Angels Walking (5 page)

His eyes didn’t leave hers. “Always.”

The drive to Merrill Place was less than ten minutes this time of night. Most of Pensacola was at the Blue Wahoos baseball game. It’s where she and Chuck would be if they weren’t watching the girls. Cheryl felt her heart sink. Her poor mother.

She rolled down the window and let the ocean air clear her mind. The night was cooler than usual for August, the stars overhead brilliant.
Father, what’s happening? My mother is getting worse. I’m out of ideas. Help us . . . please.

No answer came, no immediate sense of direction or help. Cheryl prayed until she arrived and then she found Harrison Myers in his office. “I got here as fast as I could.”

“She’s in her room.” He picked up a folder from his desk and handed it to her. “Here. Information about the center in Destin.” A shadow fell over his kind brown eyes. “We can’t help her much longer. Not if something doesn’t change.”

Cheryl took the packet. “Thank you.” She nodded toward the door. “I’ll go see her.”

Mr. Myers folded his hands. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.” They shared a sad look and then she walked from his boxy office down the white tiled hallway to her mother’s room. Room 116 at the end of the building. Cheryl never got used to the smell. Death hung in the air, the way it always did in places like this. Heaven’s waiting room. A reminder that every day brought them closer to the last.

Without making a sound, Cheryl opened the door and stepped inside. Her mother was sitting on the edge of her bed. She still wore her wool coat and she looked restless. Her knuckles were white from clutching the edge of the bedspread. As soon as she spotted Cheryl her eyes immediately filled with fear. “Who are you?”

“Hello.” She felt the nervousness in her smile. Some days were worse than others. Her mom might scream or even throw things at her. Tonight she looked borderline crazy. Cheryl took a few steps into the room. “It’s me. Cheryl.”

“What?” Her mother folded her arms tightly in front of her and looked around. “Where’s Ben?”

“He’s not here.” She had long since stopped arguing with her mother, stopped trying to set her straight about the details of life. “He couldn’t come.”

“I walked to his house.” Her eyes darted to the window. “Isn’t this his house?”

“No.” Cheryl moved slowly to the chair by her mother’s bed and sat down. She used her most kind voice. “This is
your
house.”

“No!” Her expression became horrified at the possibility. “This is not my house.” She squinted at Cheryl. “Are you the housekeeper?”

Cheryl took a slow breath.
Help me, God . . . I need Your help.
She worked to stay calm. “Can I tell you a story?”

Some of the anxiety left her mother’s tense shoulders. “A story?”

“Yes, a lovely story about Ben.” Cheryl slid to the edge of the seat, her eyes locked on her mother’s.

“Ben?” She relaxed a little more. “You know him?”

“I do.”

Her mother nodded, her eyes distant. She eased her legs up onto the bed and slid back on the elevated stack of pillows. She seemed to consider the idea. “Yes. I’d like that.” Her white hair was messier than usual, adding to the slightly deranged look in her eyes. She smoothed out the wrinkles in her sheet. “Go ahead.”

“Ben was playing the baseball game of his life.”

“First base.” Her mother cast worried eyes in her direction. “He plays first base.”

“Yes, that’s right. First base.” Cheryl leaned back in her chair. “It was the playoffs and this was the season’s biggest game. Two outs, game tied at three apiece.”

A slow smile lifted her mother’s weathered cheeks. She sank a little deeper into the pillows. “Prettiest day of the year. Perfect day to be at a ball park.”

“The batter up was a hot hitter from Santa Rosa Beach.”

“Nothing but home runs and triples.”

“Exactly.” Cheryl looked toward the curtained window. “Only this day he hits a grounder to short. Shortstop bobbles it and recovers. He sweeps it into his glove and fires it to Ben at first base.”

“Ben makes the out!” Her mother was staring at the air in front of her, seeing the game as if it were happening again.

“Three down, Pensacola High up to bat. Last inning. Bottom of the seventh.” Cheryl could see her brother, see the determination in his face. “The first three batters get on. A walk, a hit pitch, and a single. Bases loaded.”

