Out of Left Field (12 page)

If you like, I’ll call the hospital, ask for birth records for those dates—unless you’d rather do it yourself. Let me know. There can’t be too many kids named Patrick McGinnis born on those three days.

But YOU are healthy! Fabulous. If only your dad were here, we could all celebrate together.

Peace,

Ray

Hit for the Cycle

My cell rings as I’m dressing for work the next morning. It’s Tony from the ballpark. No pleasantries: “Been on the Expressway lately?”

“Uh—no. I’m usually on foot or stuck on the Green Line. Why?”

“You know the ‘Keep the Faith’ billboard? They took Nomar off, replaced him with Big Papi. It’s another sign the tide is turning. We’ll reverse the curse yet.”

I grin. “I’ll check it out.”

“Must be good luck. We need some of that with the long grind ahead.”

“Hey—we did okay last night.”

“You can say that again. And we all hope Wake wins, pitching on his birthday—hold on a sec.” Tony’s voice gets muffled for a few minutes. “Sorry,” he says. “Delivery guys. Hope you don’t mind my calls. Thought you might like to talk baseball now and then.”

“Definitely. I really miss arguing with my dad over who reads the sports section first.”

“Bet you wish you could still have those fights.” Tony’s matter-of-fact, not maudlin. I like that.

“No kidding. My mom
tries
to look interested, but she’s not into the game.”

“Know what you mean. My brother and I talked baseball all the time, even after he moved west. It’s not the same since he passed.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Me too. People tell you it gets easier. That’s B.S. Fact is: you never stop missing them when they’re gone. We’ll stay in touch.” He hangs up before I can say good-bye.

Mom pokes her head in my door. “Who was calling so early?”

“Tony. The guy from the ballpark. My ‘grief counselor.’”

She actually smiles. “Any chance he’d take me on?”

“Maybe—if you’re interested in Pedro’s ERA, Big Papi’s on-base percentage, Derek Lowe’s meltdowns—etc.”

“Could be time I learned.”

She’s out the door with no mention of Nova Scotia or last night’s dinner. Tony gets double points for distraction.

*

The time difference between Boston and Halifax works in my favor: I can make calls before my shift at Frankie’s. Thanks to the Internet, it’s easy to find the number for the main hospital in Halifax. I use the landline. I’ll pay Mom back somehow. The hospital operator transfers me to Medical Records. When a woman answers and I ask about boys born on the dates Ray gave me, there’s a long silence.

“Hello?”

“Sorry,” the woman says. “Didn’t you call yesterday with the same question? And again a week ago?”

The skin prickles on the back of my neck. “No, ma’am. Why?”

“Never mind—it’s just a funny coincidence.”

My mind shifts into overdrive. “Actually, I bet it’s not. What date was he asking about, do you remember?”

“Why, sure—because it was October 31st and the man said something about how this wasn’t a trick-or-treat joke.”

“Did he give you his name?”

Papers rustle. “No. There was something strange about his records…Wait: his name began with a Q. I remember because that’s unusual. He was from Digby, I think, or Digby Neck…Excuse me a minute.” Her voice breaks up, as if she’s put her hand over the mouthpiece.

Digby
Neck
? Sounds like a bizarre tropical disease.

Another woman comes on the phone, her voice brisk. “Good morning. I’m the Medical Records supervisor. Ms. Malone is new, so she doesn’t realize that she’s passing out confidential information. Could I help you?”

Damn. I plunge in, giving her an abbreviated version: that I’m looking for a lost sibling because of an inherited disease our father had. “It was fatal,” I tell her.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “But what makes you think that the person who called us yesterday is the man you’re looking for? He was someone who needed a copy of his birth certificate.”

“It’s a hunch.” I take a deep breath. “Listen. If you don’t believe me, I can have my cardiologist call you.” (
My cardiologist
. How weird is that?)

Papers shuffle again, along with muffled voices. The supervisor comes back on. “Here’s what we have. There were two boys born at the end of October. One was a preemie, born October 30th, with both parents listed. Last name Martinez…”

Was his first name Pedro? Bet she wouldn’t appreciate the joke.

“The other situation is a bit unusual. There’s no father listed for the baby boy, weight 7 pounds 10 ounces. He was born in a normal delivery to a Victoria Martin of Antigonish on October 31st.”

My palm is so sweaty I have to switch hands. I hardly dare ask the next question. “What was that baby’s name?”

