Curveball

by Teresa Michaels

  “I don’t care,” she expresses, dabbing at her eyes with the collar of her shirt. “I thought you were dying.”

  “Well, now I know why my ear is wet,” I muse, wiping one of her tears away, “and why I couldn’t breath.”

  As the latter part of my comment leaves my mouth I instantly regret it because Breanne practically jumps off of me, apologizing as she kneels by my side. It’s probably better off this way. Given her reaction to my questions about her dating in the future, I’m not sure how she’d react if she felt what I was really thinking.

  “I was trying to shake you awake,” she says, as if she has to justify her proximity, “and I may have lost my cool and slapped you,” she pauses, staring at her hands that she’s knotting in her lap, “a few times.” She peaks up at me through her lashes, looking ashamed. “I didn’t know what to do.”

  I close my eyes and fold my good arm under my head like I don’t have a care in the world. “You can beat me senseless all you want if I get to wake up like that again; minus the tears though,” I tell her.

  “So, the venom did spread to your brain,” she replies, and we both laugh. She dries a few more tears and then in a concerned tone asks, “Do you think you can get up?”

  I nod and roll to my side. Breanne helps me to the log I had been sitting on when I passed out. I notice for the first time since I regained consciousness that what sun is visible in the shielded sky has faded to a pinkish hue.

  “How long was I out for?” I demand, and then look at my watch to answer my own question. Shit, it’s almost 6 o’clock! “Fuck!” I yell. “The entire day is wasted.”

  Now her flipping out makes perfect sense. She sat here by my side, alone, for hours. “Breanne, what were you thinking? You should have kept going,” I scold her.

  “And leave you hear on your own?” she retorts, and I think she’s offended.

  “I would have understood.”

  “Would you have left me?” she asks. Her face is turning red and I’m positive she’s taken my words the wrong way.

  “I could have carried you,” I clarify.

  “Obviously that wasn’t an option and neither was abandoning you,” she snaps. Breanne furiously digs through her purse and hands me what she says is the last of the pain reliever with a half-empty water bottle. The only thing I can concentrate on is that fact that she stayed. She has so much to lose and yet she stayed.

  “Wait,” she commands and then hands me a bag of peanuts. “You need to eat something first or you’ll probably throw up.” She feels my head and purses her lips together. “You still have a fever. We need to get you to a doctor.” I do as she says and watch her stare off in space, impatiently playing with her necklace.

  “I’m shocked you’d treat me this way in my condition. And these nuts were meant for you.”

  She glares at me for a long minute and I glare right back, overemphasizing my expression until she bites her lip to conceal a smile. She’s trying to stay pissed but I know she can’t help it.

  “Are you done yelling at me?” I ask.

  “Even semi-conscious you drive me crazy.”

  “Do I now?” I ask in a husky voice, and watch her roll her eyes in response.

  Breanne packs our meek belongings into her purse and adjusts the splint when I’m standing. “What did you do all that time?” I ask.

  “Oh, you know. Read a book, took in the sights, enjoyed nature,” she mocks.

  When I don’t reply she sighs, and then gives a half-hearted laugh.

  “Let’s see. After I got you settled I nervously watched the woods, waiting for another snake to lunge out of the brush. I kept trying to wake you up to figure out what to do but eventually decided to wait it out, while checking your pulse every few minutes,” she rambles.

  After scooping up her jacket and sliding it on, she continues. “I watched deer pass by, stared at the picture of my family, swore at you when you wouldn’t move and fought hard not to eat the rest of our food,” she admits.

  We both know that by staying with me she lost the entire day. I feel horrible about our set back, not that I could have predicted a snake would be waiting to attack. I know it was probably eating at her the entire time that if she decided not to leave me she was putting off being reunited with her kids. The last thing I want is for her to regret helping me.

  “Thanks for taking care of me.”

  “I think we may finally be even,” she mutters.

  “Actually, I think you’ve got one-up on me now. But why don’t we get home before we decide if the debt is settled,” I suggest, not wanting to dismiss the possibility that other obstacles could stand in our way. She flashes me a weak smile and pulls me forward.

  We start walking slowly and I become aware that I am not in good shape. Opening and closing my hand into a fist is difficult and the tingling sensation, which has a burning element, borders on excruciating. I know it’s a long shot, but part of me is hopeful that either it’s because of the fabric being tied too tight or that the splint is causing the feeling and limiting the range of motion. Still, as if it’s going to help wake up my muscles and nervous system in the area, I continue flexing my fingers and turning my wrist. As I do this, I feel her watching me the entire time.