“Ben’s up next.” She looked straight at Cheryl. “He batted cleanup, you know. This is a true story.” A few blinks and she wrinkled her face, studying Cheryl. “I’m sorry. Do I know you?”

“I’m telling you a story about Ben.”

Her mother’s vacant stare stayed several seconds before some sense of light returned to her eyes. She nodded barely. “That’s right.” She shifted her look back to the imaginary game in front of her. “Ben’s up to bat.”

“That’s right. He walks to the plate. Six-foot-three and muscled arms. The outfield knows him.”

“Yes, they do.” Her mother chuckled. “They all back up. Almost to the fence.”

“Yes, but Ben just knows there’s nothing they can do to stop him. Not this time. His blond bangs hang just below his batting helmet. His eyes focused.”

“Such beautiful eyes.” Her mother’s smile held a hint of sadness. “I wish he would come see me more often.”

“He will. One day.” Cheryl paused. “The pitcher stares Ben down, just as ready to win. The only pitcher who ever gave Ben any trouble. But not this afternoon. Ben connects with the first pitch—a fastball—right at the belly of the bat.” She smiled big. “And the ball’s gone. Gone over the centerfield fence.”

“Home run!” Her mother raised both hands and let them fall weakly back to the bed. “Pensacola Eagles win!”

“Season champs.”

“Wait!” Her mother turned, suddenly startled. “We should celebrate. I’ll make dinner.”

Cheryl felt sick. How could she tell her mom the game had happened fifty years ago? She reached for her mother’s hand. “Ben already ate dinner.”

“What?” Her mom jerked her hand back and tucked it in close to her chest. “Who are you? And why won’t you let Ben join us?”

“Did you like the story?” Cheryl knew better than to call her Mom. She hadn’t used the name in years. “It’s a good story, right?”

Again her mother relaxed, her eyes distant once more. “I like it.” She glanced at Cheryl, suspicious. “You can go home now. The housekeeper goes home at the end of the day.”

“You want me to go home?”

“Yes!” She pointed to the door. “I’ve had enough of you.”

“Okay.” Cheryl stood. “You can sleep now.”

“I will.” She worked her arms out of her coat and dropped it to the floor, all while keeping her eyes on Cheryl. She slid her feet beneath the covers and pulled the sheet and blanket close to her chin. “Tell Ben I’ll be there tomorrow.”

“I’ll tell him.” Cheryl fought tears gathering in her eyes. She held up her hand. “Good-bye.”

“Go home.” Her mom nodded, irritated. She made a brushing motion toward the door. “You’re off work.”

Cheryl turned and walked out of the room. She had no idea if she’d really helped her mother or not. But at least now the woman seemed ready to sleep. She stopped in at Mr. Myers’s office on the way out. The man was sorting through a file on his desk. Cheryl found a tired smile. “She’s more settled now.”

“Thank you.” He set the file down and stood. “Nights are the worst.”

“Yes.” She pulled her cell phone from her purse and held it up. “Call me if anything else happens.”

“I will.” Harrison Myers seemed genuinely troubled. “Call the center in Destin. Please. She’d be safer.”

Cheryl tightened her hold on her purse. “I’ll think about it.”

“Sooner than later.” He raised his brow. “For her sake.”

His words ran through her head as she made the drive home and as she and Chuck and the girls watched
Tangled
. Her mother wouldn’t make the move easily. She was eighty-eight years old. Moving her now would probably destroy her.

“You love watching
Tangled
, right, Meemaw?” Her oldest granddaughter looked up, innocent eyes sparkling.

“I do.” She put her arm around the child’s shoulders. “I love a good story.”

Again she shared a quick look with her husband. They hadn’t talked about it, but he would’ve known she had been telling her mother stories. It was the only way Cheryl had found to calm her down on nights like this. Twice this week
and twice last week she’d made the trip, told the same story about Ben, and come home emotionally wrecked.

Something had to change.

When the girls left for the night, Chuck pulled her into his strong arms. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s so hard. She doesn’t know me.” The tears came now. “They want us to think about moving her.”

