High Heat (13 page)

A minute later I heard a siren in the distance. It grew louder and louder, finally an aid car pulled onto the field, right up to home plate. Two medics jumped out. Everyone stepped back.

They bent over Robertson, taking his pulse I guess, or maybe checking his heart. I couldn't really see. They put a brace around his neck. After that they moved him onto a stretcher, then slid the stretcher into the back of the aid car. Reese's mom and dad climbed in with him, and they went tearing off the field, siren screaming.

At home plate Grandison, Levine, and the umpire conferred. It didn't take long. Grandison turned and waved us all in. "Game's over, men," he said.

All of the other guys either had a parent at the game or were going home with a friend. I was the only one getting a ride home in the school van. I packed the gear, threw it in the back, and got in.

Grandison didn't come right away. As I waited, I told myself what some of my teammates had also said as they were leaving: that it wasn't my fault, that it was an accident. Robertson had been leaning out over the plate. I was moving him back, like any good pitcher would. That's all. Just moving him off the plate. If he'd fallen down or jumped back, he'd have been fine. Not that he wasn't fine anyway. He'd had his helmet on. So how serious could it be?

Grandison got into the van. "They've taken him to Children's Hospital. I'm going to go there right now. You want to come along?"

"I have to get home," I said. "My mom is at work. I have to—"

"Look after your sister," Grandison interrupted. "All right. I'll take you home. I don't have time to argue."

When I opened the door to the duplex, all the lights were off. On the kitchen table was a note. "Marian's sleeping over at the McGinleys. There's a plate of food for you in the refrigerator. Hope you had a good game. Try to get to bed early. Love, Mom."

It was deli food: a ham and Swiss cheese sandwich on rye bread, a dill pickle, and potato salad. There was a raspberry Snapple there, too.

At any other time I'd have wolfed it down, but that night I picked at it before throwing it away. I even poured most of the Snapple down the drain.

I took a shower, then looked around the place. It was such a dump. I wanted to go somewhere and do something, but I didn't know where or what. I ended up sitting in front of the television watching
Xena
and
Hercules
until it was nearly midnight. Lots of times I stay awake until I hear my mom come in at around one, but that night I was out as soon as my head hit the pillow.

In the middle of the night I had a dream. I was back on the field, and everything was happening again, only in slow motion. I saw Reese leaning out over the plate. I saw the ball flying toward his head. Closer ... closer ... closer. "Hit the
dirt!" I shouted in my dream. "Hit the dirt!" Then I heard it again, the sound of the baseball crushing bone. Not helmet. Bone. Only now I wasn't dreaming but sitting straight up, sweat pouring off me.

Had I killed him? It happens sometimes in baseball. It even happened to a major league player once. Ray Chapman was his name. He died not on the field but the next day, or maybe it was the day after that, at the hospital. Carl Mays hit him. Chapman got up after he was hit, took a couple of steps, then fell.

Reese hadn't even gotten up. I thought of the blood that had come from his nose. Where was that blood from? Was it from his brain? Then I thought of the blood on the carpet in my father's study.

I got out of bed, made my way downstairs, and opened the phone book. It took a while, but I found the number of Children's Hospital and punched it in. "I'm calling about Reese Robertson," I said, trying to keep my voice calm. "He was admitted earlier tonight. I want to know if he's okay."

"One moment," the voice said. Music came on—the Beatles singing "Here Comes the Sun." It played and played. I was about to hang up and start over when the fine came alive. "Night nurse, intensive care unit. How can I help you?"

"Reese Robertson," I said. "He was hit with a—"

"I know who he is," she interrupted, sounding annoyed.

"I'm a friend of his. How is he? Is he okay?"

"He's not okay, but with a little bit of good luck, he's going to be okay."

"So he's not going to die or be brain damaged or anything?"

She sighed. "No, he's not going to die, and he's not going to be brain damaged or anything. If you give me your name, I'll tell him you called."

"That's okay," I said, and I quickly hung up.

At breakfast the next morning, Mom seemed more tired than usual. She didn't ask anything about the game. Marian came back around noon, her friend Kaitlin trailing behind her. "Did you have a good time?" Mom asked them.

"Uh-huh," Marian answered, and the two of them went upstairs and closed the door.

