Angels Walking

by Karen Kingsbury

  “Yes, sir.” Tyler didn’t argue. He never did. But the light in his eyes was gone.

  Bill pointed at the Little League trophy on the fireplace. “Get back to school. Don’t come home until you’ve done your workout.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Angie blinked and the memory faded. She had long since forgiven Bill for pushing their son away. But it didn’t change the sad fact. She turned her eyes to her husband. “You okay?”

  Bill was staring at the mountains again. “I don’t think I told him enough. How much I loved him.”

  “He knew.” Angie could feel her heart breaking. “He had to know.”

  “I’m not sure.”

  They needed a miracle. In their broken-hearted state, both Bill and Angie had tried to find their faith again. They sometimes read their Bibles and on occasion they prayed. They had even talked about attending church again. But more than all that, they needed a miracle.

  The café door opened and a waitress approached with their salads. She was new, a pretty girl with golden red hair. Angie hadn’t seen her before.

  “Here you go.” She set the salads down and smiled at the two of them. “Sorry it took a little longer. It’s my first day.”

  Angie looked at her nametag. “Ember.” She found a smile for the young woman. “That’s a beautiful name.”

  “Thank you.” She didn’t seem in a hurry to get back inside. “I moved here a few weeks ago. The weather’s amazing.”

  “Yes.” Bill seemed to remember his manners and snap out of his reminiscing. “It’s the best.” He looked up, his eyes softer than before. “Welcome to town.”

  “Thank you.” Ember hesitated, and her expression grew deeper. “So . . . I heard you talking about Tyler. Your son.” She stared intently at them, her eyes full of light. “I know him. I came here from Pensacola.”

  Angie sat a little straighter. What? How could she have heard them talk about Tyler? And how would she know which Tyler? “You . . . know our son?”

  “Tyler Ames?” She slid her hands in the pockets of her apron, her tone rich with concern. “Yes. I know him well. I saw him just a few days ago.”

  “A few days ago?” Bill seemed confused, too. “How did you—” He stopped short. “How is he?”

  “He’s hurting. Badly.” The young woman frowned. “He’s very alone and desperate. Baseball is all he’s ever known.”

  Angie felt chills run down her arms. The waitress knew Tyler very well indeed. “We want to talk to him . . . but he . . .” She didn’t want to say too much. “We don’t have his new number.”

  Ember took a step closer. She exuded peace. “Do you really want to talk to him?” She looked intently at them, and Angie had the feeling they’d known her all their lives.

  “Of course.” Angie felt practically desperate. “It’s all we can think about.”

  “Okay, then.” Ember’s tone had a calming effect. “I have a suggestion.” She hesitated. “Pray.” Her tone grew more serious. “When you pray, you will reach God . . . and He will reach Tyler. Pray together and pray often. Pray as if Tyler’s life depends on it.” She looked from Bill to Angie. “God is aware of the trouble with Tyler. But you must pray.”

  “We will. We’ve meant to do that.” Bill looked as if he wanted something more, something concrete. A tangible plan—especially since Ember seemed to know so much. “Is there anything else? A way to find him?”

  “Please.” Angie’s heart rate picked up speed. “If we had a number . . . or an address.”

  “I’ve told you what I know.” Ember looked over her shoulder and then back at them. “Battles are won and lost through prayer.”

  Angie still couldn’t believe this strange conversation. Was she dreaming? The waitress couldn’t possibly have known who they were. “How did you say you knew Tyler?”

  “I didn’t.” Ember smiled. “Let’s just say I care very much for him.” She put her hand on Angie’s shoulder.

  Bill was on his feet. “I’ll leave now. I’ll take a bus if I have to, sell the shop.” His eyes welled up. “Whatever I have to do. He’s my son. I . . . I love him.”

  “I know.” Ember’s words warmed the space between them. “Don’t be discouraged. For now . . . please pray. God is in control.”

  Slowly, Bill settled back in his chair, his eyes never leaving Ember’s.

