Mr. Sportsball

by K. P. Haigh

My mom takes a sip of tea. "Sometimes you have to try a life on in order to understand if it fits you or not."

  I can't help but laugh. "Yeah, football girlfriend does not fit."

  "And Baron? Did he fit?"

  My chest tightens at those two familiar syllables. "I don't know. Baron, the man, fit at first, but Bear, the football star, didn't. And we kind of figured out we don't want the same things in life." How can you love someone and be so different? We're puzzle pieces from two separate box sets. We snap together, but when you look at the colors of our pieces, we're parts of two pictures that clash when put side by side.

  "Are they things that will change over time?"

  "He wants a family." I sigh.

  "And you don't?" It's a question, but it's asked without a single hint of disappointment. I know my mom would love to be a grandmother, but I also know my mom is a fierce advocate of women doing what is best for them. Have kids. Don't have kids. Stay at home. Work full time. Do what keeps you sane, and don't judge others for needing something different.

  We've never had this conversation before. It's not exactly something a mom asks her twenty-three-year-old daughter. Oh hey, do you want kids? It hasn't even been on the radar.

  "I don't know." I run my finger up and down my glass of tea, letting the tiny beads of condensation pool until they run down the glass and fall onto my leg. Just as much as I want home, I also want to see the world. I guess my thoughts about having kids are sort of the same. The picture of sitting on the porch with my own child makes me smile, but I also want to travel, free and unattached. I don't know how to want both things at the same time.

  "It's okay to not know. I didn't have you until I had spent a lot of time getting good and ready. Both your father and I did."

  "What if I never get ready though? I mean, I'm not exactly a maternal person to begin with." I let the fear slip out, and once it does, I realize how long it's sat in the closet of my mind like an indefinite monster. I knew it was there, but I didn't know exactly what it looked like.

  "Oh honey, you don't need to fit some cookie-cutter definition of motherhood to be a good parent." She reaches over and grabs my hand, squeezing it like only a mom can. "I think you would make a fantastic mom, if and when the time is right, but if you don't ever find that slice of time when it appeals to you and where you are in life, know that you will lead a wildly full life regardless of your family status."

  "Thanks Mom," I whisper. There's a swirl of gratitude mixing with the sadness. I know my mom is right, but it breaks me to think I can't hang on to Baron while I figure it out. It's not fair to him to not know if I want the same thing he does. He deserves someone who wants to be a mom, without question or hesitation.

  It feels like someone punched my ovaries. Whether or not I want children isn't the problem; the problem is that I'm in love with a man who knows what he wants, and I might not be able to give it to him.

  I take my seat in first class and stretch out my legs. Collins Aid United has a policy of springing for the more expensive seats when the flight is longer than six hours, and I’m grateful. I don’t know if I’m excited to have more room or terrified that I’m going to be flying over open water for the first time ever.

  It doesn’t help that all I can think about is the only other time I’ve flown first class. I try to push the thought out of my mind as soon as it enters, something I’ve been doing a lot over the past few weeks.

  Not that it actually works.

  I reach for my phone to turn it on airplane mode when a call flashes across the screen.

  Baron.

  I press accept and lift it to my ear, glad my coworker who’s going to be sitting next to me on the flight ran into a friend in the airport and is going to board a bit later.

  “Hi,” I whisper. Maybe if I keep my voice quiet, it won’t betray all the emotions I’m feeling right now.

  “Hi. Georgie told me you were leaving today for your assignment.” God it feels good to hear his voice, but the good doesn’t even come close to masking the ache.

  “Yeah. I just boarded the plane, so I can’t talk for very long.”

  “That’s okay…I didn’t know if I should call or not. I’ve been trying to give you space to figure things out.”

  And I’ve wanted him to call every single day, but I knew it wouldn’t be easy walking away. I love the man even if I didn’t love the situation.