At one I ate a sandwich. Normally I'd have watched sports on television or maybe listened to CDs, but I was too itchy to stay in the house. I pulled my shoes on. "I'm going down to Market Street in Ballard," I said to Mom. "To that new music store."

"Okay, but be home by five."

I bought an all-day bus pass—on weekends they're cheaper than two one-way rides—and got off in Ballard. I walked up and down Market, went into the Secret Garden Bookstore and the Dollar Store, checked out the CDs. Finally I got an Italian soda at Dutch Treat and sat outside. I took a long time drinking that soda.

As I finished, I looked up and saw the forty-four bus coming—the bus to Children's Hospital. Suddenly I knew what I'd been wanting to do all day. I stood up, dodged cars as I
crossed Market Street, and waved down the bus driver.

He stopped, but he was angry. "Don't do that again," he said as I climbed the steps. "No bus ride is worth getting hit for."

"I won't," I said as I showed him my pass.

As the bus bumped along, I felt better. I'd go see Reese, tell him I was sorry. We'd shake hands just like major leaguers would, and it would be over. Just past the University of Washington I gave the cord a tug and hopped off.

Children's Hospital is perched on a hill above Sandpoint Way. When we'd passed it in the car before, it had always seemed like just another big building. But that day, with the birch trees blowing in the wind and dark gray clouds racing across the sky, it was spooky. As I trudged up the hill, the hospital seemed to grow larger. Car after car passed by. I could see parents looking out. They'd see me but look right through me.

I walked past one parking lot, then another, then another. For every one of those cars, there was a sick kid. It was hard to believe there were that many sick kids in the whole world. An ambulance sped up the hill past me, its siren strangely silent.

I felt the urge to turn around, head down the hill, and catch the first bus back to my duplex. Instead, I forced myself to keep going. Once I got this over with, I'd be fine. Besides, Reese wouldn't be with the really sick kids, the bald kids with cancer who were fighting for their lives. He'd be with guys who had normal stuff—like broken legs and arms. That's what most of the kids would have. They were here for a day, maybe two, and then they went home all fixed up and better. The hospital wasn't a graveyard.

I finally reached the main entrance. I stepped on the black
rubber mat, and the doors opened automatically. Inside, there was a cleaning lady mopping the floor. She looked up, read the confusion in my face. "Reception is over there," she said, pointing. "They'll get you where you want to go."

"Thanks," I said.

On the counter was a bouquet of flowers, the biggest bouquet I'd ever seen. Sitting at a desk in front of a computer was a woman with reddish hair and big arms. "Can I help you?"

"Reese Robertson's room. I'm a friend."

She typed his name into the computer and then gave me the number—B3213—on a slip of paper. "Now here's how you get there."

As she gave directions, a woman about my mom's age with dark hair and dark eyes came up beside me. I looked at her and smiled, and she smiled back, but her eyes were brimming with tears.

The woman behind the counter stopped talking. I hadn't listened carefully to her directions, but I couldn't ask her to repeat them, not with the sad woman waiting. So I thanked her, walked to the elevators, and got in. A few seconds later the doors opened and I stepped out.

The hospital was big. It seemed as if wherever I turned, there was a new hallway with other hallways opening off it. Nurses, doctors, orderlies, bustled about. Wheelchairs and gurneys and linen carts lined the halls. I wanted to ask for help, but everyone looked busy or worried or both.

I turned a corner and came to an area with sleeping bags and mattresses on the floor. Some parents were sleeping there. Others, with bags under their eyes and coffee cups in
their hands, whispered with one another or looked out the window. I walked down the corridor quickly, not making eye contact with anyone.

Finally I found myself in front of a long breezeway that connected one wing of the hospital with another. There was a sign above the breezeway: To Rooms 3000–3400. That had been the problem; the hospital had two different wings, and I'd been in the wrong one.

Relieved, I headed down the walkway. All along the walls were plaques with names etched on them. Not cheap plastic plaques, but classy ones, like the ones you get for being MVP on a team.

I was almost at the other side before I stopped to read a few. For a time I didn't get it. There was a name, then two dates. Sometimes the dates would be a few days or weeks apart, but other times there'd be years between them.

