’s smile held a hint of sadness. “I wish he would come see me more often.”

  “He will. One day.” Cheryl paused. “The pitcher stares Ben down, just as ready to win. The only pitcher who ever gave Ben any trouble. But not this afternoon. Ben connects with the first pitch—a fastball—right at the belly of the bat.” She smiled big. “And the ball’s gone. Gone over the centerfield fence.”

  “Home run!” Her mother raised both hands and let them fall weakly back to the bed. “Pensacola Eagles win!”

  “Season champs.”

  “Wait!” Her mother turned, suddenly startled. “We should celebrate. I’ll make dinner.”

  Cheryl felt sick. How could she tell her mom the game had happened fifty years ago? She reached for her mother’s hand. “Ben already ate dinner.”

  “What?” Her mom jerked her hand back and tucked it in close to her chest. “Who are you? And why won’t you let Ben join us?”

  “Did you like the story?” Cheryl knew better than to call her Mom. She hadn’t used the name in years. “It’s a good story, right?”

  Again her mother relaxed, her eyes distant once more. “I like it.” She glanced at Cheryl, suspicious. “You can go home now. The housekeeper goes home at the end of the day.”

  “You want me to go home?”

  “Yes!” She pointed to the door. “I’ve had enough of you.”

  “Okay.” Cheryl stood. “You can sleep now.”

  “I will.” She worked her arms out of her coat and dropped it to the floor, all while keeping her eyes on Cheryl. She slid her feet beneath the covers and pulled the sheet and blanket close to her chin. “Tell Ben I’ll be there tomorrow.”

  “I’ll tell him.” Cheryl fought tears gathering in her eyes. She held up her hand. “Good-bye.”

  “Go home.” Her mom nodded, irritated. She made a brushing motion toward the door. “You’re off work.”

  Cheryl turned and walked out of the room. She had no idea if she’d really helped her mother or not. But at least now the woman seemed ready to sleep. She stopped in at Mr. Myers’s office on the way out. The man was sorting through a file on his desk. Cheryl found a tired smile. “She’s more settled now.”

  “Thank you.” He set the file down and stood. “Nights are the worst.”

  “Yes.” She pulled her cell phone from her purse and held it up. “Call me if anything else happens.”

  “I will.” Harrison Myers seemed genuinely troubled. “Call the center in Destin. Please. She’d be safer.”

  Cheryl tightened her hold on her purse. “I’ll think about it.”

  “Sooner than later.” He raised his brow. “For her sake.”

  His words ran through her head as she made the drive home and as she and Chuck and the girls watched Tangled. Her mother wouldn’t make the move easily. She was eighty-eight years old. Moving her now would probably destroy her.

  “You love watching Tangled, right, Meemaw?” Her oldest granddaughter looked up, innocent eyes sparkling.

  “I do.” She put her arm around the child’s shoulders. “I love a good story.”

  Again she shared a quick look with her husband. They hadn’t talked about it, but he would’ve known she had been telling her mother stories. It was the only way Cheryl had found to calm her down on nights like this. Twice this week and twice last week she’d made the trip, told the same story about Ben, and come home emotionally wrecked.

  Something had to change.

  When the girls left for the night, Chuck pulled her into his strong arms. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s so hard. She doesn’t know me.” The tears came now. “They want us to think about moving her.”

  Chuck clearly knew better than to debate the possibility. Not now anyway. Cheryl’s mother couldn’t stay at Merrill Place much longer. Instead her husband waited a few heartbeats and then he did the only thing he could. The only thing either of them could do.

  Quietly, confidently he prayed for a miracle.

  That somehow, some way, before God took her home, sweet Virginia Hutcheson might find peace.

  4

  PAIN RADIATED FROM HIS shoulder up into his neck and down through his chest. The worst pain Tyler had ever known. Despite that, he was about to be discharged from the hospital—the nurse had told him. But then what? Where was he supposed to go to get help? He couldn’t lift his arm, couldn’t move his fingers without searing pain.

  If he were a praying man, this would’ve been his finest hour. But prayer was part of another life. If God cared about Tyler Ames, He had never much showed it.

  Tyler closed his eyes. The pain meds helped. But he had hardly slept in the last few days. His team had paid for him to stay through this afternoon. Forty-eight hours. Long enough for a complete evaluation. So far no one had told him anything except that he was going home.

  “Mr. Ames?” A man entered the room.

  Tyler blinked and tried to focus. It was the doctor. He came up to the bed. “I’m Dr. Bancroft. How’s the pain?” The man pushed a few buttons and raised the back of Tyler’s bed.

  The sitting-up position helped rouse him. “Not great.” He squinted at the doctor. “What’s the verdict?”

  “I’m afraid it’s bad news.” The doctor leaned against the windowsill and crossed his arms. “You blew out your labrum. The rotator cuff is damaged, too. Can’t tell from the MRI how bad it is.” He let that sink in for a moment. “You need surgery.”