  “Thank you. For talking with us.” Angie put her hand over the young woman’s. She felt a empathy like none she’d ever known before. “We will pray . . . we won’t give up.”

  “Good.” Ember took a few steps back. “I have to go. Don’t forget. Tyler needs you.”

  She gave them each one more look, then turned and walked back into the café.

  Angie stared at her husband. “What in the world?”

  “How could she have known whose parents we are?” Bill leaned his forearms on the table on either side of his salad.

  “She was inside when we were talking about him. She couldn’t have heard his name.” Angie picked up her fork and then set it down again. “Do you think Tyler talked to her about us? Showed her a photograph?”

  “Maybe.” Bill looked at his salad and then up at his wife. “She said to pray.” He held his hands out to her. “Now’s as good a time as any.”

  And so with hands joined, Bill prayed out loud for their son. That he might find help and hope. That he would not give up and that this situation might lead him home. Once and for all. Before they left, Angie and Bill stepped back in the café to find Ember again, thank her for talking to them about Tyler.

  But the young woman was nowhere to be seen.

  Bill shrugged as they turned to leave. “She must’ve gone home.”

  “We’ll look for her next time.” Angie walked beside him back to the car. “The important thing is that we pray.” She looked at her husband. “The way we used to.”

  As they drove back to the shop, Angie felt hope work its way through her heart. This was the best breakthrough they’d had in years. A few hours later she had an idea. She could call Jep Black, the Blue Wahoos manager, and ask for Tyler’s new number. Something she wouldn’t have done when Tyler was playing for the team. Too pushy. But now the plan made sense, and like that, they were a step closer to reaching him.

  With Bill at her side, Angie tried the number, but there was no answer. She tried again every hour on the hour. But still he didn’t pick up.

  Before turning in that night, Bill took her hands again. “I want to go to church this Sunday. Start being the man I used to be.” He paused. “Before baseball took over.”

  “I’d like that.” Angie rested her head on his chest and then looked in his eyes. “I want to find him, Bill. He needs to take our call. Let’s pray for that.”

  He kissed her tenderly, the kiss of a man desperate to make things right. And with that he began to pray once more, thanking God for the chance meeting with the waitress and asking Him for a miracle. That somehow, against all odds and understanding, Tyler would do something he hadn’t done in years.

  Answer their call.

  8

  TYLER CALLED VERIZON AND cut his phone service the moment he finished packing. When he could afford it, he would pick up a cheap phone at Walmart, pay by the minute. In case of emergencies. He was out of his contract, which meant his phone was worth about a hundred dollars cash. Verizon would be his first stop once his car was loaded.

  Before he turned it off for the last time, he grabbed a pad of paper from his dresser drawer and scrolled through his phone book. Any number he might need he would somehow use his left hand to scribble down for later. Even if the numbers would be hard to read.

  Near the top of the list were his parents. Bill and Angie Ames. He’d entered them that way, since he hadn’t thought of them as Mom and Dad for years. He stared at their names. What were they doing today? They’d be at work, of course. Trying to get ahead in the fence business. Tyler slumped over the paper, discouraged.

  At least his dad could make a livi
ng.

  Wasn’t that what the man had warned him about? Pass up a scholarship and there’d be nothing to fall back on. Tyler wondered where he’d be now if he had a degree in communications or business. He could probably make a few phone calls to a handful of alum and have a desk job by Monday.

  His dad had been right.

  He’d been right back then and he was still right today.

  And what about his mother? She had always taken his father’s side. Tyler could picture her quiet in the background, never standing up for him. What he would’ve given if just one time she had told his father to back down, to lighten up. If she had reminded them both that it was just a game.

  If they knew he was hurt, they were probably shaking their heads over some shared lunch, reminiscing over the fact that their son had made the wrong choice. And how that single wrong choice had ultimately led to this: a blown-out shoulder and an existence lived out between doses of pain pills.

