A Morning Like This (6 page)

His knee stopped bouncing.
No, I’m not a test kit
, he wanted to say.
I am a man. You aren’t sending me anywhere
.

She gave him papers to fill out, assigned him a confidential number, and told him the doctor in Corvallis should have results
in five days. Then, to his chagrin, she ushered him through the doorway to a reclinerlike padded chair. A metal stool gleamed
beside it and a nearby cart stood laden with stainless steel utensils that looked as if they could inflict a wide variety
of bodily harm.

“Oh, look,” said the owner of the voice he’d heard earlier, sounding relieved. “Here’s Braden’s dad come to have a blood draw,
too.”

David’s heart plummeted. He recognized them. He couldn’t remember the little girl’s name, but he knew her well enough. She
and Braden had dressed up as pirates together and had given a fourth-grade class report on the migration of whales.

She made him think of another little girl, too. The reason for his being here. A child of his own, who might be dying. A child
whom he’d never known.

The mingling smells of rubber and rubbing alcohol set his stomach roiling. He sat on the chair and lifted his arm so the Snoopy-shirt
lady could lower the tray where he would lay his arm. “So they do blood tests in groups now, do they?” He winked across the
way at the little girl, trying to make light of knowing her. His throat constricted with dread.

The mother gave her daughter encouragement. “See,” she said. “If Braden’s dad is brave enough to do this, I’m sure you can
be brave enough, too. If you don’t cry, I’m sure Mr. Treasure will tell Braden how brave you were and what a good job you
did.”

David hesitated three seconds too long before he agreed with them. “Sure. I’ll do that.”
I don’t even know their names and I’m lying
.

“You’ll need to roll up your sleeve, sir.”

“Oh, sorry.”

The tech at his side began to lay out a row of vials, their lids coded with primary colors. He did as she said, unfastening
his cuff with the opposite hand, fumbling with the buttons.

“Make a fist for me now.”

He did it. “How’s this?”

“Hm-m-mm.” She strapped the tourniquet around his left biceps with more enthusiasm than he thought necessary. On the inside
of his arm, she swabbed a spot the size of a nickel with cold, brown liquid. “They certainly sent a lot of vials. What do
they need so much blood for?”

“Take whatever it is they want,” he said, evading the question. “It doesn’t matter. Drain me until I’m dry.”

The tech raised one penciled-in brow at him before she snapped on a pair of rubber gloves and turned her attention to the
blue, bulging lines in the crook of his elbow. She touched one vein with her gloved finger, rolled it around beneath the layer
of his skin. “This looks like a good one.” She pursed her lips and touched another. “This one would work, too. You’ve got
good veins.”

“Either one.” He shrugged. “I don’t care.”
Just get this over with. Please. I have other places to go
.

“Do you get woozy?” She tapped his wrist. “You look pale.”

“No. I’m not pale,” he answered, although he had absolutely no idea if he was or not. He had handled Braden being born, for
heaven’s sake, and that hadn’t been easy. He remembered it now—Abby moaning and the monitors shrilling, his body revolting
as he tried to dab her forehead with a cloth. Every time Abby’d pushed, he’d strained, too. He’d almost hyperventilated and
fallen off the stool. He’d gasped for breath as the baby came, until the doctor turned toward him, ignoring Abigail and the
crowning infant for a moment, and sat him down so he wouldn’t pass out.

The moments after his son’s arrival—the delicate orchestry of it—would remain with David forever. The staggering pattern of
those tiny brows, the curl of a miniature finger, the faint scribble of blue vein beneath translucent skin, the smell of baby.

But that one instant—that one moment when Dr. Sugden had turned away from Abigail to help him instead. It hadn’t been the
blood or the baby birthing that had rendered David queasy and ill.

It had made him sick seeing Abby in pain.

As the tech fussed about with vials and needles, other remembrances came unbidden—other memories of Abby in times of hurt
and pain.