  Each sentence hit Tyler like so many cement trucks, plowing him down and running him over, leaving him flattened and unable to breathe. He pinched the bridge of his nose with his left hand, inhaled, and held it. If only he could will himself back to the start of the inning. Nine outs left, the crowd shouting his name. Pro scouts capturing every pitch for the brass in Cincinnati. Nine lousy outs.

  He lowered his hand. “I was throwing a perfect game.”

  “I know.” The doctor grimaced. “The story was on the front pa
ge of Sunday’s paper.” He pulled a chart from the end of Tyler’s bed. “We kept you here because your heart was acting up. Skipping beats and slipping into atrial fibrillation. That’s settled down now. The heart tests were negative.”

  Tyler exhaled. Every heartbeat sent a shockwave of pain through his torso. “What’s that mean?”

  “It means your heart’s fine. Sometimes pain can do that—if it’s intense enough.”

  He winced. “This probably qualifies.”

  Dr. Bancroft shook his head, the way people do when hope is slim. “I’m sorry.”

  Tyler had a hundred questions. What did the Blue Wahoos think and how about the scouts from the Reds, and when could he have surgery and what would the rehab process look like? But only one question mattered. He steeled himself. “I can play again, right? Next season?”

  The doctor nodded, almost too quickly. “Yes. I think so. You need surgery, but athletes come back from this type of thing. Definitely.”

  “When? When’s the surgery?” Tyler looked back at the door to his room. “Could we do it now? While I’m still here?”

  “Actually . . . you have to book that through an orthopedic surgeon.”

  Tyler remembered one of his teammates needing knee surgery last season. “I think I can get the name of a good one. Someone who can get me in quickly.” With his left hand he braced his right elbow against his body. “Sooner the better, right?”

  “Yes. Yes, definitely.” The man seemed troubled, as if he had even more bad news. “There is one thing. I’m not sure team insurance covers this type of surgery. Do you have another policy? Something . . . on your own?”

  Tyler’s heart bounced around inside his aching chest. “The team will cover it.” He allowed a laugh that was more outrage than humor. “I was on the mound when it happened.”

  “True. Very true.” The doctor pursed his lips and focused on the chart. “You might want to talk to management.” He nodded, clearly nervous. “Just in case.” He jotted something onto the chart. “Your car’s still back at the stadium, is that right?”

  “My car?” The haze of pain meds made it difficult to think. Saturday night felt like a lifetime ago. “I think so. Yes.”

  “We have a medical transport van. Someone can give you a ride.” Dr. Bancroft set the chart down, took a pad of paper from his pocket, and scribbled a few lines. Then he ripped off the top sheet and handed it to Tyler. “Here’s a prescription for pain medication. You’ll need these for the first few weeks.”

  “Thanks.” There wasn’t much else to say.

  “My family, we followed your game this fall. You were right there.” The doctor clucked his tongue. “You’ll get back. You’re too good to hang it up now.”

  “Appreciate that.” Even talking intensified the pain.

  “The nurse will be in shortly with discharge instructions. Obviously I want you to ice it twenty minutes at a time, and take your pain medication. The thing with pain is, don’t let it get ahead of you.”

  “Yes, sir.” He still had questions, but he couldn’t remember them.

  “The nurse is bringing in a sling. I don’t advise moving your arm until you see an orthopedic surgeon.” The doctor stood to leave. “Sorry again.” He paused. “Any questions?”

  Tyler blinked. His mind raced but it couldn’t get ahead of the searing pain. “No. No, questions.” He relaxed the muscles in his right shoulder. Anything to find an edge. “Well, maybe one.”

  Dr. Bancroft waited.

  “When are my next pain pills?”

  He checked Tyler’s chart once more. “Looks like you have about ten minutes.” He set the chart back in the rack at the end of the hospital bed. “I’ll have the nurse bring them in.”

  And with that he was gone. Tyler tried to take a full breath, but the pain was too great. He lowered the bed back a few inches and exhaled. There was no comfortable position. Not with his shoulder on fire. Every time he looked at his right arm he expected to see it barely hanging onto his body.

  The doctor’s news swirled in his mind. He had destroyed his labrum and damaged his rotator cuff—so badly he couldn’t move his arm without talking to a surgeon. And he’d done all that damage with a single pitch. He could see himself, winding up, getting ready to throw, and—

  “Tyler.” This time the voice was familiar.

  He opened his eyes and stared through the pain. “Coach.” As far as he could remember this was the first time someone from the club had been by. But he couldn’t be sure. They’d had him on morphine until this morning.

  Jep Black removed his Blue Wahoo baseball cap as he entered the room. “You don’t look too good.”

  “Nah, I’m fine.” Tyler’s breathing came in short bursts. All that the excruciating pain would allow. “Got me on the lineup tonight, or what?”

