I assumed I was destroyed. A hundred ninety pounds landing on oddly bent bone and soft tissue meant I was finished as a ballplayer. The possibility of being on the field dropped into a void.
I could do other things. The possibilities spun around the edge of the sinking vortex. I could be a commentator. I could coach. I could write books on strategy. I could live off my savings for the rest of my life.
Each option sucked. I’d seen all of them as second-rate alternatives to the power of actually playing. But through the X-ray and poking and prodding (Does this hurt? What if I do this?) I had to stop rejecting them outright, and I could because Vivian was there with me.
Getting the X-ray took an hour. We read together, sitting side by side with my arm raised and iced on a rolling table. I could breathe with her next to me.
“What do you think they’ll say?” she asked, looking at the screen.
“I’ll never play again. Turn the page.”
She clicked the button. “Come on. Really? It’s not like there’s bone sticking out of the skin or anything.”
“My fingers are numb.” I didn’t want to go into it further. I didn’t want to have to say or hear the phrase “nerve damage” until it came from a doctor.
In my peripheral vision, I saw her slight nod. I had no idea if she knew what numb fingers could mean or if she had intuited that I didn’t want to talk about it.
I looked away from the screen at her face. Her hair had seen a long day, and the ponytail was coming out. Her forehead was topped with an inverted V and her face was framed with blond escapees.
“Jim wants to get laid,” she said.
“He’d better look elsewhere.”
“He thinks good seats at Dodger Stadium will do it. Personally, I think he’d get laid anyway, and I don’t want to start a pattern of me getting tickets for friends.”
If she thought my career was over, she wouldn’t ask. She was a shrewd woman, but transparent. The request was her way of telling me she thought I’d be fine without empty platitudes.
I couldn’t dismiss her optimism.
“I’ll set you up with the PR department. They set tickets aside each game. Page.”
She didn’t have a chance to flip it.
“Wallace.” The doctor came in, white coat flapping, a tablet in the crook of his arm. He was young and confident. Earring. Tattoo peeking out under his shirt.
“Doctor.”
“Quite a catch.”
Vivian held my hand. She was more nervous than I was. I liked that. It took some of the pressure off. She made me safe. Safe to fail. Safe to be nothing more or less than a roofer’s son from upstate New York.
“You’re a lucky guy,” the doctor said.
The tension fell out of her. I heard it in a little nervous laugh that had a life of its own.
“I am,” I said, squeezing her hand. “But how’s the arm?”
“Nice clean break.” He flipped the tablet to show me the X-ray. “With the proper care from yours truly and whomever else Major League Baseball can hire, you’ll be back in by the All-Star game.”
“His fingers are numb,” Vivian said, throwing a ball before making sure the catcher was ready. She sat back deep in her seat, turning red in the cheeks.
God, I loved her. As a man well-acquainted with his comfort zone, I admired how easily she stepped out of hers on my behalf.
“We have some compression at the shoulder. Once the swelling goes down, I think you’re going to be just fine. No guarantees, insert disclaimer, et cetera, et cetera.” He flipped the tablet back into the fold of his arm. “I’ll be back to set you in five minutes. Your manager and half the team are in the hall.”
“Tell them to fuck off.”
“All righty then.” The young doctor spun on his heel and was behind a closed door a second later.
“Ready to turn the page?” I asked.
Amazingly, because she was Vivian and she was the woman I loved, she turned the page. She gave me space while still being present.
“We’re going to need a code for that,” she said. “Like ‘turn’ or ‘go’ or something.”
“I wasn’t joking,” I said, changing the subject abruptly. “I might not play again.”
“I know.” Her eyes flickered across the page.
“Does that worry you?”
She looked up at me. “Does it worry you?”
“I asked first.” I wasn’t ready to put my true worries into words.
She wasn’t either, because she swallowed so hard I saw the lump in her throat. She looked away then shut off the Kindle. “I’m afraid if you don’t need me to walk the bases, you won’t need me.”
Her chin quivered. She cleared her throat. That had been a hard admission for her, and I wanted to say every word of love in every language in her honor. I wanted to rip those hidden sobs away. My arm hurt like fuck, but I could have killed a bear with it.