The time she’d found out a high-school friend had died and he’d held her in his lap while she cried…The week of an abscessed
tooth when he’d nursed her after an awful bout with the dentist and her face had swollen to the same shape as an otter’s…
Every year when her father’s birthday came and went unannounced and she silently grieved…

How he loved Abby these days, even if he’d doubted their chances at the beginning.

If I could only have known then what I know about our lives now
.

Snoopy-scrubs readied her long needle. David watched it pierce his skin and welcomed the twinge. She inserted it the rest
of the way into his arm almost effortlessly and must have hit exactly what she’d been aiming for because deep red began to
well into the syringe. She focused on pulling the plunger out of the syringe while he stared at the dark blonde roots in her
hair.

“You can let go the fist now.”

He did as told.

She loosened the tourniquet and David watched with miserable fascination as his blood inched up the tube, the dark red pooling
inside the glass.

T
he best thing about living in Jackson Hole, Wyoming, was that even the busiest working fathers tried to make it to Little
League baseball games.

David didn’t miss a game unless he had good reason.

His absence this afternoon, with no explanation, worried Abby. For a long while after the cell phone had failed to ring through,
Abby stood beneath the bleachers where to her right she had a view of cars pulling into the parking lot and to her left a
view of bare, sunburned legs, wide-pocketed shorts, and an assortment of tennis shoes, dusty sandals, and mothers’ toenails
painted
Fish-net Stocking
red.

Every time a cheer went out above her, she knew she’d missed something exciting on the field.

Every time a car pulled up, she stood on tiptoe and searched it out, hoping to see David.

Finally, during the middle of the third inning, she gave up, hefted her stadium blanket high beneath her armpit, hiked her
skirt to her knees, and climbed the bleachers. “About time you got here,” somebody said as the other parents scooted over
to make room. “Braden’s on deck.”

“I’ve been here.” She unfolded the blanket and made a place for David to sit, too, just in case. “I’ve been watching from
down below.”

“Where’s your husband?”

Abby shrugged and roosted in her regular seat beside them. “I guess he’ll get here,” she said. “He’s never late like this.”

Braden donned a batter’s helmet, stepped to the plate, and took a practice swing outside the box. On the stands, Abigail fretted.
Oh, David’s going to miss Braden at bat
.

Braden stepped into the plate. “Come on, Brade.” Abby clapped her hands. “Take it for a ride!”

The scoreboard at Mateosky Park hadn’t been painted in so many years that spectators could scarcely make out the faded words
announcing W
ESTERN
B
OY’S
B
ASEBALL
, J
ACKSON
H
OLE
. Banners advertising everything from Corral West Ranchwear to the Strutting Grouse Restaurant sagged against the outfield
fence. In the dugout, boys teased each other and clamped mitts over each other’s heads. They tipped their mouths to drink
from the spigot of the orange Gatorade cooler.

With clarity, Abby knew.
Something isn’t right. David wouldn’t miss this without calling
. Misgiving grew, tightening in her chest. These games meant everything to David. He loved talking with the parents and helping
with the coaching and—above all things—rooting for these nine- and ten-year-old boys.

The pitcher hitched up his knee over the mound, positioned the ball, and played out his windup like a major leaguer. With
patient, withdrawn concentration, he launched a fastball and Braden swung over the plate.

Thwack
.

Dust flew in graceful whorls as the ball hit the catcher’s mitt.

The umpire strong-armed the signal. “Stree-ike.”

“Good cut.” Abby clapped even harder. “Keep your head down, Brade. You’ll get it.”

Braden stepped backward out of the box. He turned, his eyes searching the seats as he looked for his family. “Where’s Dad?”
he mouthed.

Abby held out her hands, palms up, and mouthed back, “I don’t know.”

“Speaking of David,” Cindy Hubner offered Abby some M&M’s from an open bag, “how was your anniversary last night?”

