Out of Left Field (8 page)

What
else
did Dad hide from us?

*

No way I’ll mention this to Mom. Luckily, she and I barely see each other until the next day. I’m at the pizzeria at the start of my shift, setting out fresh napkins and silverware, when the door sensor beeps and Mom rushes in, her face pinched. She whispers something to Frankie. He listens, nods, and waves me away. Puffs of flour make smoke around his hands. Mom pulls me toward the door. “Take off your apron—we’re leaving.”

I toss the apron over a chair and follow her outside. “Mom, give me a break! Did you see the look on Frankie’s face? You want to get me fired?” A swarm of bad thoughts buzz through my head. “Did something happen to Pop?”

She doesn’t answer. I hustle to keep up. “What’s going on? Why aren’t you at work?”

The Honda sits in a No Parking zone with its flashers on. Mom starts the engine and grips the steering wheel, but we don’t move. “You didn’t tell me you canceled a doctor’s appointment,” she says.

“I didn’t ‘cancel’ anything. That office had the wrong guy. Since when do I need a cardiologist?”

Mom twists sideways in her seat to look at me. “I hope you don’t.” Her voice trembles. “The cardiologist called me at work this morning. He hadn’t heard—about Pat’s death.”

“Am I missing something?”

“Apparently we both are.” She’s so pale, even her lips are ashen. “Your father—” she gulps. “Had a very rare disease of the heart. It’s got a long name—I wrote it down. This doctor diagnosed it, right before…”

“Wait.” I mash my knees against the dashboard to keep them from jumping. “That’s why he died?”

“The doctor thinks so. He’s going to call the medical examiner, try to speed up the autopsy. They can do that if it’s an emergency.”

“Jesus.” My thoughts whirl. Mom puts her head down on the steering wheel. “Mom, I don’t get it. What does this have to do with me?”

“It’s—it’s congenital,” she says.

Damn. I should have paid attention in bio. “Meaning?”

“Don’t you see?” She stares at me like I’m a creature out of a zombie movie. “Pat made the appointment—to find out if you have it, too.” She crumples in the seat and
wails
. I swear. It takes everything I’ve got to stay in this metal shoebox.

I grip her shoulder. “Mom, stop! I’m fine. The way Coach pushes me, I’d be dead by now if my heart were screwed up.” In fact, my ticker’s going like a jackhammer. I jerk my thumb toward the pizzeria. “Frankie’s still pissed about my fake sick day last week.”

Mom turns off the tears, as fast as twisting a faucet, and fastens her seatbelt. “That’s the least of our worries. We’re going to the cardiologist right this minute, to see if you have this—this syndrome.” She gropes in her purse for a slip of paper. I read over her shoulder. “
Ideopathic hypertrophic cardiomyopathy
,” she says, stumbling through it.

“Sounds like a weird sea creature.”

“Brandon, this is not a joke.” She jerks the car into reverse.

“Mom, hold it!” I clutch her sleeve and she slams on the brake, throwing us against our seatbelts. “No offense, Mom, but you can’t drive. Switch places, or I’ll call a cab.”

“You’re right,” she whispers, and climbs out.

I drive the J-Way with care, taking the rotaries like a new driver. As we navigate the last one, just before the hospital, the pieces fall into place, like marbles down the chute Dad built for me in second grade. “Now I get it,” I say. “That’s why Dad—”

“Right,” she says. “He was worried about his sons. Both of them.”

I bite the inside of my mouth. “When was he planning to tell us?”

She’s quiet for so long I wonder if she even hears me. She points to the hospital turn, then to the garage entrance. I pull into a space and start to get out when Mom says, “Wait. This must be why he asked me to take that day off from work—he wanted to tell me about the diagnosis.”

“You didn’t know he’d been to the doctor?”

“No. That’s so like him—he wouldn’t want us to worry, if it was a false alarm.” Her voice is small. “Bran—he must have been so afraid.”

Afraid?
Try
scared shitless
. The hospital looms above me like a prison. “What will they do to me?”

“I don’t know—listen to your heart, maybe schedule some tests. They said they can tell, pretty quickly, if you have it or not.”

“Or not. Let’s get this over with.”

Bravado works until the antiseptic smell hits me. We find the office on the directory and step into the empty elevator. Mom slips her hand into mine. Who’s the kid here: Yours Truly, or Mom? Who cares. Fine with me if she needs to hold tight. That way, maybe I won’t keel over.

