Page 43 of Convincing the Catcher

My free hand flies to my mouth, and I sob, keeping hold of his.

“I did,” I cry. “I showed them, just like you always told me I would.”

My dad’s breathing grows heavier and more labored. I don’t push for him to say anything else because I know the three words he just said took everything in him to utter the way that he did. He used all his strength to tell me three words that may be tiny, but that hold so much weight. And for the rest of my life, I’ll carry those words.

He doesn’t speak or move again, but he looks peaceful as he sleeps. And eventually, I walk out in the hallway to get my mom. Because even though I’m not ready, I know he’s going to be at peace soon. I can feel him slipping further away.

CANE

A nurse walks into Mr. Meadows’s room, and on her face is a somber expression. I can’t imagine being a nurse and having to take care of people while they take their last breath. Nurses deserve all the praise in the world because, holy shit, what a hard, selfless—and at times really fucking sad—job.

A little over an hour ago, Harley came and got her mom. Right away, I could tell from the look in her eyes that she had said goodbye to him, and for that, I’m glad. I didn’t have that with my own father, and I’ve thought one thousand times over about what I would have told him if I could have said goodbye to that man.

The first thing I would tell him is that I’m sorry. If it hadn’t been for me and my stupid practice schedule, he wouldn’t have had to drive. And if he hadn’t been driving, he’d still be alive.

The nurse walks out of the room, and before she even looks over at me, I know it’s done. The look on her face says it all, and she sighs.

“I think he was waiting for her,” she says softly. “Your girlfriend was very special to him. Mr. Meadows has been sick for a while, but whenever her mom brought up Harland …” She stops, smiling. “Somehow, we all could tell he was perking up.”

I don’t correct her and tell her that Harland isn’t my girlfriend because right now is not the time or the place. And besides, even in these shitty circumstances, I like the way it sounds.

“I’m sure he did,” I utter. “She’s pretty special.”

Once she disappears around the corner, I sit and wait, knowing, eventually, the girl that I’ve come to really care about is going to walk out of that room and she’s going to need a hug. And I’ll be ready for that. No matter how long she takes.

Harley walks out of her father’s room all alone, and I slowly stand, walking toward her. Right now, I don’t really know what to do. I know what I want to do—and that’s hug her. But that might not be what she wants from me.

Now she’s right in front of me, looking up with tears in her eyes.

“He’s gone,” she whispers, her bottom lip trembling. “My mom … she couldn’t leave him yet.”

Before I can stop myself, my arms wrap around her, and I’m holding her tightly to my chest. She doesn’t sob or fall apart. She’s just … silent. Then her shoulders begin to shake, and I rest my chin on the top of her head.

“I’m so sorry, Catch,” I whisper. “I am so, so sorry.”

She buries her face deeper against my hoodie, not saying a word. I remember my grandfather holding me like this when my dad died. My mom was falling apart, and for once, she wasn’t the rock of our family because she was just trying to get through it herself. My grandfather, he just held on to me for as long as I needed. He held on until I pulled away.

Her phone beeps, and I know it’s telling her that her sugar is off. She doesn’t look right away, but before I can look for her, she sighs.

“I’m low,” she whispers, hanging her head.

Everything about her screams defeat. She just lost her dad, and she must still tend to her disease.

I know the last thing she’d want to do is eat at a time like this, and she’s mentioned before that Gatorade works fast during games when she needs to bring her sugar up. So, when we first got here and she went in with her dad, I bought a Gatorade from the vending machine. I’ve noticed she always has the purple ones with her, but they didn’t have purple, so I hope she likes blue.

Reluctantly, I drop my arms down and turn away from her, walking back to where I was seated and grabbing the bottle. Twisting the cap off, I take the few steps back toward her and hold it out.

“They didn’t have grape. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” she utters, grabbing the bottle and sipping from it.

Every drink she takes clearly pains her. She just said goodbye to her dad; the last thing she wants to do is to be sipping Gatorade, but she has to be strong.

Once she gets what she needs, I take it from her and twist the top back on before setting it down on the bench. Her shoulders begin to sag, and tears roll down her beautiful face.

“I should have been here sooner,” she says shamefully. “I should have been here weeks ago.”

Pulling her back against me, I cradle her in my arms and kiss the top of her head.