Chuck clearly knew better than to debate the possibility. Not now anyway. Cheryl’s mother couldn’t stay at Merrill Place much longer. Instead her husband waited a few heartbeats and then he did the only thing he could. The only thing either of them could do.

Quietly, confidently he prayed for a miracle.

That somehow, some way, before God took her home, sweet Virginia Hutcheson might find peace.

4

P
AIN RADIATED FROM HIS
shoulder up into his neck and down through his chest. The worst pain Tyler had ever known. Despite that, he was about to be discharged from the hospital—the nurse had told him. But then what? Where was he supposed to go to get help? He couldn’t lift his arm, couldn’t move his fingers without searing pain.

If he were a praying man, this would’ve been his finest hour. But prayer was part of another life. If God cared about Tyler Ames, He had never much showed it.

Tyler closed his eyes. The pain meds helped. But he had hardly slept in the last few days. His team had paid for him to stay through this afternoon. Forty-eight hours. Long enough for a complete evaluation. So far no one had told him anything except that he was going home.

“Mr. Ames?” A man entered the room.

Tyler blinked and tried to focus. It was the doctor. He came up to the bed. “I’m Dr. Bancroft. How’s the pain?” The
man pushed a few buttons and raised the back of Tyler’s bed.

The sitting-up position helped rouse him. “Not great.” He squinted at the doctor. “What’s the verdict?”

“I’m afraid it’s bad news.” The doctor leaned against the windowsill and crossed his arms. “You blew out your labrum. The rotator cuff is damaged, too. Can’t tell from the MRI how bad it is.” He let that sink in for a moment. “You need surgery.”

Each sentence hit Tyler like so many cement trucks, plowing him down and running him over, leaving him flattened and unable to breathe. He pinched the bridge of his nose with his left hand, inhaled, and held it. If only he could will himself back to the start of the inning. Nine outs left, the crowd shouting his name. Pro scouts capturing every pitch for the brass in Cincinnati. Nine lousy outs.

He lowered his hand. “I was throwing a perfect game.”

“I know.” The doctor grimaced. “The story was on the front page of Sunday’s paper.” He pulled a chart from the end of Tyler’s bed. “We kept you here because your heart was acting up. Skipping beats and slipping into atrial fibrillation. That’s settled down now. The heart tests were negative.”

Tyler exhaled. Every heartbeat sent a shockwave of pain through his torso. “What’s that mean?”

“It means your heart’s fine. Sometimes pain can do that—if it’s intense enough.”

He winced. “This probably qualifies.”

Dr. Bancroft shook his head, the way people do when hope is slim. “I’m sorry.”

Tyler had a hundred questions. What did the Blue Wahoos think and how about the scouts from the Reds, and
when could he have surgery and what would the rehab process look like? But only one question mattered. He steeled himself. “I can play again, right? Next season?”

The doctor nodded, almost too quickly. “Yes. I think so. You need surgery, but athletes come back from this type of thing. Definitely.”

“When? When’s the surgery?” Tyler looked back at the door to his room. “Could we do it now? While I’m still here?”

“Actually . . . you have to book that through an orthopedic surgeon.”

Tyler remembered one of his teammates needing knee surgery last season. “I think I can get the name of a good one. Someone who can get me in quickly.” With his left hand he braced his right elbow against his body. “Sooner the better, right?”

“Yes. Yes, definitely.” The man seemed troubled, as if he had even more bad news. “There is one thing. I’m not sure team insurance covers this type of surgery. Do you have another policy? Something . . . on your own?”

Tyler’s heart bounced around inside his aching chest. “The team will cover it.” He allowed a laugh that was more outrage than humor. “I was on the mound when it happened.”

“True. Very true.” The doctor pursed his lips and focused on the chart. “You might want to talk to management.” He nodded, clearly nervous. “Just in case.” He jotted something onto the chart. “Your car’s still back at the stadium, is that right?”

“My car?” The haze of pain meds made it difficult to think. Saturday night felt like a lifetime ago. “I think so. Yes.”