Page 39 of Mom Ball

Mine.

I let loose of the band and it pops against the wall. My father is always a sore subject. In high school, I tried to find him online through any means possible—Google, Facebook, inmate searches for the local county jails. Nothing.

It’s like the man no longer exists. For all I know, he may not. But the one thing I didn’t do was ask Mom.

She worked herself to the bone for the two of us and supported me in every way possible. For the most part, she was all I needed. But I’m still human, and as I got older and watched my friends with their dads, I got a little FOMO.

I’d hate to know Timothy is going through the same pain as me. At least he has a grandpa and uncles nearby. He also has me down the road.

As long as I can keep from hitting on his mom.

I sigh and rotate my shoulder. When I’m done with all my therapy requirements, I cross the room to the kitchen area. I may not be in pain, but a little ice never hurt.

Instead of going in my house, I plop down on the nearby couch with my Ziploc bag of ice and the TV remote. I have a sudden desire to watch some Harry Potter.

CHAPTER 9

Brooke

Monday was one of those days that proved it’s impossible to predict anything.

We had a man come in with his thumb hanging by a thread because he decided to go noodling for catfish. Another guy tried to talk me into making his lung X-ray look like he didn’t smoke so he could get a cheaper life insurance premium. Then there were the usual patients coming in with broken bones from falling out of tree stands or trying out the new trampoline park between here and Tuscaloosa, which I’m pretty sure isn’t up to code.

Thank God my parents were able to pick up Timothy from school and that Apple Cart never has traffic. Worst case scenario, I get behind a tractor on the way home.

I hurry to the parking lot and start home before anyone asks me to work overtime. That’s the biggest downside to working at a hospital. It’s always open.

Aside from the one traffic light in town, I make it home without any interruptions.

Timothy isn’t in the house or our yard, so I walk to Mama’s. She’s standing on the front porch sweeping.

“Hey, is Timothy in the house?”

“No, he went for a walk.”

“Where?”

She nods toward the driveway we share. “Up the road. I told him to be careful and not get in the pasture.”

I frown. “Then why didn’t I see him?”

“Maybe you weren’t looking on the side of the road?”

I shake my head. Mama would’ve had a hissy fit if she couldn’t find us. One generation has really relaxed her parenting.

“I’m going to borrow the four-wheeler.”

The so-called emergency four-wheeler sits in its place at the edge of the house. I jump on it and back into the yard.

A few weeks ago I did this same thing to find Timothy. Except that time I knew he was in the pasture and I was wearing an exfoliating mask and my bathrobe. Makeup and scrubs are a better combination, but it does nothing to calm my nerves.

If he got in the pasture again without permission, I’ll ground him until his next birthday.

I ride slow enough to look and listen in case Timothy isn’t close to the road. I call his name a few times and get no answer.

I’m all but panicked when I hear a faint dinging sound by Nate’s property. It calls me in like a siren to a ship. Out of instinct, I turn down his drive and follow the sound to Nate’s baseball shop. The dings get louder as I park the four-wheeler and walk toward the metal building.

I open the small door to Nate tossing balls to Timothy. Despite wanting to wring his neck for running off here when he told Mama he was talking a walk, I stand in awe with my jaw dropped as he hits every ball thrown to him.

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