by Xavier Neal
Sitting down in the seats that I can't believe I got, I smile at the man to my right. He's dressed in dark jeans, a black t-shirt, and a black hooded jacket. His jet black hair and matching beard are accompanied with a pair of dark gray eyes. He smiles back. I turn back to the baseball field with a huge grin knowing it's almost game time. I tug my hat down a little further. Last thing I need is a sunburn. I slouch down in my seat and raise my hand at the beer man.
“I'll pay for his,” a feminine voice says grabbing us two cold ones. She slips him a bill insisting he keeps the change before sitting down in the empty seat beside me, handing the cold beverage to me.
“Thanks ma'am, but you didn't have to.” I reach for the drink.
“Call me mom,” she states turning to finally face me.
My jaw drops at the first sight of her face in over a decade. She hasn't aged a day. Pale skin tatted in perfection. White fitted t-shirt along with her holey jeans. Her shoes an old pair of converse, just like she used to wear to all my games. In disbelief I let my eyes roll over her again, my eyes narrowing in on the blue anchor tattoo with the wedding bands.
“Close your mouth Slugger,” she insists taking a sip of drink. “You were raised better than that. Mindy would have a field day if she saw you like this.”
I snap my jaw closed tightly. Speechless. Puzzled. Quickly I look around at the excited crowd, panic setting deep in my chest. Where the fuck am I? Why the fuck am I here? How the fuck am I here?
“Look. There you are,” she leans over and points to the dugout where I see a replica of myself, slightly leaner, shaggier hair, sporting a professional baseball uniform. “And you're good. I mean, you should be after all the baseball camps and elite teams you were on.”
Confused I raise my eyebrows. “I stopped playing baseball when I was 10. Right after...right after you died.”
“I know,” is her answer. She raises her beer back to her lips as everyone stands for the National Anthem. We stand and while I try to focus my attention on the words from the pop singer in the middle of the field that the cameras are swarming around, I can't help but let my eyes drift back to her. Something is different. Something is missing. This feels wrong. All wrong. But she looks just like I remember her. The peacock tattoo. The birds on her neck. Her small athletic figure. Dad's tags around her neck. Yet she's all wrong. When it's over and we sit back down she sighs, “Stop staring Slugger.”
“But it's you,” I croak out turning my body to face her. “But it's not you. What the fuck is happening?”
“Language,” she giggles taking another sip. “Just because your father was a sailor doesn't mean you have to cuss like one.”
“He's a cop now,” I mumble in response.
“No he's not,” her correction is followed by the first pitch.
“What do you mean no he's not?” I turn to focus on her again. “He's a sheriff.”
“Slugger your father died almost ten years ago,” she shakes her head at me. An uncomfortable feeling of dread drops on my shoulders forcing me back in my seat. Baffled my jaw bobs, but nothing comes out. “You don't get it yet do you?” Her blue eyes twinkle. “This is your life if it had gone the other way. If things had gone the way you imagined for the longest time.”
“So this is a dream?”
“Sort of,” her voice doesn't sell it. She takes another drink of her beer. “This is the place you don't let your mind wander to any more. This is that last piece you haven't let go of. The big 'What If'...”
I look out on the field as a version of myself takes my position behind the plate, people yelling all around me various phrases of encouragement. Praise. Excitement to see me swing a bat. All this over the idea of me hitting one out of the field. Something inside me twists. All of this for a fucking game, but how many of these people pay their respects to those who die in battle for them to enjoy it? How many of them are on our side and encourage us when we go out to do our fucking job? To protect them?
“Easy with the resentment Slugger,” mom insists patting my thigh.
Refusing to accept this weird alternate dimension I shake my head. “Why am I a professional baseball player?” She gives me a sarcastic look and for a moment my heart warms to it. This is my mother. The same woman to take me to practice. The same woman to sneak me gummy worms after I brushed my teeth. The same woman who promised me a ride on her Harley. “I mean...I gave up baseball.”
“Because I died. But when your father died, it just pushed you to play harder. To keep from focusing on the fact he would never see you play again. To keep you from thinking about the trophies he would never admire.”
“How'd he die?”
“Line of duty.”
I nod and mumble, “Seems to run in the family.”
“You're not dead yet Slugger,” she sighs. “Dying is the correct word. Which is sad. But I have missed you.” Her hand rubs my thigh slightly.
“I've missed you too mom,” my voice wavers. “But I'm not ready to die yet.”
“Are you sure because in the other version of your life, that's all you did. Chase death. Taunt it. Tempt it to take you to be with me and now that it is--”
“I don't want it!” I yell and the man beside me makes an appalled face. Lowering my voice I snap, “I don't want it. I have a life worth living. A career. Family. Friends. A wife.”
