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I don’t. It’s not my job. It’s Aubrey’s.
“Just know, I’m always here. I don’t care what time of night it is or whether you think I’m sleeping. If you need me, you call me.”
“I don’t have a phone,” she whispers as if I didn’t know this.
“You will tomorrow. I’ll make sure of it.” And tomorrow, when she goes to her mom’s I’ll take her because Aubrey owes me an answer or two.
My phone rings. Josie’s picture fills my screen. I accept her video call and wait for it to connect. “Hey,” I say as soon as I see her. “Where are you?”
“Hi Amelie,” she says before addressing me. “Mack’s pitching. I thought you’d like to watch the game.”
My heart swells with adoration for the woman on the other side of the phone. I’ll never forgive myself for making things difficult for her when Liam returned. It’s hard watching your family slip away knowing there isn’t anything you can do it about. Sort of like now. Except, this divorce business with Aubrey is different. I’m not losing my kids, just my wife. A wife who truly doesn’t want me anymore.
“Thanks, Josie.”
Amelie sits close to me as I hold the phone in front of us. Josie turns the camera toward the field and there’s my son, wearing the same number I did when I played. Mack stands on the mound, ball in one hand and his mitt resting on his thigh. He’s waiting for the okay to start, to stare the batter down. I’ve been there before. Same with Liam. Then Noah. And now Mack.
“Hey, did I miss anything?”
I hear Noah’s voice. Tears threaten to spill, but I fight them back. He leans in front of the phone and waves.
“Hey, Dad,” he says, catching me off guard. My breathing hitches and I’m thankful he can’t the quick intake of breath.
“Hey, Noah. How’s it going?”
“Great.”
“Hi, Noah,” Amelie waves. I think she has a crush on Noah. And Quinn. And, my luck, JD.
“Yo, Amelie. What are you doing, beautiful girl?”
Suddenly, she’s bashful and giggling.
I hear, “Play ball,” and my anxiety skyrockets.
“Steeeerike,” the ump says. Josie and everyone cheers Mack on and I fist pump.
The first three batters strike out. The first half of the inning is over. Josie gives me a play by play of who is batting and what’s going on.
“Mack’s up,” she says. I can faintly see my son coming up to bat and then the phone’s jostled.
“Sorry,” Liam’s voice calls out. “She’s trying to show you this shit through the fence. I moved you for a better shot.”
“Thanks.” I clear my throat, moving the frog size lump away from my windpipe.
The view is clear. I see my son step into the batter’s box, with the bases loaded. He lets the first pitch go by, ball. But the second, he sends it over the fence for a grand slam.
“Holy shit!” I’m jumping up and down, forgetting about the weak floors. Yelling for Mack, right along with Liam and everyone in the stands. Liam’s the loudest, rooting for my son, the boy he’s taken under his wing and helped shine.
I stay on the phone, watching the entire game, long after Amelie’s fallen asleep on the couch next to me. When it’s over, Liam hands the phone to Mack, whose smile beams from ear to ear. Someone, I’m assuming Liam or Noah, messes up Mack’s hat. He doesn’t care to fix it.
“Dad! I hit a grand slam!”
“You did. I saw it. I’m so proud of you and hey, you pitched a no-hitter. I’m going to need a copy of the newspaper tomorrow. I bet you’ll be on the front page.”
“Yep, just like you, Noah, and Liam.”
“Yeah, you’re right.”