  I hear him sigh, and I know he’s just as confused about this as I am. “I hope it goes well. I want you to know that. I want you to be happy, even if it’s on the other side of the world.”

  “Thank you.” My words feel tiny, but they’re all I have.

  “I’ll let you, uh, get back to the safety instructions. Don’t worry, the oxygen mask is working even if it doesn’t inflate,” he jokes halfheartedly.

  I miss that. I miss him, but we both know I have to put the mask on myself before I can assist anyone else.

  When I walk out of the arrival doors at the international airport in Addis Ababa, Ethiopia, I am greeted by a wall of rain, and it feels as if it’s washing away all the uncertainty that's caked on my skin like a layer of thick dirt.

  I said yes to this contract without asking many questions. I was satisfied with the when and how long. I just hoped when I got there, it would feel right and not like another big mistake.

  After spending two weeks at home, trying to read every book in my TBR pile and then some, I was desperate to get across the world to a place where not every character or line would remind me of the man I was so desperately trying to forget.

  I sat next to one of the field administrators, Evelyn, who was joining me on the trip, and she filled me in on the details. We had arrived in the land of coffee beans to deliver supplies and aid to a small medical clinic located in the middle of the countryside.

  It's an important mission. For such a large country with an established history, there's little access to modern medicine for the population who live outside large cities.

  As soon as we make it out of the hustle and bustle and into the rolling green mountains, my brain winds down. It's almost meditative, staring out the window at the scenery passing by me. I have my camera on my lap and I lift it up to my eye a few times, but I rarely press my finger down on the shutter release. There's so much beauty here, a picture taken through the gritty window of a dirty van won't do it justice.

  So, I take it in and let my eyes capture and release every moment like embers that burn brightly for only a sweet second in time.

  It takes hours to drive to the small clinic, the only one that serves an area of nearly a hundred mile radius. It's well past office hours, but there are still villagers milling around the building.

  I step out of the van and immediately pull my camera to my face. The lighting is crap, but I hold my breath while I snap photos with a longer than usual exposure, praying I can capture something.

  Evelyn notices my curiosity and turns to me after she grabs her duffel bag out of the back.

  "Some of these villagers travel for a whole day to get here, and in monsoon season, it's even worse. We try to give the staff breaks, but it's hard to look into the faces of people who need your care and turn them away."

  It's one thing to sit at home and read about the nonprofit's mission statement; it's another to see it in real life. If I can convey one tenth of the feeling that punches me in the gut when I see the people who would do anything to have access to simple medical care—and I’m sure there are thousands more in this country that don't even have that luxury—I'll have done my job.

  I spend the first hour getting acquainted with the staff. Most speak English as well as some Amharic, the most common language used here. My brain is still processing the fact that I'm in a completely different country on a completely different continent. Every time someone speaks in a foreign language, it takes me a second to process it. I keep wanting to ask them to repeat themselves, as if I've simply misheard them.

  But, I haven't misheard t
hem. I am a stranger in a strange land, and instead of being overwhelming, it feels as if I just popped up for a breath of air after jumping off the high board. It's going to take a lot of energy to tread water, but I'm still damn proud of myself for taking the leap in the first place.

  Every time I look around the large main room, I know I'm meant to be here. It isn't a feeling of home, but of timing, like if I had pressed the shutter just a moment too early or too late, I wouldn't have captured the image quite as clearly.

  There's a closed door at the end of the hall I've seen nurses stepping in and out of. I've been so wrapped up in photographing and talking to the staff in the main section of the clinic, I haven't ventured to satisfy my curiosity. When a doctor walks up to the nurse I'm talking to and asks for her help, I follow them to the door.

  When we step in, the three of us can barely fit in the room together. It's crowded with two bassinets, a couple pieces of equipment, and a rocking chair. It's barely the size of my bathroom back home. It takes me a moment but I finally see the baby resting in one of the bassinets. He's so tiny, like an old man shrunk down to a fraction of his normal size.