“A beautiful wife,” she turns and gushes at me. “Haven is so stunning. Your babies would've been beautiful too. Little girls with heads full of curls, little boys with unruly hair and an attitude to match,” she describes an image I want to see. I want to live to see.
“I'm not dead yet,” I declare to her. “That's still a possibility.”
“You know, in this version, you're single.” She tosses her head to me as I jog around the bases the crowd impressed already. “There have been girls to come into your life, but none stuck. Nothing stuck. In fact other than baseball and me, nothing in your life seems to matter.”
Realizing how true the statement sounds I slouch back in my seat. “Friends?”
“Teammates.”
“Outside of that?” She looks at me sarcastically again. “What about Mindy? And Doug? Felix? Striker?”
She tips her half guzzled beer up to her lips. “They've been to one or two of your pro games, but you hardly say more than a couple words to them.”
“Why? Why am I such an asshole?” the question causes her to erupt in giggles.
“Oh Slugger you've always been an asshole.”The correction floors me again. “I mean, you're my son. I love you, but look how you treated the world when I died. The only reason any of that changed was because the neighborhood had to help raise you until your father could. They had to be there for you. And even though they were and pushed some boundaries, it was Haven that brought you back together. That brought you back alive...and you never met her.”
“How did...how did I not meet her?”
“You weren't home. You were on the road traveling.”
“What happened to her?” She doesn't answer my question, so I repeat, “What happened to her mom?”
In a soft whisper she says, “I think you know the answer to that....”
Taking off my baseball hat I run my hand over my head that's starting to sweat. I swallow the lump in my throat and ask, “And what about Glove?”
“Died on his first tour. Remember how you saved his ass? Well you weren't there to this time.”
“And...Lordy?”
“Alive, but missing a leg,” she explains. “And his refusal to go back home to Georgia and face his family, then being without a limb, all has started to spiral him down a dark path. Prescription pills. Drinks a lot.”
“And you?”
“I'm here. Like I've always been. At every game. The mom groupie.” Her tone sounds sad and guilt grabs me.
“Remarried?”
“There wasn't time. Between being a grieving widow and a son whose only mission in life was to make it to the pros it didn't leave much
time for a social life let alone dating. This is what I spend my time doing. Watching you play games.”
I pull my hat back down tightly over my head guilt churning into something else. Something darker. “So what the fuck is the point in all this? In telling me all this? So I know that I made a difference in my life? Why is my mind wandering this direction?”
“Because you took the shot and triggered your inner 'What If'. What if you would've never become a member of HORN. If you would've never been a Marine? What if I would have never died...” the words sound more haunting than questioning. “Well here's your answer Slugger.”
“But every things....Nothings...I expected...” the sentence can't seem to finish itself.
“Perfection? Life's not perfect no matter which hand you were dealt Slugger.”
“What would have happened if both you and dad lived?” She shrugs. “Why are you shrugging? How is that an answer?”
“That's a question you should ask yourself. Ask yourself why one of us had to die? Why you never pictured us both alive. Your minds always been made up Slugger. You've always been that way. The day you picked up a bat, I had been trying to hand you a basketball.” My face frowns. “Exactly. See. You've always known what you wanted. That's why your option with both of us alive isn't what you're seeing. Your mind was insistent that your father would die in the line of duty at a very early age. This is the result.” She finishes her beer and flags him down for another.
Frustrated I lean my face on one hand and massage my temple. She's right. Having them both alive was something I never really thought about. I always figured doing what he did he would die fighting for his country. Fighting for what mattered most to him. I never pictured him retiring or them growing old together. Honestly? Until recently, I've never pictured that for me either.
“Starting to finally sink in,” she says from behind beer number 2. “You. Are. Your. Father.” The words seem to echo and the crowd cheers. “The life you envisioned for him, the path you saw him on, it's the same one you see for yourself. So...here you are. On it. You're the only one capable of changing it.”
Suddenly the ground shakes but they don't seem to notice. My attention falls to my feet as it does it again. “What the hell is that?”
It shakes a third time and she sighs, “From the force I'd say they're using the paddles on you.” My eyes widen. The vibration of Death coming to collect. “Are you gonna stay with me Slugger?” It's a question. A choice. “Are you gonna stay here with me? Go out on that field and bring your team another championship? Climb into the hall of fame?”
I look out at myself in the dugout next to my teammates, the grim expression on my face appears to be permanent. The look in my eyes cold. Distant. Dead. Seeing this version tells me everything I need to know. Being that person would leave me dead on my feet. My drive to protect my country. My friends. The neighborhood. My father. Haven...that's the driving force that keeps me alive. That will keep me alive.
