Angels Walking

by Karen Kingsbury

  The contract sitting on a long wooden table. The contract and a choice: sign it or walk. Take the offer or head home to California with his hat in his hands. His opportunity gone forever.

  Tyler had signed it. His agent never had anything to say about it.

  But until now he hadn’t remembered anything about it. Two years ago? He’d done nothing but improve since then. Every week, every inning, every pitch. No more off-field craziness, no more mopeds or girls or drinking. His agent should’ve renegotiated the contract a year ago.

  The reality of his situation began to make him shake. He might as well have been flung into a sub-zero freezer. And with each excruciating vibration his busted shoulder shot arrows through his body. Was this really happening? He had no insurance? How was he supposed to pay for his surgery? His body shook harder, the pain worse than before. Why weren’t the pain pills working?

  Tyler clenched his left fist and tried to see a way out. He was going to be released from the hospital, and then what? Where would he go? How would he find relief? He pursed his lips and exhaled. Over and over again. Maybe if he breathed everything out there’d be room in his lungs for air. After a few raspy breaths he settled back into the pillow.

  How much money did he have? He forced himself to concentrate. His phone would have the answer. He glanced at the table next to his bed. Where was his phone? He hadn’t thought about it until now. He was about to open the only drawer in the table when his nurse entered the room.

  “I have your brace.” She pulled something from a plastic wrapper and frowned at him. “You don’t look good.”

  “Where’s . . . my phone?”

  “In here.” She kept her eyes on him as she opened a cupboard at the corner of his room. The phone was on a shelf. “I’m not sure if it’s charged. We turn them off when patients are admitted.”

  Everything felt surreal. This couldn’t be happening. It was a dream. That had to be it. Maybe if he blinked a few times he would be on the mound again, ready to pitch the next inning. Nothing but perfection behind him and a contract with the Reds ahead of him. The pain pulsed through his body. Wretched pain. It wasn’t a dream. It hurt too much.

  The nurse handed him his phone and stepped back. Using his left hand, Tyler turned it on. He was going to pass out any second. He could feel it. His eyes narrowed and he stared at the phone’s screen. What was he doing? Why did he need his phone?

  “Doctor says you’ll need surgery.” She lowered the bed rails. “Here. Swing your legs over the side. You’ve been discharged.”

  Surgery. Yes, that was it. He tried to think around the pain. He had to pay for his surgery. No insurance meant no help from his team. His former team. He gritted his teeth. “I have to . . . move slow.”

  “That last dose of pain medication should take effect soon.” She opened up the brace and shifted to his right side. “Turn your body toward me. You’ll feel better with this.”

  Black dots flashed before his eyes. He gripped the edge of the bed with his good hand so he wouldn’t fall to the floor. Somehow she helped him get dressed and slipped the sling over his neck and around his waist. It had built-in padding so his forearm could rest against that instead of his ribcage. Again he forced himself to relax. Maybe she was right. Maybe the pain would ease up now that he had a brace.

  “Let’s get you on your feet.” She took a step back.

  Nausea grabbed at him from every direction. Tyler held up his left hand. “Hold on. Please.”

  She hesitated, watching him. “How about the chair? Can we do that much?”

  He didn’t have enough energy to speak. His eyesight wasn’t working and neither was his mind. Moving like he was in a trance, he let the nurse help him to the chair next to his bed.

  “Tell you what. I’ll get you something to eat. That’ll help.”

  Tyler leaned his head back against the chair. He needed a new arm, not food. He was alone again and something was in his hand. He looked down. His phone. He tried to turn it on again but another wave of dizziness came over him. The pain was just slightly more bearable. But in its place a drunken feeling started coming over him. The buzz felt wonderful—something he hadn’t felt in the past few years. An intoxicatingly sweet release. He savored the feeling for a few seconds.

  The pills were working.

  Tyler’s phone screen lit up and he stared at the icons. What was he doing? He blinked a few times and then he remembered. His bank account. He needed to pay for the surgery so he had to check his balance. The process of signing in was nearly overwhelming, but finally the number shouted at him: $187.32.

