Pitcher's Baby (6 page)

“I can tell you want to. Come on, baby.
It’s fun,” she continues.

Finally, I find my voice and look away
from the destruction that is my mother. “Meika just left,” I whisper. “Garrett
is coming . . . with guns. We need to go.” She just sits there, staring at me
like she doesn't understand a word that is coming out of my mouth. “NOW!” I
scream at her. She jumps up then and gathers her stuff from the counter. I turn
and walk away, unable to stand the sight of her anymore.

Frank walks in the door just as I reach it,
and he picks me up in his arms and carries me to the car. Mom is not far behind
us. I hear her shuffling down the hall, mumbling to herself, and all I can
think in that moment is . . . just leave her here. But I don't say it out loud,
not that Frank would even listen if I did, but in that moment, I want nothing
more than to be as far from the woman who gave birth to me as I can be. I still
don't understand what exactly she was doing in the bathroom, but I do know it's
not good, and somehow, I know that it is tied directly to the reason that Meika’s
uncle is angry. And that thought makes me angry and . . . sad. So sad, because
now I am leaving my whole life behind again.

I feel a tear slide down my cheek,
surprising me. I didn't think I had any more tears inside of me. I honestly
didn't think I could feel enough to cry anymore. I have worked really hard to
shut down every part of myself that feels pain over the last three months,
refusing to show any emotion to anyone around me. I welcome the numbness. I
welcome the absence of feeling. I want to be fine. I need to be. And so I will
be . . . tomorrow.

I roughly swipe the offending tear off my
cheek and swallow the lump of heartache down once again. It’s getting easier, I
think, to not care. To not feel anything. Every time I open myself up and try to
be happy again, something like this happens. It never fails. The moment I
believe that I can be happy again, my world is ripped out from underneath me
again. I don't want to exist in this life anymore. I don't want to.

Let it go,

the friendly voice in my head tells me. I
like her. She protects me. She won't let me feel.

She cares.

The snow begins to fall faster, in a hurry
to coat every available bare surface. I watch it, transfixed by the beauty of
it, and imagine if Aaron were still here, we would be outside throwing balls of
snow at each other, but he's not here, because of her. Because she only wanted
me. Why? I wish he was here. I wish I wasn’t all alone. I miss him so much, it
hurts deep inside my stomach. It aches, and I rub my chest, trying to make it
go away, not wanting to feel the pain anymore. If I close my eyes tight, I can
almost hear his high-pitched squeals and see his rosy red face, flushed from
excitement, just like he was the last time I saw him, but then I open my eyes,
and reality sets in again.

He's not here.

He's at home with my daddy.

I wish I was home.

I want my daddy.

Let it go, she whispers again.

I let it go.

Chapter
Nine

Lucas

We’ve been on the road for two weeks now.
We lost our series in Boston two to one, and then moved on to Chicago. It’s our
last game here before we head back to Phoenix. I hate to admit it, but for the
first time since I started my professional career, I actually feel homesick,
and it has nothing to do with my house.

I miss Charlee and Everly.

I can’t wait to walk through the door and
pick her up and kiss her swollen, fat cheeks. She turns two months old tomorrow,
and I want to be there for it.

Somehow, the sweet baby girl has managed
to do what no one has been able to do in the last five years. She has made me
happy again. I didn’t think a day would come that I would ever be able to look
at another child and feel anything other than heartache and grief, but with
Everly, I can’t help but feel so much more. She is perfect in every single way,
just like her mommy.

It pisses me off to no end when I think
about the way her father is acting. I know it’s not my position in either of
their lives, but I swear, if his piece of shit ass shows his face around them
high or drunk while I’m there, it will be the last thing he does for a while.
No one should abandon their children, especially not for addiction. I
understand everyone in life has their own problems, but there are plenty of
places out there to get help.

If you want it.

