“He made him do drills last night to get ready.”
“What kind of drills?” Darla asked.
“I was making dinner, but when I looked out the window, Ollie was doing sprints across the yard.”
“Oh.” Darla made a yikes expression.
A few more painful flails, and it was finished.
Ollie had made the third out. The game was over. And while there was no score in Tee ball—the game simply went an hour and then it was called—the kids still knew.
One of Ollie’s teammates said something to him as he passed. Ollie scowled and then pulled off his helmet, tossing it to the ground, where it rolled to a stop in a puff of dust.
All Kit had wanted was for him to have fun, make friends, and fit in. Especially lately when he’d suddenly become aware of his long-standing lisp, which she’d always regarded as sweet and adorable. It never occurred to her that this could make things worse.
Kit met him near the front of the now-emptying bleachers, where he plopped himself down in the third row. “I’m not playing anymore,” he huffed, crossing his arms and sticking out his lower lip. The combination of his summer buzz cut, deeply knit brows, and soulful blue eyes all gave Kit another pang in her heart. How would she ever stop grieving Carson when their son looked exactly like him? Ollie’s bat clattered into the aisle, bumping its way down the metal steps and falling underneath the seats.
She chose not to scold him for dropping the bat into no-man’s-land because she wasn’t sure what was going on.
Carson would have known exactly how to handle this and maybe even why Ollie seemed unlike his sweet, happy self lately. Help, she sent up silently into the ether, squinting at the bright yellow sun shining so cheerfully over the seaside park.
Be brave, Kit imagined she heard back. That’s what Carson would have said. With a wink and a jaunty smile that would have made her melt a little. And she truly wanted to be brave, for his sake, because he’d been all about brave. Carson had died on a mission over Afghanistan. He’d known the dangers, yet he’d gone gallantly and done his job.
So she could do hers.
All the five-year-olds were disbanding, gathering equipment, and talking excitedly with their families. Except Ollie, who sat there very grumpily.
Darla reached under the bleachers and fished out the fallen bat, casting a reassuring smile in Kit’s direction. “It’s okay, Ollie,” she said in a soothing tone. “Everyone has bad days.”
Kit’s mother, who looked perfectly pressed in spotless white tennies, white pants, and a crisp tailored shirt, patted him on the back. “Maybe Tee ball’s just not your thing.”
“This is just the first game, Mom,” Kit said, a little more firmly than she’d intended as she sat down next to her son and gave him a little squeeze. Besides, she thought a little wryly, Ollie couldn’t quit yet. It had cost a small fortune to buy those special cleats and pants and a glove and sign up for the league. More seriously, Kit understood that making things easy for Ollie all the time wasn’t right, even though her own family had done that—for her as well—often during these past two years.
“It takes a little while to get the hang of it,” she amended, trying to convey that it wasn’t time to jump ship yet. Her parents had been a godsend to her and Ollie. But sometimes she longed to simply do things the way she saw fit.
It wasn’t their fault that they were trying to lighten the load. They’d swooped in to rescue her many a time, like in the beginning when her grief was so weighty that she could barely get out of bed, let alone take care of a toddler. Kit often felt that she was still slogging through the fog of sadness, but at least she was functional now. More than functional. But she sometimes wondered how much her grief had allowed her to give up her independence and lean on her loved ones a little too much.
As she rummaged around in her bag for her car keys, her fingers caught the stiff edges of a folded flyer she’d grabbed hurriedly from the library a few weeks ago during her lunch hour. She’d been drawn to it first because it was bright green. And second because its message seemed eerily targeted straight at her.
It was just a notice from the local community college making a pitch for next semester’s classes, which would start in the fall. And announcing transition help for adults who’d been out of school for a while, like her. Which included taking a summer class or two with some reorientation guidance and support along the way.
Right before Carson died, she’d signed up for classes to complete her college degree in psychology, planning to become a mental health therapist. But then her entire life suddenly derailed.
And so had her drive to finish her degree. Not to mention the means to finance it.
She was busy enough with her job as the front-desk person at Seaside Auto Body, and thank goodness she had Ollie, who she was determined to be a good mom for. But lately the numbness she’d felt for so long had been blossoming into a deep unrest. And while she would never be envious of her friends, she couldn’t help noting that Darla was a successful author of bestselling thrillers, and Hadley had found her happiness opening an animal rescue downtown. And that bright green flyer kept poking at her. So much so that she found herself scribbling a list of things on the back. Dreams, goals, wishes.
On her better days, she thought maybe that was a good thing because it meant she wasn’t numb anymore.
And on her bad days—well, she didn’t want to talk about those.
“Aunt Darla is right,” her dad said in his firm but gentle way to Ollie as Kit gathered up his sports bag. Her friends hung out nearby, waiting to walk out with them. “You just had an off day. That doesn’t mean we give up, right, buddy?” Her dad playfully knocked Ollie’s shoulder. The lip jutted out more. “We’ll just practice harder. Do some fun drills.”
Oh geez. For her dad, fresh air and calisthenics was the cure for…just about everything.
Cam, coming to the rescue, put a big hand on Ollie’s little shoulder, which sent another wretched pang to her heart. Cam was kind and so good with Ollie. He really made an effort to be an important male influence. But even an innocent, thoughtful gesture like that sent up an unnatural wellspring of anger inside of her. Why wasn’t that Carson’s hand on his son’s shoulder? Something they’d all been robbed of.
“What do you say we practice some this week, huh, buddy?”
“I bought a bat and ball,” Kit offered. She’d tried to practice throwing with Ollie but she probably needed someone to help hone her pitching skills more than her son did.
“I think we might have one of those little stand thingies in our garage,” Hadley said.
“It’s a tee, Aunt Hadley,” Ollie said, and went back to his slumped-down position. Because of his endearing little lisp, her name came out Hadwey.
Ollie’s lisp gave her mother’s heart another prick. Now that he was about to start kindergarten, she feared that it would make him a target with the other kids. Plus their pediatrician had recommended speech therapy twice a week, and Ollie wasn’t very happy about it despite their therapist trying to make it fun and positive.
Kit had tried so hard to protect him these last few years from the perils of life. But life had a way of creeping in anyway, even for a five-year-old.