  “How bad does it hurt,” she asks, concerned.

  “Pretty bad,” I reply. “I’m fairly confident my career is over.”

  “Don’t say that, you’re young. I bet you’ll make a full recovery,” she encourages.

  “I wouldn’t bet on it,” I say. Maybe if she knows the extent of my old injury she’ll understand why I’m so skeptical.

  I begin by telling her about my third season in the majors, which at that time was the best season of my career. I remember every game, every pitch in detail; from the tension building up in my arm as I wound up, the feel of the ball being released from my hand and the anticipation of waiting those few seconds that felt like minutes until the ball reached it’s destination.

  2010 marked the teams 110th season. We knew it would be difficult, starting and ending with games against our biggest rivals; the New York Yankees. We only had two games left to clinch a spot in the play-offs and I was confident we’d have a repeat of the 2004 season when they broke the curse of the Bambino. With bases loaded and a power-hitter at bat I threw a fastball, my 2,563rd pitch that year. But just as the ball left my hand I heard a pop. I later learned my fastball had reached 102 miles per hour and that I had struck out the batter, but I was in far too much pain to care; I had torn my ulnar collateral ligament, which stabilizes the elbow joint.

  “The weeks that followed were some of the worst. My agent made arrangements for me to fly to Alabama to have a renowned doctor perform Tommy John surgery on my elbow, which is where they take a tendon from another part of your body to replace the torn ligament. I knew the recovery and rehab would be tough but the drama in my personal life added a whole other layer of bullshit to the mix,” I say.

  “What do you mean?” she asks.

  I laugh at the memory. Not with humor, more like disbelief.

  “So my agent drives me home from the airport a few days after my surgery. I couldn’t carry my luggage so he offered to help me inside. We walk into the house and Amber is standing in the foyer holding her purse and there are boxes stacked all around,” I describe. “It was over-the-top dramatic. It was obviously for show. Brett never looked so uncomfortable,” I snort, shaking my head.

  “Anyway, I ask her what’s going on and she tells me that my injury made her realize that she was meant to be with someone who hadn’t passed their prime. She actually said her destiny was to be married to a professional athlete…someone who was a ‘winner’. And based on her Internet research of my injury she was sure my career was over, and so was our future.”

  “Are you serious, she really said that?” Breanne asks, appalled.

  “Yup. After four years together it was over just like that.”

  “Talk about a low blow,” she says, and then
mutters just loud enough so I can hear her, “what a bitch.”

  “Tell me about it,” I agree. “I had to deal with that and not knowing if I would recover enough to continue playing. The manager of the Sox had cleaned house in the off-season that year. Every time the phone rang I was certain I’d be finding out I was being traded or bought out of my contract with no where to go.” Surprisingly, that call never came.

  “Instead, I got the ultimate revenge; I came back after a year off and had the best season of my life,” I boast. “But as they say, history repeats itself; well parts of it anyway. My contract’s up now and my injury started acting up again towards the end of the season. The other morning before I left for the airport the media was having fun at my expense trying to predict what’s in store for me next. Add the snake bite to my hand; I’m screwed,” I explain.

  “What will you do if you can’t play?” she asks.

  I shrug. I’ve thought a lot about this question without having a definitive plan. Like anyone who’s in their prime it’s hard to imagine having to rely on your plan B.

  “I don’t know. Coach maybe, or be a commentator.” What else could I do, I think? I’m not worried about money; I have far more than I need. My biggest fear is to end up being a has-been that has nothing to offer, drunk in bar, and talking to random people about the good ole days.

  “Did you have any clue how shallow she was? I mean, how can you be with someone for four years and not know what they are capable of?” she asks. I wonder if she’s thinking about her own situation.

  “I guess hindsight is everything,” I reply.

  I think back to that time and how mutually shallow our relationship was. She was beautiful. Blue eyes, platinum blonde hair, a great figure and smart. It wasn’t until after she left that I realized how she used her intelligence to manipulate our entire relationship. Like the way we met in a bar, how she knew all about baseball and my stats specifically, both personal and professional. At one point she actually tried to get me to fire Brett and hire her. We never had deep, meaningful conversations and the only thing we had in common was that we benefited from being together; me by having an attractive woman at my side at all times and her by having status.

  “It’s not that I didn’t think she’d leave me, I never actually thought about it. I don’t know that I even cared. Maybe my ego was part of the problem,” I confess. “You don’t realize until you’re in the spotlight that a lot of importance is placed on image. At least I didn’t. I knew I didn’t love her, but when you’re young, naïve and have people constantly telling you what you should do and what you want to hear,” I trail off.