Lost in the Lights

In a tough practice after losing a meet, when Coach tells you to lay on another twenty laps; when your shoulders burn, your legs throb, and your heart pumps into your ears—the only way to go on is to enter The Zone. You shut off the sounds (flutter of Marty’s kick in the next lane; echo of voices bouncing off tiles; shrill of Coach’s whistle) and let your mind float up above the blue water into the rafters.

“Instant death is often the first symptom of the disease,” the doctor says. Calmly. As if he’s describing a skin rash.
Instant death?
Those two words take you into The Zone. Your mind is like a ball Big Papi hits so hard, it’s lost in the lights high above the park. The baseball seems to float there forever, hanging in slo-mo above 35,000 screaming fans.

You stay in The Zone for hours. As you strip to a hospital jonny. As the doc holds the stethoscope to your chest for one endless minute after another, eyes closed. As a lab tech jabs a needle into your vein and fills vial after vial with crimson blood. As they clamp cold electrodes to every vital spot on your body—including some spots that make you glad the nurse is a guy—and you wait while the needle hammers out your heart’s rhythm on paper. As they settle you onto a table and the doctor asks, in a cheery voice, if you’d like to watch your heart pumping away, live on camera. No thanks. Who wants a close-up of the organ that could kill you? Instead, you stay in The Zone.

You’re still in The Zone when they tell you to get dressed, when you slug the OJ they force you to drink, when you follow the nurse down one corridor, then another, back to the doctor’s office. The nurse carries the pictures from the echocardiogram: your death sentence—or your reprieve.

The Zone is safe. Not comfortable, but better than reality. It’s where you went during the wake and the funeral. It’s where you go when someone asks, trying to be kind, “How’re you doing?” And it’s where you are now, while the doctor flips through papers, brown eyes intent on the numbers, as he studies your file, which has gone from an empty folder to a fat one in a few hours.

And then—the miracle: The doctor smiles. No, he positively beams. You tumble out of The Zone and into the room. Just like the home run ball that careens over the wall and shatters a car window on Landsdowne Street. “So far, so good,” the doctor says. He reaches out to shake your hand, as if you’ve just won a race. Or the lottery. Or something even better.

“Yes!” You leap to your feet—and your mom keels over. She does it so gracefully, you can’t move. All hell breaks loose. The doctor dives and catches her before she hits the floor. Alarms sound, hands push you out of the way, a nurse steers you from the room as Mom’s eyes flutter open. Someone asks her the question you should have thought of yourself: “When did you last have anything to eat or drink?” You find yourself in the waiting room, cell phone in hand. Your heart pounds in your ears; sweat streams down your face. You’re out of The Zone—and grinning like a fool.

Those two words—
instant death
—no longer apply. You will
live
.

Off the D.L.

The nurse pokes his head out the door. “Your mom’s fine,” he says. “We’ll keep her quiet for a bit, check her vitals, but it was probably the shock and worry. Anyone in the family you can call, to help out?”

I’ve punched in Cora and Leo’s number before I even think what I’m going to say. When my uncle’s deep voice comes on the line, I almost get down on my knees to thank Someone—except, like Dad, I’m not sure Anyone’s out there listening. Instead, I tell my uncle we’re at the Faulkner, that I needed some tests, that Mom and I are okay, but she fainted—

“Hold tight,” Uncle Leo says. “I’ll call your cell when we get there.”

Before long, Cora, Leo, and Janine blow through the glass doors as Mom and I find seats in the lobby. Mom’s cheeks are pink again and she smiles as the family pulls chairs into a tight circle. Janine grabs my knee when Mom explains why we’re here.

“Mom, tell them the important part: I’m okay.”

Aunt Cora’s eyes fill; so do Janine’s. Maybe it’s the late afternoon shadows gathering on the lawn (have we been here that long?) or all that poking and prodding, but suddenly I need air. I point to my phone and head for the door.

Marty answers right away. “What the hell happened? You missed the meet—Coach is ripshit.”

The meet. I’d forgotten all about it. The hospital wall holds me up as I give him the abbreviated version. “My dad had a rare heart condition. The main symptom is instant death.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Afraid not. And it’s inherited—fifty percent chance I might have it, too. So they rushed me to the hospital.” I take a deep breath. “I’ve had every test in the book. Things look good so far. One more test and I’ll be off the D.L., ready for a normal life. Whatever that means.”