  Tyler didn’t have two hundred dollars to his name. He sank into the chair and closed his eyes. Then he remembered the check. His eyes flew open and moving slowly, carefully, he reached for the check on the bedside table. The one Jep Black brought. His final check. He opened it up same as the copy of the page from his contract, with a snap of his wrist. He sucked in a quick breath through clenched teeth.

  The number had to be wrong. He squinted through the haze of medication but the amount didn’t change. One week of work with the Blue Wahoos: $312.02.

  All totaled, he didn’t have five hundred dollars.

  The nurse returned with a tray of food. “We’re going to get you home, Mr. Ames.” She explained again about the icing and the pain medication. “Eat first. Otherwise the pain med will make you sick. Now listen. No driving with these pills. Have someone drive you to your orthopedic appointment. The sooner the better.” She paused. “I understand your car’s at the stadium.”

  Tyler lifted his eyes to hers. Her words were coming from at least three mouths. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Okay, our driver will take you home. You can get your car later. Have your teammates bring it over.”

  His teammates. They would be at practice now. The truth slammed him around like a washed-up fighter on the ropes. He no longer had teammates. The Reds had cut him without a conversation. He thought about his part-time job—coaching young pitchers on off days. He couldn’t do that now, either. Besides, it was a job set up for him by the Blue Wahoos. A team he no longer played for. He closed his eyes. His room was three hundred a month. Car insurance, another hundred. His phone cost fifty-something. Gas and food and now his surgery . . .

  “I’m gonna . . . be sick.” Tyler reached for a nearby bowl just as the nurse handed him one. He had nothing in his stomach, but the dry heaves continued until the spasms finally eased up. He handed the bowl back to the nurse and slumped forward over his arm. This was crazy. He couldn’t leave here like this.

  “The nausea is normal. Take deep breaths.” She hesitated, watching him. “I’ll get the wheelchair.” She was back in a few minutes. “Come on. Hop in.”

  Tyler stood and pivoted, then slowly lowered himself into the wheelchair. His shoulder was killing him and his stomach was in knots. “I need . . . the bowl again.” He closed his eyes and let his head fall in his good hand.

  “You won’t be sick. Come on. You’ll feel better in your own bed.”

  The words wouldn’t come, so with what energy he had left, Tyler shook his head. He could do nothing about the irony of her statement. His own bed? He rented a room, but he didn’t own the bed. He didn’t own much of anything. Some clothes, a few boxes of trophies and team photos. He had figured he’d find his own place after the season. Get through the next month, he had told himself, and he could rent an apartment. Pick up some used furniture and start clawing his way back to the top. If the Reds had brought him on, they would’ve given him a new contract. His medical would’ve been covered and he would’ve made six figures at least. Even for a post-season contract.

  But now? He had no idea what he was going to do.

  “Mr. Ames?” The nurse’s tone remained kind. But clearly she was waiting. “The driver’s ready.”

  “I don’t . . . I can’t . . .” Tyler stopped trying to talk. After a blur of nausea and dizziness, searing pain and desperation, he was buckled into the backseat of
a van. On his lap sat a plastic bag with his pitcher’s jacket, the results of his x-ray, and his discharge papers. When they reached his home, the van driver helped him to the front steps and his landlady’s husband walked him to his room. Tyler lay gingerly on his rented bed. Tomorrow he’d give notice. He couldn’t stay beyond the end of the week. Rent was due on the fifteenth and he was nearly out of money. How would he get a job? Where would he find the means to have the surgery? Where would he live?

  And how had the golden boy from the Little League World Series wound up here?

  5

  THE THIRD DOSE OF pain meds wore off around one in the morning. They must have, because that’s when Tyler sat straight up and slammed his hand over his mouth so he wouldn’t scream out loud. The pain sliced through his shoulder and straight across the base of his neck, along his collarbone and through his middle.

  Tyler gasped for his next breath. I can’t take it . . . this has to stop, he told himself. Relax . . . think of something else.

  He didn’t deserve this. He should still be in the hospital, with someone taking care of him and keeping him medicated and making immediate plans to put him back together. Tyler scrambled to his feet and rummaged through his top dresser drawer. Advil. He needed that, at least. His hands shook as he opened the bottle. Four pills. He grabbed a water bottle from the case on the floor.