“Exactly,” My mother rolls her head around to me. “And it's a strong force. Let it pull you out of this. And make those changes.” Her hand reaches up and slightly strokes my face. “No matter what please remember I love you Slugger. And I'm so damn proud of the man you've become.” I can feel tears start to fill my eyes, but my voice seems to be lost. My jaw continues to tremble lost in a pair of eyes I know the next time I see it will be in an old photo album. She leans over, tips my hat up, and presses a kiss on my forehead. At that she looks over my shoulder at the man on the other side of me and smirks, “Hey death. Rein check.”
The second my head snaps to see the man beside me a dark black smoke covers my vision and the deep dark abyss takes over everything that just was.
Official HORN Unit Day 19
A long hard groan comes out of me as I shift my hips in an attempt to get comfortable. What the fuck is the problem? I try to adjust again and feel some sort of resistance from a cord. What the fuck is that? In an attempt to move a final time there's a sharp pain in my lower abdomen.
“Stop trying to move genius,” Jazz's sharp voice says.
My eyes that feel like they had sandpaper rubbed across them and then glued shut, struggle to open. When they finally do, they struggle to focus in on Jazz who's leaning forward on her hand giving me her infamous sneer.
“I don't remember the last time you looked less bitchy,” I tease trying to sit up, but growl in more pain instead. “Fuck.”
“I tried to warn you.” She smirks knowingly at me. “You're really not supposed to move that much yet.”
“What do you mean yet?” I grouse, my hand that's not attached to the wires scratching my bare chest. Looking around at the sterile setting I'm worried if I'm in an actual hospital. The room is painted white. No windows. Over glossed floors. Other than me in the bed hooked up to the machines, I don't see much else that would give me the impression I was in a medical facility. “And where the fuck am I?”
“Medical,” she informs on a sigh relaxing back.
“I don't remember you discussing that in the tour.”
“It's because I didn't.” Jazz crosses her legs. “But you did send Tyger here if you recall.” The memory of dropping him has me smirking. “Which obviously you do. We don't expect you to get hurt, but we are prepared for it.”
“I don't see a doctor,” I groan in discomfort as the movement of my stomach causes another sharp pain. “Tell me you aren't a doctor.”
“No.” She quickly shakes her head. “Not a huge fan of blood. You didn't meet The Doc on the tour either, but we have one. And he's a damn good one. To his surprise the bullet you took could've killed you....let me rephrase that, should've killed you.” On another shake of her head she says, “But from you, I expected nothing less.”
Trying to move again causes me to growl again in agony. “Fuck. How long am I out of commission?”
She smirks, “Really Grim? You almost die and wanna know how long until you can get back to work?”
“Am I gonna get to go back to work? Am I done?”
With a very serious look on her face she questions, “Do you wanna be?”
My mind circles around the weird dream I had about my mother. The memory spurs me to say, “No ma'am.”
Her face twitches with pride, “Then no. You're not.”
“Did Lordy--”
“He made it out alive. Glove did too. And the tracking devise went undetected leading us to one of The Face's more stable locations. The vehicle has since been disposed of, but we got what we needed.”
“So what next?” I move in the bed. “A yellow mission? Black?”
“Now I do my job. I watch his top man's behavior, his patterns, his choices and come up with a basic analysis of him. After that I'll assess the situation and decide our next move. Phase 1 and Phase 2 of the mission complete.”
“Did Martin make it?” Jazz shakes her head and presses her lips together, guilt clouding her eyes. “You knew he wasn't going to live didn't you?” She lets out a heavy sigh and folds her hands on her stomach, still not responding. “That's cold blooded. Even for you.”
“I prefer cold calculated,” she corrects me. “Look Grim. Facts are what they are. Martin's sudden change of behavior was a red flag. The way he left the restaurant that day. The way he didn't answer that text in his typical amount of time. The fact he brought muscle along with him demonstrating a clear fear of something or someone. The Face's operation doesn't do well because he takes chances. It does well because he plays everything smart. And even if they wouldn't have killed him on the spot, what do you think we would've done with him once his use was over?” Unsure of how to respond I don't. “That's the bleak reality. He was a dead man either way. At least he did something to benefit others before he died.”
“What about me?” I glance down at my wrapped abs, the subtle hand motion the man with the tie made. “Did you know I would get shot?” Her face hardens. My body locks tight trying to sit up. “Did you?”
“I didn't kno
w you were gonna get shot Grim. I knew there was a chance of an attack. But there always is. That's the line of work you're in.” I grunt and let my eyes drift shut knowing she's right. And I wouldn't change a thing.