The reference to a past I don’t want to remember, or announce to Crystal, makes me quickly change the topic. “Are you telling Dad how to run his ball team again, Mom?”
My mother turns around, her long blond hair bouncing with the curls she meticulously creates each morning, her blue eyes lighting on me. “Mark!” She holds her arms open and I go to her, sitting on the bed to wrap her in a hug. Over her shoulder, my gaze meets my father’s worried one. His light brown hair is rumpled and strain is etched in his features, the lines framing his steely gray eyes deeper than they were a month ago. He’s shaken, which shakes me, but I don’t show it. They need me to be the rock I’ve always been.
My mother pulls back to inspect me, as she always does. She looks good, still ten years younger than her fifty-five years, and as strikingly beautiful as ever. How can she have cancer? How can she be in this bed?
“And for your information, son,” she scolds, “I’m looking out for your father. I want him to get the seven division championships in a row he hopes for, and he won’t get it with his present pitcher.” She turns to my father. “Steven, I insist you show Mark the practice tapes. He’ll see what I mean.”
“You know I’d like it if Mark watched the playbacks, Dana,” my father agrees, and I feel him watching me, even though I don’t look at him. “He just doesn’t enjoy watching them with me.”
“I love baseball,” Crystal chimes in, walking to a chair to sit down, and saving me from a topic I don’t want to address. “One of my brothers played in college and I never missed a game.” She glances at my father. “I’ve wanted to go to one of your games ever since Dana told me you coached.”
“You can join me in the box seats when the season starts,” my mother tells Crystal. “I planned on offering anyway.”
Crystal’s face lights up with excitement. “I’d love that.”
My mother smiles and turns her attention to me, rumpling my hair with her fingers. “You look a mess. Your tie is half off and you have bags under your eyes.”
My smile is genuine, if strained by worry. “Leave it to you, Mother, to tell me exactly how it is. It’s been a long day, but worth it to get here to see you.” That ache in my gut throbs, and I again think how crazy it is that she looks this good when she has stage 3 breast cancer. I soften my voice. “How are you?”
I watch emotions shift on her face. Uncertainty. Worry. Fear. And finally, “I’m pissed.” Her voice cracks. “I don’t have time for cancer, and . . .” She abruptly looks around me at Crystal. “Did you bring those reports I wanted?”
“No,” I say firmly. “You’re not working the night before you have a double—”
“Don’t say it,” she hisses. “Don’t say it. I can’t . . . just don’t.” She turns to my father. “Steven, I need some water, please.”
My father quickly hands her the cup and I sit there, frozen in place from seeing my strong, unbreakable mother struggling for composure.
“I forgot the reports in my trunk,” Crystal says, popping to her feet. “My trunk sticks. Mark, can you please come help me?”
My mother spits her water out and almost chokes on a sudden burst of laughter. “Mark?” she inquires, glancing at me. “You let her call you Mark?” Her gaze flicks to Crystal. “I knew I liked this girl. She knows how to put a man in his place. No ‘Mr. Compton’ for her.”
My eyes meet Crystal’s, and when I expect her to gloat, she gives me an apologetic look. “Would you help me? Please?”
I give her a nod. I need a minute to get a grip on what I’m feeling, anyway. Something I never feel or need—but I do now.
Following her into the hall, I pull the door to the room shut.
The instant I turn to face her, she confronts me in a soft whisper. “I thought you couldn’t say no to your mother. Why would you start tonight, when she asked for the reports?”