  They slid down his throat, but he knew they wouldn’t help. He felt like his arm was hanging down to his knees, like his shoulder joint had been hit by a grenade. All from a single pitch. It happened, of course. Every now and then Tyler would hear of a guy losing his pitching career on a single throw. But he never thought it could happen to him.

  Tyler dropped into the only chair in the room and slumped over. It hurt more to lie down. At least sitting up, gravity kept his arm in line with his shoulder.

  Somehow morning came. Tyler blinked and tried to assess whether his pain was the slightest bit less than yesterday. It wasn’t. It was worse. He tried to stand, but any motion made him want to throw up. He gritted his teeth. Get up, Tyler Ames. Your feet are fine. You gotta fight this.

  He held his breath as he forced himself to stand. A few shuffling steps and he used his good arm to open his bedroom window. Sunny and warm, breezy and beautiful. The weather was a complete betrayal of the reality of Tyler’s situation.

  A pounding came from his burning arm, as if his heart had relocated to the place where his shoulder used to be.

  He got dressed using only his left hand. Three times he moved in a way that shot knives through his shoulder. Finally he slid his wallet in his jeans pocket and grabbed his keys. How could this have happened? He was supposed to be in Cincinnati right now, talking with management and working out with the pitching coach. Making plans for how he would help the Reds through the post-season.

  Tyler moved back to his window and leaned on the frame. He flexed the muscles in his lower body. Where did the pain start and where did it stop? His feet and legs didn’t hurt. His right hand felt pretty good. But if he moved too fast, his right shoulder sent a stabbing pain down his arm, through his torso, and up into his neck.

  Maybe food would help. He hadn’t eaten anything since yesterday afternoon. Tyler rummaged through his snack box and found a protein bar. He used his teeth and left hand to rip off the wrapper and finished it off too fast to taste it. Next he downed another bottle of water, but nothing helped.

  The pain consumed him.

  Tyler couldn’t think of a single job he could do without the use of his right arm and while he was in this much pain. His parents’ faces crossed his mind. They had said this would happen. That if he didn’t go to college his life would fall apart.

  For now, he needed to get his car and his pain meds. William Trapnell, his catcher, would be here any minute. My former catcher, he corrected himself. His new existence was more than he could comprehend all at one time. Tyler stayed by the window until he saw his friend pull up. Never mind the fact that his legs were fine. He practically limped from his room out the front door.

  “Ames.” William slipped his hands in his jeans pockets. “Man, I’m so sorry.”

  “I’ll be okay.” He fist-pumped his friend with his left hand. “A lot of pain, that’s all.”

  Of course, that was hardly all. William seemed awkward, like maybe he didn’t know what to say or how to say it. The whole team had to know by now that Tyler had been cut. He had a blown-out shoulder, so the Blue Wahoos didn’t want him. He was out of work and running out of options.

  They climbed into William’s truck and started down the main road toward the stadium. “I can’t believe they cut you.” He glanced at Tyler and then kept his eyes on the road. “You’re one of the best pitchers I’ve ever worked with. And the other night . . . you were crazy good.”

  “I’ll be back.” The pain made every word difficult, but that didn’t matter. Tyler was a competitor, and if there was one thing he wanted his former teammate to know it was this: he wasn’t done pitching. “Doctor says I’ll be back.”

  The unasked questions hung heavy in the car. Tyler tried to deal with them one at a time. “I’ll get the surgery. I know people.”

  “Definitely.” William nodded. “Of course.”

  Tyler stared at his good hand. What was he talking about? He didn’t know anyone who could help put his shoulder back together. Not here or back home in California or anywhere else. This morning he should be getting in to see a surgeon. Instead he had to think about giving notice and moving.

  Tyler breathed in sharp through his nose, steadying himself against the constant assault of pain. “Should be nice tonight. For the game.” He wondered how long it would be before he didn’t know or care about the Blue Wahoo schedule.