“Patrick.”

“Yes! That’s the one!”

“Hold on,” she says. “There’s a penciled note saying that the name is temporary.”

“What does that mean?”

“It happens now and then. The parents—or the mother, in this case—had to put something down before leaving the hospital. If she changed the name later, she’d go through a legal process with the records office. But perhaps they kept his name after all.”

I scrub my head, but it doesn’t help: my thoughts are still scrambled.

“Excuse me, Mister—I’m afraid I don’t know
your
name.”

“McGinnis,” I tell her. “Brandon McGinnis. My father’s name was Patrick. This guy may be my brother—half brother.”

“I’m confused,” she says.

“It’s complicated.” And I don’t plan to explain. “Did the guy leave his phone number?”

More muffled talk. “Ms. Malone says no,” the supervisor says. “Anyway, that really is confidential information.”

“Look. You guys work at a
hospital
, for Pete’s sake. The heart disease that killed my dad is congenital.” (Points to me for remembering that word.) “The main symptom is instant death. My dad didn’t get treatment in time, so he’s dead. If his son has it, do you want to keep us from finding him?”

“Let me think.” Finally, her tone shifts.

I glance at my watch. I’m running out of time. “Do you have caller ID? Did
my
number show up?”

A pause; then: “I see what you’re saying. Let me put you on hold.”

Muzak comes on, interspersed with recordings about staying healthy, smoking cessation, weight loss, yada yada yada. Finally the supervisor says, “Sorry to take so long; we get a lot of calls. I found one from Digby Neck. No name, but here’s the number.”

“Fabulous.” I write it down, ask her to repeat it, just in case.

“Are you healthy?” she asks.

“I am. Let’s hope the same will be true for my—brother.” That word catches in my throat like President Bush’s famous pretzel, but never mind. I thank her profusely.

I dial the Digby number before I know what to say. When I get the guy’s voicemail, I panic and almost hang up; then grab pen and paper and listen to a deep voice.

“Hello,” he says. “You’ve reached Quinn Blanding, Captain of the
Little Blue
. To make a reservation or to inquire about our famous whale watch and puffin tours, press One. To leave a personal message for me, press Two. Smooth sailing!”

What a dork! I snap my phone closed and pace the room until the shaking stops. “Blanding Blanding Blanding! That’s him! Wait until I tell Ray!” I hit redial, follow the instructions and jot down the information. I pull out Dad’s Canadian Atlas. Digby Neck is in Nova Scotia, on the water. I check the mileage. It seems like a long way from Halifax until I realize the distance is in kilometers, rather than miles. On my third try, I leave a message that I’d like to reserve two seats on a whale watch for next Saturday. I put it under Cora’s name and number.

I call my aunt; get her voicemail, too. “Hey, Aunt Cor—we’re signed up for a whale watch in Digby, Nova Scotia, next weekend, with a guy named Quinn Blanding. He might call you to confirm. If so, don’t give anything away. He may be the one.”

I grab wallet and keys and run down the stairs. I’m supposed to be grieving—so why do I have my energy back? It feels like I’ve hit for the cycle. Well, almost. I still have to find the guy. But at least I’m getting somewhere.

From: Brandon McGinnis

Subject: the search

Date: August 4, 2004

To: Ray Graham

I think we’ve found him. Quinn Blanding of Digby Neck, N.S. Born on Halloween 1976 in Halifax. (Maybe he’s a zombie.) Check out the website for Bay of Fundy Whale Watch and Puffin Tours. Quinn Blanding is the captain. Must be the official-looking guy at the wheel. Can’t tell who he looks like under that cap.

My aunt and I fly to Halifax next Friday morning. We’ll drive to Digby that day and take the whale watch Saturday. I figure I’ll just show up, see what happens.

Gotta run—

Brandon

*

From: Ray Graham

Subject: the search

Date: August 4, 2004

To: Brandon McGinnis

Brandon, it sounds as if you’re on the right track. Any chance I could meet you and your aunt on Friday evening? Digby’s not far from Yarmouth. It would mean a lot to me. If you like, I could hang around, be available the next day, in case you need anything. Things could get dicey. Just wondering.

Peace,

Ray

*

Phone call: Cat to Quinn. Freeport, Nova Scotia

Quinn? Cat here.

No, I’m not home. Where the hell are you?