Abby shook her head no thanks and hugged her skirt over her knees. “We had a good time. We always do.”

“Everybody in town talks about you two, you know. You and David are so lucky, having the sort of marriage you do. I give you
both a lot of credit.”

Abby hated to admit this, but it always pleased her when someone noticed. “You know, we trust God for a lot of it,” she said,
grasping for some way to appear humble and divert attention. “We couldn’t do it on our own.”

High above, the Wedgwood-blue sky was calm as a beaver pond and wisps of evening clouds clung to the summit of the mountain.
On the Snow King trail people hiked, looking distant and small. At the extolling of their marriage, at David’s strange absence,
Abby felt like one of those faraway, upward-bound people: breathless, slightly lost.

Braden moved back into the box and positioned himself in readiness, his elbow angling toward the sky. Out on first base the
runner got ready, dancing sideways on muscular little-boy legs, batting-glove fingers flapping from a rear pocket.

The pitcher cocked his knee. The throw came—high and inside. Braden watched it zing past as the runner on first sidled out
and then back to safety.

“Good eye!” everybody shouted. “Good eye, Brade. Way to see it!”

“Ball,” the ump said, holding up a finger on each hand to indicate the count. “1-1.”

“Come on, pitch! You can get him,” a parent yelled from the opposite bleachers. “Give him the chair.”

“Protect the plate, Braden,” Cindy shouted beside Abby. “Don’t let this one get by you.”

Braden pounded his bat on the plate. He took a practice swing. As the windup started, the spectators grew quiet.

On the mound, the pitcher shifted his weight, readjusted, reared his elbow, and let the ball fly. Braden began a full-armed
swing, stepping in to protect the plate.

Braden’s bat sliced through empty air. The ball sailed in and smashed his cheekbone with a hollow thud. Blood splattered on
his baseball cleats.

The little boy buckled to the ground. The black batting helmet went flying. The bat lay at an awful detached angle in the
dirt. Abby rose in the stands.
“Braden!”

When Abby recollected it later, she would not remember leaving the bleachers or skirting the fence. She would not remember
shoving coaches away or kneeling in the dust. She would only remember the sight of Braden’s confused expression and tear-streaked
face, his bangs matted with dirt and sweat.

Blood saturated Ken Hubner’s hankie. “He’s got a bloody nose, Abby. Don’t panic. I think he’s going to be okay.”

But when Ken moved his hand away, Braden’s nose was already swollen to the same size and shape as an eggplant. Half-moon bruises
already shadowed his eyes. Cindy handed an emergency bag of frozen peas from the snack cooler over the fence. “Get these on
him, Abby. They’ll help with the swelling.”

“Where is David?” Ken asked as he reapplied the handkerchief.

Abby couldn’t think over the loud buzz in her head. “I don’t know.”

“You’re going to want to take this guy to the emergency room. His nose could be broken.”

This is ridiculous. He’s a little boy who’s gotten hit by a ball. A minute ago, everything was fine
.

“Do you want me to drive you, Abby?”

“No. No. I’ll be okay.”

Everyone crowded around, asking Braden questions.

“Can you breathe through your nose?”

“Can you see? How many fingers am I holding up?”

“Do you feel like you need to throw up?”

The power of suggestion. Braden’s face went ashen. “Ken,” Abby said. “Don’t ask him any more questions. Just carry him to
my car.”

“Are you sure you don’t want me to go to St. John’s with you?”

“I’ll be fine. We handle things like this at the shelter every day.”

But as Abby started up the car and steered them toward Broadway, her hands were shaking. Because even though Abby was experienced
with confrontations and emergencies, with her own son it felt like a different thing.

“Keep your head forward, Brade. Don’t swallow.” She grabbed a box of tissues from the floorboard and tossed them across to
him while he held the ice bag against his nose. Within minutes, blood-soaked Kleenexes littered the seat.

“I can’t help it, Mama.”