  “Another packed house.” William turned into the stadium parking lot and drove to Tyler’s car. “Hey, man. If there’s anything I can do.” He kept his car running. Didn’t even put it in park.

  “Yeah. Sure.” Tyler wanted to shout at him. Why was his buddy treating him this way? He had a bad shoulder, but he wasn’t contagious. For a long moment he stared at him until a realization hit. Without baseball, he and William had nothing in common. Nothing to talk about.

  Holding his right arm against his body, Tyler climbed out and shut the door behind him. He leaned in through the open window. “Thanks for the ride.”

  “No problem.” William nodded. “Take care of yourself.”

  With the ocean breeze blowing at his back, Tyler watched his friend drive away. If someone had asked him three days ago whether he had friends, Tyler would’ve rattled off a list of names. All teammates. Now that he no longer belonged to the Blue Wahoos, he was not only unemployed, he had no teammates. No friends.

  He turned toward the stadium and read the words stretched across the front: Bayfront Stadium. Home of the Blue Wahoos. How many times had Tyler parked in this spot and walked through the player entrance of that building? Each time he had told himself the same thing: This was a chapter in his story, a steppingstone to the Big Show. Better than Dayton but still not where he expected to be six years after the draft.

  His shoulder felt like flames were coming from it. Tyler gripped his right elbow and wondered if doctors ever did shoulder surgeries out of the goodness of their heart. He pulled his keys from his pocket and clicked open the door of his Dodge Charger. The car still turned heads, the wheels still among the nicest on the road.

  Lot of good that did him now.

  Tyler slid behind the wheel carefully, but even still he bumped his right elbow and cried out, “I can’t do this!” He froze in place, squeezing his eyes shut and waiting for the white-hot pain to let up. Even a little. How was he supposed to drive without his right arm? Slowly he sank back against the leather seat and pulled his phone from his pocket. He called up Safari and searched Cost of Shoulder Surgery. Several figures appeared in the results. The average seemed to be around twelve thousand dollars.

  The amount he made a year with the Blue Waho
os.

  He stared at the steering wheel. Okay, Tyler, you can do this. You can drive to the store and get your pills. Come on.

  All his life he had driven with his right hand. Now he felt awkward if not unsafe as he made his way to the drugstore. He paid $39.71 for the prescription of Oxycodone. In a hurry, he struggled back to his car, found another water bottle, and downed two pills. There. He couldn’t drive once the meds took effect, but he needed them now. In a careful move, he shut his car door and rested against the vehicle. He closed his eyes and turned his face toward the sun. How fast would the medication help? Work fast . . . please work. His entire body trembled from the battering effect of his shattered shoulder.

  A few minutes passed and he opened his eyes. He couldn’t stay here. People walking by were starting to give him strange looks. He directed his attention to the back of the store. Boxes. That’s what he needed. Clutching his right elbow to his body, Tyler lumbered toward the Dumpster, grabbed half a dozen empty boxes, and managed to get them into his trunk. He had no idea what tomorrow held, but he knew he had to figure out his living situation fast. Before he ran out of money.

  Back at home, he shoved the pain pills in his pocket and carried the boxes up to his room. Tyler’s landlady was a woman in her fifties. She and her husband lived on the main level of the small two-story 1970s house. Tyler had the upstairs. The ceilings weren’t high and both walls slanted in along the roofline. Tyler was six feet, two inches tall, so as long as he stayed in the middle of the room he had plenty of clearance. His window faced due south, toward the ocean, with a view of trees and blue sky.

  The room had been home since Tyler moved to Pensacola.

  He found Mrs. Cook in the front room reading. She looked up when he walked in. “Tyler, you look better than you did yesterday.” She stood and moved a stack of magazines off the sofa so Tyler could sit down. “I read in the paper about your shoulder. I’m sorry.”

  Again he thought about praying. He needed a miracle. If You’re there, God, I could use a little help. He steadied himself, aware of the pain pills in his left pocket as he sat down. “The Blue Wahoos . . . they cut me.” Tyler looked at her, hoping for kindness. “I don’t have insurance.” A sad laugh came from somewhere inside his heart. “I need surgery, so yeah. Not sure what I’m going to do.”