  Tyler wrote down their names and number. He wouldn’t call them anytime soon. Maybe after he had his surgery and he was back on the mound. But he wanted the option, at least. He captured Jep Black’s number and the numbers of a few of his teammates. His old coach from Jackson High and a few buddies he’d gone to school with. He didn’t have a number for Marcus—hadn’t had one in years.

  Finally, he turned off the phone and threw it in a bag. His things fit in six boxes. The first time he was actually glad for his sparse belongings. Loading the boxes into the back of his Charger with one arm wasn’t easy, but it all fit. He had to clear out before dark. The new guy would be here in the morning.

  The pitcher.

  When his car was packed, Tyler took the cold Chick-fil-A sandwich from the bag, peeled back the foil wrapper, and ate it. He stood at the window, the same one where he’d dreamed about his future and longed for last Saturday’s game. He had worked so hard to reach that point. A place in his career where everyone was watching.

  He finished the sandwich in five bites and checked the bag. One more left. He would eat it later. Mrs. Cook had left the vacuum outside his door. Never mind his damaged right arm. She must’ve figured he could clean with his left arm just as well. The effort hurt, but he got the job done. When he was finished, he took one last look around his room and left without saying good-bye.

  Mrs. Cook wouldn’t miss him.

  She’d have the Blue Wahoos’ newest pitcher in the morning.

  VERIZON GAVE HIM only eighty-five bucks for his phone. They had it wiped clean before he left the store. Further proof that Tyler Ames, star pitcher, no longer existed. In no time the number would be assigned to someone else. Someone with a job and a way to pay bills.

  He drove slowly along the strip, the ocean on his left side, a row of businesses on his right. Maybe Chick-fil-A was hiring. That way he could at least get free food. With an air of determination he parked his Dodge in the lot and headed inside. The manager knew him.

  “Tyler!” The man was at the counter. His face lit up but fell just as quickly as he spotted Tyler’s brace. “Heard about the shoulder. I’m so sorry.”

  “Thanks.” This was one more thing Tyler hated about his new life. Everywhere he went someone was apologizing to him. He wasn’t Tyler Ames. He was “poor Tyler Ames.” Broken, battered. Washed up. The manager’s eyes said all of that even if his words did not. “How can I help you?”

  Tyler forced a smile. At this point he couldn’t afford to be seen as a victim. “I’m looking to make a little extra money while I’m rehabbing.” He chuckled. “I’m here all the time anyway. Figured I’d see if you were hiring.”

  The man shrugged. His cheeks darkened. “You’re a great guy, Tyler. I’m one of your biggest fans, you know that.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “But I’m all full.” He paused. “A few months from now I’ll be needing a night manager. Come back then.”

  “Yeah. Okay.” Tyler wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry. “Thank you.”

  “Just a minute.” He filled a bag with six sandwiches and handed it to Tyler. “A little get-well gift.”

  He would’ve loved to tell the manager he didn’t need a handout. But the truth was he needed all the help he could get. He had mailed off his car insurance before the injury. The check cleared this morning, taking half his remaining money. He needed gas in his car and he was almost out of pain pills—another forty dollars. He’d be out of money in a few weeks.

  He took the bag of chicken and thanked the man.

  Back in his car, Tyler slammed the steering wheel with his good hand and instantly regretted the decision. The last thing he needed was another injury.

  Night manager? In a few months? The possibility made him sick to his stomach. By then he would’ve had his surgery and be on his way back to pitching. Making the Blue Wahoos regret the day they released him. But if Chick-fil-A wouldn’t take him, Tyler wasn’t sure who would.

  He couldn’t be picky, not now.

  The strip mall next door had a Target and a Panera. A cupcake shop and a Coldstone. Someone had to be hiring. But two hours later he had a fistful of applications and a long list of no’s. Managers were either not hiring or not interested as long as his arm was in a sling.

  Tyler realized something as he made the rounds: he hadn’t worked a real job in all his life. He was paid to pitch. Along the way, every now and then, Tyler made money coaching young pitchers, cleaning ball fields, and umping Little League games. He needed both arms for any of that. Outside of baseball he’d never made a dime.