Sadly, he doesn’t. I know, because I was
sitting there when Aaron called him and offered to pay for him to go to an
inpatient rehab so he could get cleaned up and be a part of his child’s life.
He refused immediately, and Aaron and I made a pact to not tell Charlee. She
didn’t need to know. Not right now. Not when she is just rebuilding her own
life. It would crush her, and the thought of hurting her crushes me.

Chapter Ten

Charlee

“Hey, you ready?” Ashlin calls back to me.

“Yeah, grab that pacifier for me.”

We are taking Everly for her first ever
photo shoot. Part of our class assignment includes working together on a
project photographing a real life person, and since today is my baby’s
two-month birthday, I figured this would be perfect.

Ashlin passes me the pacifier, and I give
it to Everly, letting her suck on it while I set up the last of the lights and
my camera stand. I decided to leave her completely nude for the photos, with
the exception of a diaper. It just feels more natural.

Perfect.

I aim the camera and adjust the settings
and then take a few test shots, making sure everything looks good on the
playback before I begin. I want these pictures to be perfect. Amazing. And not
just because I want to get a good grade on the project, but because this is my
baby and this is going to be the memory I capture of this moment in time. A moment
that I have to hold and cherish for the rest of my days.

Taking the pacifier from her, I get a few
quick shots of her with her lips poking out from when she was suckling before
she opens her mouth, searching for her binky. I take some more of her like
that. I love every one of her facial expressions. I could sit here and
photograph every minute of the day and never get tired of capturing her ever-changing
moments.

I hear the front door open and shut, and
Aaron yells for me. I wave at Ashlin, telling her to go let him know where I
am. I was hoping he would stay away and not interrupt.

He doesn’t.

“What’s this? A photo shoot without her
favorite uncle?” Aaron says, coming in and immediately picking Everly up off
the soft downy blanket I have spread beneath her.

“Oh hush and put her back down. I’m not
done taking pictures.”

“Fine, but only if you get a picture with
the best piece of sports equipment known to man.”

“What’s that? Your mouth or your dick?” I
ask as Lucas walks in the room.

“Ha-ha. No,” he says, grabbing a bat and
laying it in front of Everly. He takes her hand and props it up against the
cool wood. I snap a few shots, because it really is cute seeing her cuddled up
against the bat, and I know if I don’t, he won’t ever leave me alone.

“No, no, no. This isn’t going to work for
me. You can’t have that baby taking baseball pictures without a glove and ball.
Its sacrilegious.”

“There you go with your damn French cuss
words again,” Aaron says, picking at Lucas.

“Shut up. You’re just mad because you know
it’s true.” Lucas grabs his glove from his bag and nestles it beneath Everly’s
head.

“Oui, belle.”

I tap the button on top of the camera and
capture my precious daughter sleeping amongst the baseball items, and my heart
swells. She is so loved. Even at the tender age of two months, she has managed
to capture the hearts of two of this country’s most eligible bachelors without
lifting a single finger.

Thirteen
years earlier . . .

It's been three weeks now that we have
been living out of the motel room in the middle of nowhere. Well, technically
we are somewhere. I just don’t know where that somewhere is, and truthfully, I
really don’t care. I try my best to become invisible to her and Frank. It
seemed to be working for the most part, and then, all of a sudden, it wasn't
working at all. Mom made new friends that first week we arrived. I don’t know
their names. I don’t care. She’s like a chameleon, able to fit in anywhere we go.
I still don’t understand how she does it. I don’t understand how anyone would
want to be around her.

She still goes in the bathroom . . . a
lot. She practically lives in there. I notice it more now, probably because we
are all stuck in this small motel room together. I wish I didn't know what she
was doing in there. I wish I could smile at her and pretend like I was still
naive, but I can't hide the disgust on my face when she comes out, not that she
even notices the way I feel. Frank goes in with her sometimes too, but not
often. He seems to prefer to drink the nasty brown stuff instead. I don't think
he knows that I know what they are doing there, because he always makes sure to
shut the door and lock it, and then when he comes out, he leaves the room and
doesn't come back until he's ready to go back in the bathroom. I think, in a
way, he is ashamed to be high in my presence. I don't care. I'd rather see him
high than drunk.