  The doctor and nurse work on checking his vitals. When they finish, his eyes begin to flutter and his mouth opens in a wide O. It takes a second for the cry to develop, but when it does, it breaks the air of the room like a firework awakening a quiet, moonless sky.

  The nurse picks him up and cradles his head on her shoulder, bouncing on her feet in a gentle rhythm. The newborn's eyes flutter once again, but his mouth closes and the cries stop.

  "Shhh, Natneal," she whispers. "Shhh."

  His cheeks are so smooth and full, I have the strong desire to reach out my finger and run it across his light brown skin, but I feel like I could break him just by breathing too heavily.

  The doctor gives us a small smile. "I need to get back out to my other patients. I'll be back in an hour to check him again, but his vitals are doing exceptionally well." She exits the room, and the nurse and I are left to stare at this sweet little boy.

  I can't take my eyes off him. He's so tiny, tinier than any baby I've seen, but his face is so round, it's looks like someone photo-shopped one of the older baby's heads onto this skin-and-bones frame.

  I wonder about his mother. Is she okay? I've already started to hear the horror stories of mothers lost in labor; it's part of the reason our work here is so important. Access to quality medical care and facilities is a serious regional issue, and the maternal and newborn mortality rate suffers because of it.

  I lift the camera to my eye and focus the lens on this little boy. He's going to show the statistics who's boss, I just know it. I hear the satisfying release of the shutter, and I zoom out at just the right moment to capture the nurse pressing a kiss to the tiny threads of black hair pressed flat against his head.

  She lifts her arm to glance at her watch. "I need to get back out too. You're welcome to stay here if you want. Natneal is a sucker for cuddles, and skin-to-skin time is one of the best things for him right now. We just don't have enough volunteers to spare."

  I swallow slowly. "Are you sure?"

  She laughs softly. "He may be tiny, but as long as you support his head, you'll be just fine. Sit down in the chair, pull the strap of your tank top down, and I'll put him right against the skin of your shoulder."

  I bob my head in nervous acceptance and sit down as instructed. She places him onto my shoulder, and I'm shocked at how warm he is. He feels like a feather against my skin, but I can feel the rise and fall of his chest.

  She smiles at us and turns to leave.

  "Wait," I ask. "Is his mom…" I can't say the words; it hurts too much even to think them.

  She smiles again, and the weight that temporarily fell on my heart lifts. "She's going to be okay. She walked ten miles in premature labor to get here. She's one of the lucky ones. She had some minor hemorrhaging, but we were able to stop it quickly. Neither of them would have survived if they hadn't made it here, but they did…that's why she named him Natneal. It means gift from God."

  She walks back out the door, and Natneal and I are left alone with only the soft sound of rain falling outside. I've never been more grateful for a moment of peaceful silence in my life.

  An hour later, I swear I’ve worn a line on the apple of Natneal's cheek from running my finger along its side the whole time. My arm is exhausted, but I can't stop. I feel as if I need to soak in every single precious second of this sweet baby boy.

  My mind is anchored in the moment, but it slowly drifts from side to side with gentle waves of thought. Sitting here with Natneal hasn't awakened some dormant maternal part of my brain, but I can feel the fear of that indecision falling away.

  I have to be willing to walk ten miles to proper medical care because it will keep both my baby and me alive. I know if I decide I'm ready for that level of dedication, I'll be just fine. Just because I didn't grow up playing with dolls and dreaming of the day when I could trade them for my own children, that doesn't mean I'm dysfunctional. It doesn't mean I don't care or that I'm not good enough. It just means I won't follow the same path as some other mothers do; being different doesn't make something wrong.

  I'm still trying to hold myself back from veering toward thoughts of Baron. That water is still too salty, my wounds still too fresh—the sting isn't bearable yet. I have faith I will get there, just not today, and I'm okay with that. I have Natneal for right now, and that's all that matters.