  The medication was keeping him going. Funny how just a few days ago he was worried about driving under the influence of Oxycodone. But now . . . well, now he could only hope for the best. There was no functioning without the pills.

  Two more strip malls and still, no job offer. Tyler drove to the beach, to his favorite spot just west of Bayfront Stadium. He parked his Charger, killed the engine, and opened the windows.

  He could hear the announcer’s voice echo across the pavement. “Ladies and gentleman, welcome to the Blue Wahoos’ last home game of the season. After tonight your team will be in the playoffs. Let’s give a warm welcome to the Blue Wahoos!”

  The familiar music played and Tyler slid down in his seat. He grabbed his Jackson High baseball cap from the dashboard and pushed it low over his eyes. What was wrong with him, parking his car this close? Where he could hear the soundtrack of his former life playing out like a bad dream?

  And what about the club paramedic who’d reached him first after that terrible pitch? The guy had said this wasn’t the end. It was a beginning. Strangest thing ever. Tyler thought about calling the county and reporting the man. How dare he talk about beginnings in a moment like that! What was his name? Tyler thought back, trying to remember. Then it came to him.

  Beck, right?

  Yes, that was it. Beck the paramedic. Whatever the guy had meant, his words were nothing but a cruel joke now.

  Tyler narrowed his eyes and stared out at the ocean. He needed this place, this moment. Needed it for inspiration. He would be back one day. Not pitching for the Blue Wahoos, but for one of their opponents. Wherever he wound up next, he’d travel here someday and pitch against the Wahoos like the star he used to be. Everyone from the top management at the Reds to the meek Jep Black would regret ever letting him go.

  The sounds of the game blended together. His shoulder was killing him. Tyler pulled the pain pills from his glove box, grabbed a chicken sandwich from the bag, and ripped off the wrapper. A few bites and he was ready for the meds. He couldn’t remember when he took his last dose, but it didn’t matter. He needed them now. He stepped out of his car, grabbed two water bottles from the case on the backseat, and took his place behind the wheel again. One more dose of pills and he’d be out. The prescription still had a couple refills. Tyler couldn’t see beyond that.

  He slid the seat back and stretched out his legs. The sun was setting, casting oranges and pinks across the deep blue of the gulf. This wouldn’t b
e bad, sleeping in his car. His shoulder felt better when he slept sitting up. He grabbed the wheel with his good hand and thought about where it all went bad.

  His senior year, of course. The first time he and his father had disagreed about baseball. Even then Tyler always thought they’d come to terms, that eventually they’d see eye-to-eye. Or maybe that was just the way he felt because of Sami Dawson. Every sunrise and sunset carried her name on it back then. If there had been storm clouds on the horizon, for the most part Tyler had missed them.

  He had just a few photographs of Sami now, the ones he carried with him in a box of things that had nothing to do with baseball. The trophies and plaques and team photos took up half the trunk. His clothes and shoes and baseball gear fit in the others. But one box—the one on the back seat next to the case of water—held the rest of his life.

  Birthday cards from his parents and artwork he’d done in grade school. His high school yearbook and his graduation tassel and there at the top, a miniature photo album. The gift Sami had given him the last time they saw each other. Right before he took the bus to Billings.

  He turned his body, ignoring the pain that shot through his arm and neck. He reached for the photo book and brought it up front with him. He no longer had a phone, so he didn’t have a flashlight app. He flicked on the overhead light. He couldn’t look for long without starting his engine. The last thing he could afford was a new car battery.

  The book was covered in Jackson green, a dense corduroy Sami had found in a bargain bin back in the day. Across the front she’d embroidered his name and number in yellow. Tyler Ames, No. 16. Beneath that she had sewed on a red felt heart and near the bottom, also in yellow, she had stitched her own name: Sami Dawson. He smiled as he read the words.

  She hadn’t always been Sami.

  With the sounds of the game playing in the background, Tyler ran his fingers over the worn fabric. No one cared about me like you did, Sami. Why didn’t I try harder to keep you?