I don't like Frank drunk.

I see the differences in Mom now. Her
cheeks are sunken in, making her look older than her thirty-five years. She has
sores all over her body that she picks at constantly, making them puss up and
bleed.

She doesn't notice.

I do.

I can't even stand for her to touch me. I
don't want to feel her skin against mine or to think about her sores leaking
out on me. I sleep on a pallet on the floor so I don't have to be next to her—on
the nights she sleeps—and so I don't have to pretend to sleep when her and
Frank are naked on the nights she doesn't sleep. I hate being near either of
them.

I hate them.

Her hair is smothered down, pressed flat
to her scalp and greasy. I wonder silently when she last used the bathroom for
showering. Her clothes are starting to hang off her body now, too. I notice as
her shirt sleeve falls down her arm, exposing her pink bra strap. She pushes it
back up as she stands.

“Come on, baby,” she says as she walks to
the door.

“Where are we going?” I ask as I slide my
feet into my tennis shoes. They hurt to put on. I outgrew them months ago, I
think, but I don't have anything else to wear.

“To Sam’s. Hurry. You can tie them in the
car,” she says, glancing at my feet. I slide my foot in the other shoe and walk
out of the room. I don't complain about going to Sam’s anymore. He’s a nice
enough guy. Him and mom always go to the back room when we get there, and I
don't see him again until we are leaving.

The first time I met Sam, he scared the
living crap out of me. We drove up to this white mobile home with blue shutters
and blue swans all over the yard. Mom got out and walked straight up to the
door with ease. I could tell she had been there before, and she was not worried
at all when this giant of a man opened the door. He stood there, taking up the
entire doorway with his wide shoulders, and ducked slightly to keep from
hitting his head while he looked out. I couldn't make out any other features on
his face. I was so terrified.

He stepped back, and Mom walked right up
the steps, pulling me in after her. I remember looking around the living room,
my eyes landing on anything and everything to keep from having to look back at
the giant black man. Then he dropped down on one knee and took my tiny hand in
his, drawing my attention back to him.

 “Nice to meet you, Miss Charlee. My name
is Sam,” he said.

“He—hello.” I stammered out a greeting.

“You thirsty? Hungry?” he asked, and I
glanced up at Mom, not sure how to respond. He didn't wait. Instead, he walked
to the kitchen and made me a fried bologna sandwich and a glass of Kool-Aid.
When he was finished, he placed them both on the bench of a sleek black piano.

“You sit here and practice on this old
thing all you want. Me and your momma are gonna go to the back and talk for a
few minutes. Ok?” he said sweetly. l nodded my head, already taking a huge bite
out of my sandwich.

I don't know how long they stayed in the
back room talking, but when they came back out, Mom had the same glass-eyed
look I was used to seeing when she came out of the bathroom. We visited Sam
several times a week after that, and every time we went, he made me the same
fried bologna sandwich and Kool-Aid and left me to play on the piano. It was
our routine, and today, I was craving the normalcy it offered.

When we walk in the door today, Sam
already has my sandwich ready for me, so I sit at the piano and begin stroking
keys in an off-tune rendition of
Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star
for a few minutes before my stomach demands I take a bite of my food. Mom and
Sam head straight to the bedroom at the back of the trailer. I don't go back
there. Ever. I did once, a few weeks ago. I had drunk two full glasses of Kool-Aid
and had to pee so badly, I thought I was going to bust, so I snuck down the
hallway in the direction I hoped the bathroom was in. I found it, the last door
on the left of the hallway. Sam’s bedroom door stood just in front of me at the
end of the hall. I knew it was his bedroom, because I could hear my mom and Sam
in there.

“Take your clothes off.” Followed by the
rustling of fabric.

“Mmm. Damn, that’s a beautiful white puss.
I'm gonna fuck the shit out of you.”