  “It’s hard to know what’s real,” she says, finishing my thought.

  “Yeah,” I agree.

  “So if you knew you didn’t love her then why did you stay? And why have you sworn off relationships?”

  “I don’t know. It was convenient. And I guess I felt that if she could pull the rug from underneath me like that, then I was better off playing the field. I was mostly pissed at myself but it still hurt. I can only imagine how bad it would have hurt if I had loved her. “

  Without warning, Breanne halts, throwing an arm across my chest and I stop, too. “What’s wrong?” I ask, looking around and then back at her.

  “A clearing,” she says, her voice full of hope.

  My eyes dart forward and I see what she sees. A break in the trees ahead reveals an open field. We exchange a glance and jog towards the opening. As we step out of the forest we are rewarded with increased visibility. It’s still twilight but it’s light enough to get a good view of our surroundings. The openness goes on for as far as we can see; we are standing on the edge of a field filled with row after row of what I assume to be some kind of fall harvest.

  “There, do you see that?” she squeals.

  I squint then sigh with relief. “It’s either a mirage or a barn,” I say, and we both break into a run.

  The barn is two stories with a silo to the left and looks reddish in color, but weathered. We decide to walk around to the front, hoping that a farmer’s house is on the other side. Instead, we find a gravel driveway that extends a few yards where it ends, and a dirt road branches off to the right. What light remains in the sky doesn’t allow us to see much else, but it’s obvious that whoever owns this barn doesn’t live close-by.

  “Hey, I know we are close but in a few minutes we won’t be able to see anything. I think we should check out the inside of the barn and get settled. We’ll be better off waiting until the morning when we can see and have more energy,” I suggest but then take out my phone and turn it on to see if by some miracle we have a signal.

  When I see that we still have no connection to the rest of the world I feel as if a cruel joke continues to be played on us. At least this reassures me that we should stay put for the night. The corners of her mouth pull down with disappointment. Her eyes wildly dart around and I assume she’s trying to find fault with my logic. Without responding she simply huffs then turns on her heels and walks to the doors of our night’s shelter.

  The two large doors of the barn are secured shut with a padlock. Without thinking I find a large rock and launch it threw a nearby window using my left arm. I take off one of my shoes and jam loose the few shards of glass that remain in the window frame so we can pass through without cutting ourselves. Breanne watches me with skeptical eyes.

  “Looks like you’ve done this before,” she teases.

  “My records clean,” I reassure her, “But, there may have been a few locked, abandoned barns where I grew up,” I admit.

  The house I grew up in, where my parents still live, overlooks Keuka Lake from high on a hill and is about five miles outside our small town. While five miles is not that far, our closest neighbor was about a quarter mile up the road. There were no neighborhood kids to play with, which meant that I spent a lot of time with my sister.

  “Shall we,” Breanne says, and then helps me put my shoe back on before we climb inside.

  Taking in our surroundings, I have a sense of nostalgia. Growing up there were many days where mom would send us outside to play. On those days we would pretend we were explorers from another time. I remember one time we took a torn sheet and made a long house and pretended we were the first settlers to America, looking to make friends with the Iroquois tribe. We’d build forts and every now and then we’d make our way down the hill, through the woods to an abandoned barn, which we did break into and claimed as our own, ignoring the no trespassing sign. This isn’t our barn, but standing here now, with the stale musky smelling air that feels thick, I feel Alexis’ presence.

  “Earth to Drew,” Breanne calls, waiving her hand in front of my face. I clear my throat and step further inside, past Breanne, to conceal my face.

  “What were you thinking about?” she asks, making it clear I haven’t gotten anything past her.

  “My sister,” I say. “This reminds me of a place we used to play when we were kids.”

  “Sounds like you guys were really close.”

  “We were, especially when we were younger. But over the past few years we didn’t see each other that much.”

  This is my biggest regret. I got caught up in thinking that I was too busy with baseball and she moved to the West Coast. I didn’t invest enough in our relationship and now I can’t do anything about it.

  “Why did she move out west?” Breanne asks.

  “Moving to California had always been her dream,” I reply.

  “Was she an actress?” she asks, and I have to laugh.

  “No, nothing like that. I mean she was beautiful enough to do that, but she was a lot like me and my dad; very technical. She always did better in math and science than I did. There are a ton of high-tech firms out there and she hated the cold winters, so she decided during college to move out there after graduating.”