Page 42 of Trip Through Your Wires

“Man, you’re just like Mom,” he shakes his head. “Stubborn as a mule.”

“Yeah,” I lean back. “Well, you know what they say, like mother like daughter.”

“Uh huh.” He shoves a hand in his pocket. “They do. And I’m saying, maybe it’s time to be less like her, and more like Dad.”

“Meaning?” I arch my brow.

“Take a page out of his playbook,” he suggests, “and give yourself a break.”

I lay my head on the back of the chair and spin around, looking at the smattering of photos on the wall. Be like dad, huh? Because that worked so well in the past.

My father had always been a dreamer. Sure, he taught us important lessons and hard truths, but there was a part of him that truly believed anything was possible. No matter how many times life had beaten him down, he never stopped believing that. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that dreams only came true in fairy tales and people like us had to scrape and claw for everything.

I look down at my nails, the irony in that thought hard to ignore. Once upon a time I couldn’t have them. Long nails were a hazard to my game; the potential of one catching a seam and throwing off a pitch, something I couldn’t afford. My arm was the ticket to a dream where I wouldn’t have to fight so hard and nails—or claws as my brothers called them—were an impediment.

It was the only good thing to come out of a career-ending injury. No more softball meant no more short nails. It was a shit consolation prize for a dead dream and no longer being able to play the sport I loved.

I didn’t always love it. Like my brothers, my first love was baseball. Daddy started all of us young—T-ball first, then little league. But when middle school rolled around, instead of continuing with hard ball like my brothers, he suggested I try softball, and that’s when everything changed.

At first it felt foreign. The ball was too big and the bases were closer than I was used to. But something happened the day I tried my hand at fast pitch. The power I felt as I released the ball was intoxicating. But hearing it pop in the catcher’s mitt…man, I will never forget that sound. I still dream about it, even now.

From that day on, whenever I had a minute to spare, my father and I would head out back with a ball and glove and throw until the light faded and bugs came out. As I practiced, he’d share stories about baseball like a docent at Cooperstown, making me believe I too, could be among that history.

Softball was once my life. I never felt freer than I did standing on the pitcher’s mound—the seconds before wind up, filled with a special kind of magic that nothing had ever come close to—but in the blink of an eye it was taken away, and I hadn’t felt that magic since.

I turn back around and push up from the chair. “The only page I am taking from Daddy’s playbook is to leave the store the way it was when I arrived—clean and ready for the next shift.”

I grab the end of my work vest and straighten it before making my way to the door. “You shouldn’t be here,” he says as I walk past.

I stop and look over my shoulder. “Finger’s fine, Trav.”

“I wasn’t talking about work,” he says matter of fact.

We look at one another, both growing quiet. Sometimes, the truth is hard to admit, even for those with grit and determination in their veins. I shouldn’t be in Cherry Cove. I should be living my dream. But here’s the thing about dreams—sometimes, they become so damaged they’re hard to hold onto.

***

When my shift ends, I make my way to the staff room to grab my bag and clock out. As I reach the door, a horrible retching coming from the bathroom stops me. Making my way over, I rap my knuckle on the door. “Everything all right?”

The heaving stops for a moment and Julie calls back. “I’m fine.”

Since it sounds like she’s emptying the contents of her stomach, I lean against the wall and wait for her to finish to make sure she’s okay. When the door pushes open a couple of minutes later, I take one look at her sweaty forehead and flushed cheeks and know it’s not the flu.

“How far along are you?” I ask, pushing up from the wall.

She fidgets with the hem of her work vest and looks down. “Seven weeks.”

I sigh and make my way into the office. “Follow me.”

Setting my bag down, I reach for the clipboard on the wall and scan the employee roster. Since Travis left an hour ago, it was just Julie and I, and clearly she needs to go home.

“Sit,” I nod to the couch along the wall reach for the phone to work my way down the list. “There’s crackers in that drawer.” I point to a brown cabinet next to her while dialing the first number on the list.

After calling everyone and getting nothing but answering machines, I drop back down in the chair and look over at her. She’s nibbling on a saltine while jiggling her knee and clearly in need of a shower and some rest.

Morning sickness can be a real bitch. More than a few classmates in high school had gotten pregnant and I would see them in the bathroom in between classes puking or downing 7-Up. I remember thinking to myself, that would never be me. I had plans and a baby just wasn’t part of it.

“Okay,” I look up at the clock. “I’ll cover the rest of your shift.”

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