Rosa’s Café? Cool. Look out the window. Can you see
Little Blue
?

I know it’s dark. Come outside, you idiot. Never mind why, just come out on that deck.

Look towards the boat…that’s it…

See the white shirt waving?

I’m here! Hurry up. I’ve got what you asked for and then some. Besides, the traveler’s locked and I need to use the head.

*

Phone call: Quinn on Digby Neck to Victoria in Baddeck, Nova Scotia

Mum, Quinn here.

Yeah, Cat’s fine. She took the bus…

Course you were worried. Calm down. She’s okay; just hungry. We fixed that.

I’ll put her on after you answer some questions.

“Watch my tone”? Frankly, Mum, you’ve got some nerve. And before you get all huffy, you should know something. I’ve got my birth certificate here. Make that two. Certificates.

Funny thing, eh? Two boys born on the same day, same time, same hospital, same weight. Same mum, different names. Thing is, one boy had a dad, the other didn’t. I got an illegitimate twin you forgot to tell me about?

How’d I get it? Not “it,” Mum. “Them.” That’s my business. And don’t blame Cat. She only did as I asked. Except for the bus trip.

Mum, it’s not a crime for me to have my own birth certificate. I’m an adult, in case you forgot—

So hang up. That’s fine. Maybe Dad can answer my questions. That is—if he
is
my dad.

What kind of answer is that?

Seriously, Mum, what’s this all about?

Mum?

You there? Mum?

Sixth Inning

“[Baseball] breaks your heart. It is designed to break your heart. The game begins in the spring, when everything else begins again, and it blossoms in the summer, filling the afternoons and evenings, and then as soon as the chill rains come, it stops and leaves you to face the fall alone.”

—A. Bartlett Giamatti,
The Green Fields of the Mind

Play Ball

From the moment Aunt Cora and I leave Boston on the early flight to Halifax, I’m all business and efficiency. I read the guidebook on the plane, help Aunt Cora retrieve the bags and wheel them to the rental car, pick up maps and an information guide, help my aunt navigate our way out of Halifax. Once we’re zipping along the Trans Canada Highway, Cora jolts me back to reality.

“The journey begins.” She shoots me a quick look. “I hope we’re doing the right thing, to show up with no warning.”

“We’ve got a reservation on the boat so he knows we’re coming. Sort of.” I try to make it sound like a joke. Fat chance.

Dad always told me to trust my gut. All week long, as I stood in line for my fast track passport, dealt with Frankie, tried to explain myself to Marty, and worked (without success) to calm Mom’s nerves, I convinced myself that Blanding would hang up on me if I called first. Truth is, I want to
see
the guy before I talk to him.

“Have you thought about what you might say?” Aunt Cora asks.

Can she read my mind? “Maybe it’s like your class. We’ll call it Whale Watch Improv.”

Cora laughs. “Good idea.” She points at the dashboard. “Only eleven, and we don’t meet your dad’s friend in Digby until—when?”

“Six-thirty.”

“Great. We have time to make some stops. Your dad took me on this drive when I was in college, back in the Dark Ages. It will bring back memories—if you don’t mind.”

“I might need some coffee. That early alarm was brutal.”

“Take a nap. If I remember right, it’s farms and forest for a while. I’ll wake you in time for the good stuff.”

When she does, I drift up from a dream about Dad. I try to hold onto that fleeting image of his face—did I actually see it?—until I remember I’m in a rental car, in Canada. We pull into a town full of Victorian houses that Mom would love.

“Wolfville,” Aunt Cora says. “I thought we’d stop for a meal—and then go out to the Bay of Fundy.”

I try to make conversation over lunch, but my stomach rebels and I can only nibble at the terrible white bread sandwich. We drive to Margaretsville, a village on the water, and walk out on the docks. Empty sand stretches away from the shore for miles, with blue water in the distance. “The highest tides in the world,” Aunt Cora says. “Check this out.” She points over the side of the dock.

I look down. A row of boats sits about fifteen feet below us, stranded in the mud. “That’s crazy,” I say. “You can only go out when the tide’s high?”

“Wild, isn’t it?”

I take some photos for Mom, though my heart’s not in it, and follow Cora out to a small lighthouse called “Guardian of the Bay.” Maine must have looked this way years ago, before the tourists came. I stare at the wet, gleaming sand. There’s not a boat in sight; no one on the beach, no sign of life. “What happens when the tide comes in?”