  The slightest smile lifted Jep’s lips. But it did nothing to ease the nervousness in his expression. He made his way to the side of the bed. “I talked to your doc.”

  “I need a little sewing up.”

  Jep shook his head. “Tyler . . . I’m sorry.”

  His nurse entered the room holding a tray with a single small cup. The pain pills. “You’re late.” He tried to smile, but his body wouldn’t cooperate.

  “Actually . . .” The nurse checked the clock on the wall. “Right on time.”

  Tyler had no words. He took the pain pills with shaking hands and downed it with the water at his bedside table. “Thanks.”

  When she was gone, Jep stepped closer to the bed again. “I can’t believe it. I mean . . . you were pitching perfect.”

  With his left arm, Tyler wiped the water off his mouth. “Another mountain.” He raised the bed again. No matter how much he hurt, he couldn’t let Jep know the extent of his pain. He was a pitcher, not damaged goods. “I’ll be back next season. Better than ever.”

  Jep looked from Tyler’s shoulder to his eyes. “The news . . . it isn’t good.”

  “I know.” He willed the pain pills to work. “Torn labrum.”

  “Well, that. Yes.” He hesitated. “Tyler, there’s no easy way to say this. You’ve been cut from the Wahoos.”

  The pain screamed through his body and soul. What had Jep said? Tyler narrowed his eyes. “They cut me?”

  “Yes.” Jep muttered something under his breath. “I hate this part of the game.” He pulled an envelope from his jeans pocket and set it on the table next to Tyler. “That’s your final check.” He gripped the bed rail and hung his head for a moment. When he looked up, genuine pain darkened his eyes. “This ain’t right. You’re an incredible pitcher, Tyler. One of the best. You work your way back to that mound. Prove ’em all wrong.”

  The room was spinning. Tyler grabbed the manager’s hand and the bedrail at the same time, steadying himself so he wouldn’t pass out. “Nothing to prove.” His words came in short bursts, the best he could do. “They . . . won’t cut me. . . . I’m Tyler Ames. . . . I’m their ace . . . No one can touch me, Coach . . . They’d be . . . crazy to—”

  “Tyler.” Jep worked his hand free and took a step back. “The decision came from the higher ups.” He shook his head. “Nothing I can do.”

  The man’s words didn’t make sense. Tyler was a Blue Wahoo. He’d been the best pitcher this year and now the Bigs wanted him. That was his life just a few days ago. How could this be happening? He tried to breathe but his lungs wouldn’t work right. Like he was underwater with a two-ton truck on his back. “What . . . about my surgery?”

  Jep shoved his hands in his pockets and sighed. “You signed a no-injury clause two years ago in Dayton. After your third arrest, Tyler. Remember? After you hurt your back in the moped accident.” He nodded toward the envelope on the table. “A copy of the clause is there with the check. Management wanted you to have it. In case you forgot.”

  Confusion lay like a wet blanket over the conversation. Tyler gripped his elbow. Why wouldn’t the pain pills work? He clenched his teeth. “I signed . . . what?”

&n
bsp; A drop of sweat fell off Jep’s forehead onto the hospital floor. “It’s all in there.” He pointed to the envelope. “The injury isn’t covered.” He stared at Tyler for several beats. “We got new guys coming in all the time. You know that.” Jep looked helpless. “It’s a business. Sometimes a player’s luck runs out.” He started for the door and stopped. “Prove ’em wrong, Ames. No one believes in you more than me.” With that he slipped his hat back on and left.

  If Tyler’s heartbeat was erratic Saturday after his injury he could only imagine what it was now. He held his right elbow close to his body and turned to the table next to him. The envelope was there. What had Jep said? Something about his final check? He blinked hard, forcing his mind to stay clear even for a few minutes.

  He grabbed the envelope with his left hand and wedged two of his fingers beneath the flap. His heart pounded and with each beat the aching sensation spread up into his neck and down through his torso. Finally he ripped open the top and pulled out the contents. The first was a sheet of paper with small print. Jep had tried to explain it. Something about his contract.

  With a snap of his wrist the paper opened all the way and he held it close to his face. The jolt caused him to cry out, but he caught himself before he might alert his nurse. If only the medication would take even the slightest edge off. Tyler tried to make out the words, but it took a while. His vision blurred the edges.

  Slowly the paragraphs came into focus. He scanned the words quickly until he saw this:

  Clause IV—No Injury: Due to previous off-field injuries and arrests in the Player’s past, he will at this time play without insurance coverage in case of an injury. Player assumes all responsibility for his medical costs, regardless of illness or injury obtained in future games. This clause may be renegotiated at a future date.

  Tyler felt the floor beneath his bed turn liquid. As if nothing was holding him up except the bed frame, and even that was starting to fall away. A no-injury clause? Why would he have signed that? How come his agent hadn’t intervened? He set the paper down on the table and squeezed his eyes shut. Somewhere in his distant memory a moment came to light.