  I walk into our hut on the second to last night of the trip, and I'm greeted by the most perfect light filtering in through the window to the kitchen table where Evelyn and our translator are sitting with mugs of tea. The way the sun hits Evelyn's tan skin, it radiates pure warmth.

  They're deep in conversation, and I press my camera up to my face and manually adjust the focus. As soon as the shutter hits, they'll look this way. I have one shot.

  My breath fills my lungs, and I hold it. Click. They turn to me, exhaustion pulling at the edges of their smiles. I pull the camera out to look at the image in the viewfinder. Oh, that's gonna be gold.

  Seattle zapped me of any creative ambition, but Ethiopia has filled it right back up. I find beauty in everything around me, and I want to capture every single ounce of it and share it with the world. That's why I fell in love with photography in the first place, and now I finally feel like I'm home.

  Evelyn waves me over, and I walk to the table and sit down just as the translator excuses himself to head to bed early. We could all use an IV drip of caffeine. The hours are long here, and there's more to be done than we could ever hope to accomplish in the short amount of time we have. It’s absolutely exhausting, but it's a pleasant exhaustion, one you welcome with open arms, because it means you are making a difference in people's lives. There's no greater task than one that benefits the community around you.

  We're almost at the end, and as much as I want my big bed with my soft, comfy pillow, the thought of leaving kicks sand up into my eyes. I take pictures because we can never travel the same span of time ever again. Even if I come back to Ethiopia, it will be different: different people, different light, different feel. The pictures won't be the same, and neither will I.

  And I love that.

  Maybe someday I'll get to meet Natneal again. He and his mom left the clinic a little over a week ago, healthy and ready to go back home to real life. I understand the feeling.

  "You survived," Evelyn says with an air of pride. "Not all first-timers do."

  I run my fingers over the smooth circle of buttons on the back of my camera and smile; I did more than survive. "This has been a really good trip for me."

  "Glad to hear it. Everyone at the clinic has nothing but good things to say about you. If your pictures are half as good as your attitude, the crew back home would be fools not to hire you. Hell, I'll hire you just to help out on trips, camera or not."

  Heat rises to my cheeks from the compliment and I mumble a quick thank you. I haven't asked
any questions about how this works after the contract is through, but the longer I've been here, the more I want to go on more of these trips. It's nice to know I'm not the only one who supports that idea.

  "You're welcome," she says with a wink of a smile before she takes another drink of tea. "Have you given any thought to if you will? Come back, I mean?"

  I don't hesitate for a second. "Definitely."

  "And your family and friends are okay with it? This isn't an easy job, and it doesn't lend itself to having a normal life. Three weeks away, two weeks back is not exactly a normal schedule."

  I think about normal schedules. I've never lived a normal nine-to-five life. I was in school for years, then I started working at the paper. Every week I went in for a few hours during normal business hours, but mostly, I ran off whenever an event was scheduled or news broke.

  And then there's the past month. My life with Baron was the least normal it's ever been. Even though I was helping out at the photography studio, it felt like my life was in one of those funhouse mirrors, warped and outrageous.

  Evelyn tips her head to the side as she studies my face. "Tough question?"

  "I had a rocky few weeks before I got here. That's all."

  "Relationship?"

  That's all it takes for everything to come pouring out of me. Four measly syllables with a tip up at the end to show interest, and I turn into an inconsolable baby. A few tears turn into a river, which turns into a freaking moat on the table in front of me. Evelyn gets up and grabs a towel from the kitchen. I'm kind of embarrassed until I remember they don't exactly have tissues here. I grab the towel and wipe my eyes…and the puddle on the table.

  Instead of sitting back down, Evelyn puts another pot of tea on, and minutes later, she sets a steaming mug in front of me with a simple instruction. "Let it out."

  And I do, every single bit of it. By the time I'm done, the sun has set completely, and we light a candle in the center of the table.

  When I finally finish, Evelyn sits for what feels like eternity. She purses her lips for a minute, and I'm nervous about what's coming next.