I sat on the toilet as quietly as possible
and tried to block out the moans and grunts coming from the bedroom. The walls
were super thin, and as much as I tried, I couldn't ignore them all. I finished
my business and held my hands over my ears as I ran from the bathroom amidst
creaking bed frames and my mother's loud cries of ecstasy.

Today, I can hear Sam's deep voice as they
walk down the hall. “I’ve done told you, Dawn, I don’t have nothing for you
today.”

I manage to push all thoughts of Mom and
Sam as far out of my mind as I can while I bang around on the keyboard until I
hear the screaming and yelling. I stop pressing keys and listen closer, trying
to hear what they are arguing about.

“I know you have some, Sam. You just don't
want to give it up.” I can make out my mom's shrill voice easily. She is
screaming at the top of her lungs. A door opens and slams shut, only to be
opened again. Sam appears from the hallway and immediately notices me watching
the exchange with wide eyes. It's easy to tell he is angry. His face is flushed
and his breathing is heavy.

“Why don't you want me no more, Sammy? Why
am I not good enough for you? Did you find someone else?” I see a light go off
in her mind. “That's it, isn't it? You found someone else.”

“Dawn, take your daughter and go home. I
told you, I don't have ANYTHING!” He yells at her, causing me to flinch. Mom
doesn't miss a beat. Reaching across the piano, she snatches me up by wrapping
her hand around my upper arm. My glass of Kool-Aid wobbles on the bench,
threatening to fall over as she yanks me up. I feel tears burning behind my
eyes, threatening to fall. The grip she has on my arm is tight enough to
bruise. My fingers are beginning to go numb before she shoves me toward Sam. He
catches me effortlessly.

“Take her then. I'm not young enough or
pretty enough for you? Take Charlee.” Her lip raises in a sneer. “I know you
like the little brat. Do whatever you want with her. Just give me a hit!” She
ends her statement on a whine. I look back and forth between them both, not fully
understanding the things she is offering, but judging by the look on Sam’s face,
he does.

“Fine,” he grinds out between clenched
teeth. Mom breathes in a satisfying gulp of air, like Sam has just given her
oxygen to breathe.

“I knew you’d come in handy one day,” she
says with a conceited smirk.

Sam leans down and whispers in my ear,
“Just sit here and play for me, ok, Angel? I’ll be right back.”

To my mother, he simply demands, “Come.”
She jumps up and follows him greedily to the back.

“Play loud, Angel,” he calls back to me.
And so I do, but even still, I am able to hear the screaming. Sam is angry.
Furious, even.

“What are you doing, Sam?” Mom cries
before I hear the first the slap of skin against skin. I cower, recognizing the
sound of someone being hit . . . hard.

“You tried to SELL your kid to ME!”
Another slap. “For a hit?” Something shatters. “Are you fucking kidding me?” he
roars.

“Just give me one, Sam. You can take her,”
she begs. A loud noise, like something being thrown against the wall, followed
by wailing. Several minutes pass by. My fingers hurt from constantly beating on
the black and white keys. No matter how hard I jab at them, I can't shut out
the screams. They play over and over in my head long after she is quiet.

“You can stop now, Angel,” Sam says when
he returns to the room.

“Where’s my momma?” I ask, hating the way
my voice breaks. I don't want to care about her, but right now, she is all I
have.

“She’s just taking a nap. Come here, Angel,”
he says, pulling me to his lap and wiping my tears away with his swollen
fingers. “I need you to do me a favor. Can you do that?”

“Okay.” I reply timidly, looking up from
beneath my lashes.

“I need you to call Frank, Angel, and tell
him to come get you.” He says, kissing me against the side of my head and
standing. I walk over to the phone on the side table and pick it up, dialing
our room number from memory. I glance at Sam while the phone rings and see him
at the kitchen sink washing his hands. The water runs pink as it mixes with the
blood on his hands. Frank answers, and I try not to think of the blood while I
ask him to come get me. He hangs up, saying he will be there in five minutes.