Marty whistles. “Your dad knew?”

“Sounds like he found out right before he died.”

“He never told your mom?”

“They had a lunch date scheduled for the day he… We think he planned to break the news then. He made an appointment for me—but…” I can’t talk straight.
He checked out instead
, is what I’m thinking.

“Wow. So that’s why Mr. Magoo wanted to find his—other kid. To warn him.”

“Must be.”

“It’s up to us now,” Marty says.

I shiver, even though heat shimmers on the pavement. “What if it’s already too late?”

“Young guys die of it, too?”

“Remember Reggie Lewis?”

“You’re kidding. That’s what he had?”

“They think so.”

“Man, I’m glad you’re alive.”

“Me too. Don’t go maudlin on me.” I grin like an idiot.

Marty jolts me out of my trance. “Did you call your dad’s friend in Canada? It’s even more urgent now.”

“Ray? You’re right. But not tonight. They poked and prodded and nearly bled me to death. I’m whooped. And my aunt’s here with her family.”

Shit.
My aunt
. What were we thinking? My cousins? I nearly drop the phone. “Gotta go. Call you soon.”

I don’t wait for his reply. I push through the revolving doors. My family is huddled around Cora as if she’s a quarterback calling a play—but her skin is pale under her freckles. It’s obviously hit them too. My uncle yanks Cora to her feet, grabs Janine. Mom stumbles after them. “Leo, I’m sorry!” Mom whispers. “I was so focused on Brandon, I didn’t think—”

Leo doesn’t answer. His shoes squeak as he pulls Cora and Janine toward the elevators.

My aunt tries to twist away. “Leo, wait. Won’t the office be closed?” My uncle doesn’t break his stride. The elevator door closes behind them. Mom lists to the side and I catch her under the elbow, guide her into her seat.

“I should have called them right away,” she whispers.

“It’s okay, Mom. Cora will be okay. The twins, too.” No choice. They
have
to be.

*

Hours later, I’m too exhausted to sleep. The lights of a passing car cast thin beams across my ceiling. Mom’s asleep—I checked to be sure—but I can’t relax. Cora will see the doc first thing in the morning; nothing we can do until she’s had the same battery of tests. The twins escape the tests if Cora is okay. Mom and I wore ourselves out with questions we couldn’t answer: Why didn’t the doc ask Dad—or Mom—if he had siblings? Why didn’t Dad think of that himself?

Now it hits me, full force. “Crap!” I sit up in bed and punch the headboard.
He could have lived
.

I throw off my sheet and stand in the middle of the room, as if I had someplace to go. While we waited for test results, the doc opened up a plastic heart and put the pieces back together like a Rubik’s cube. I was wishing for a translator for some of the terms he tossed around, and I interrupted him with a rude question: “Could you have saved him?”

The doc looked like I’d slapped his face. Kept his eyes on me though; I gave him credit for that. “It’s possible,” he said. “I recommended he have a defibrillator implanted. A tricky surgery that would have changed his quality of life forever.” More throat clearing. I glanced at Mom. She was frozen in her chair.

The doc faced her straight on. “He said he’d talk to you about it and bring you in right away. He made that appointment for you, son. I wish—”

Son?
Forget it. Only one man calls me that name.

Mom and I waited while he clicked his ballpoint pen open. And closed. Open. Closed. No way we’d let him off the hook. “Maybe he didn’t realize how urgent it was,” the doctor said at last. “Maybe I didn’t either—since he’d lived so long without major symptoms.”

Now, I think of that scene in the kitchen a month ago, when I was making bread and Dad doubled up, coughing. Was that a sign? I pace the room like the tiger at the Franklin Park Zoo. “Goddamn it!”

“Bran?” Mom’s voice is faint on the other side of the wall. “You okay?”

“Sorry! Bad dream.” Mom must think I’ve gone over the edge. Maybe I have. I clutch my head, but two words ring inside me like a gong.
If only. If only
. If only I’d bugged Dad when he had that fit, made him go to the doctor. Or told Mom; bugged her until
she
made him go. If only the doctor had kept Dad in the hospital, given him the surgery right then. If only Dad had
told
us!

If only we could bring him back.

Fifth Inning

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

Hey, Quinn. I can only talk a minute. I’m waiting for Mum outside the market.