Then I understood. The day the kid was born; the day he or she died. I looked back along the breezeway. It seemed as if there were thousands upon thousands of plaques there. My face went hot, and I felt dizzy. Suddenly I didn't know what I was doing in the hospital. I picked up my pace, walking faster and faster, but now I wasn't looking for Reese Robertson's room; I was looking for exit signs.

I found them, all right. Too many of them. I went up this hallway, down that one, following the green lights and the black arrows. I turned left, then right, then left, breaking into a clammy, nervous sweat. I had to get out, but the place was like a huge maze.

I turned a corner, looked up, and saw the sign B3213
above an open door. For a split second I stood frozen outside the door. Then I slowly turned my head and looked in. Reese was lying in bed, his head heavily bandaged. Sitting next to him on either side of the bed were his mom and his dad. His mom was holding his hand.

Reese looked away from his mom and right at me. Our eyes met and locked, just like before I'd thrown the pitch.

"Pardon me."

An orderly was standing behind me, pushing an IV cart. His voice snapped me out of whatever reverie I'd fallen into. My eyes broke free from Reese's. And then I was walking again, walking so fast I was almost running. I didn't want to talk to Reese. Let his parents and teammates talk to him. What happened wasn't my fault. I didn't mean to hit him; he was leaning out over the plate. He should have gotten out of the way.

I couldn't find an elevator, but I did see an open door. Inside, a girl about Marian's age was sitting in a chair. She was thin and pale, and she had an oxygen mask over her face. A nurse was with her. "Breathe, Natasha," the nurse was saying. "Let's clear those lungs." Natasha breathed in deeply, smiling at me as she did so.

The nurse followed her eyes to me. "Can I help you?" she said, her voice irritated.

"I'm sorry. I can't find the elevator."

"Go out the door you just came in, turn right, and walk about twenty steps. You can't miss it." Then she turned back to the girl. "Breathe deeply."

I took the elevator to the ground floor, finally got out of
the hospital, and hustled down the hill to the bus stop. A spring storm was coming. The birch trees were like wild horses, bending down and then rearing up.

When the bus came at last, I slumped into the first empty seat and stared out the window. Why had I been feeling sorry for him? I was the one whose father was dead. I was the one living in city housing.

In Ballard I only had to wait a couple of minutes for my transfer. Still, I was late. I hustled the final blocks to the duplex. When I stepped inside, Mom had her purse out and was about to leave. "Where have you been? I was worried."

"Nowhere," I mumbled. "Just kicking around. And then the bus didn't come. You know how it is on weekends. Did I miss dinner?"

She nodded. "There's ravioli in the oven. You can eat whenever you want. Marian is over at Kaitlin's, and I'm off to work."

"I'll eat later then," I said, and I started toward the stairs when my mom's voice stopped me.

"What's this I hear about the game?"

"What do you mean?" I said, looking back.

"Coach Grandison called. He told me you hit a boy in the head with a pitch. He wanted to know how you were taking it."

I didn't answer.

"Well, how are you taking it?"

I shrugged. "I'm okay. I wish I hadn't hit him, but it's not like I did it on purpose."

"Coach told me to tell you that the boy will be okay."

I nodded. "I knew I couldn't have really hurt him. He was wearing a helmet. And I'm not exactly Randy Johnson."

She looked at me. "Still, Shane, you did hit him. And he's in the hospital. I think you should go see him. I could drive you there tomorrow."

I felt a moment of panic. "I called him at the hospital last night, Mom. I don't have to go see him."

She was surprised. "You did? Then why didn't you say so? What did he say?"

"1 didn't talk to him. I only talked to the nurse."

"Did you leave a message?"

"Yeah. I told them to tell him I was sorry."

"What's the boy's name? I'll call a florist and have some flowers sent."

My heart raced; I did not want her to know it was Reese. "Mom, I'm not sending flowers to a guy. He's fine. He's got a lump on his head, that's all. I left a message saying I was sorry. That's enough. He's probably out of the hospital by now, anyway."

She looked at her watch. "All right. If that's the way you want it. But I still think you should do more." She picked up her purse. "Marian should be back by eight-thirty. If she's not, call the McGinleys and tell her to come home. And see that she's in bed, lights out, no later than nine-thirty. Okay?"