I was ten years old and waiting for the other shoe to drop when I met Mitch. I don’t think I knew, back then, that I was waiting for anything. Dad had left six months ago, and I occupied my time building Lego roller coasters and telling Mom I was okay. She occupied her time lying in dark rooms with ice packs piled on her chest and online dating. Each week, I’d watch a new car idle in the driveway until Mom ran out the door, clutching her heels to her chest and apologizing for her lateness. And each week after she got home, I’d sit in the bathtub and watch as she removed her makeup with damp cotton balls and pulled dangly earrings out of her ear lobes.
She liked to tell me about her dates, I think for a while back then I was her only friend after the divorce. I imagined all Mom’s dates looked like our local news anchor, Bruce Hamilton. There was Keith, the insurance salesman who didn’t pay for dinner. Neal, the artist who wore brown shoes with a black belt, which I deciphered was a bad thing based on the tone of her voice. Darren McDaniel, who insisted she used his full name. And Mitch, who drove a shiny red car and who might be the one.
It was the day of my tenth birthday. I sat on the corner of Mom’s bed with her fluffy pink robe wrapped around my legs. It felt like how I imagined clouds did before I learned they were mostly dust and water particles. She was letting me help her get ready because we agreed today was a big day. It was her second date with Mitch, and I got to come with. We were going to the batting cages at Mandarin Mills. Dad was supposed to take me for my birthday, but I was happy to have Mitch along instead.
Mom was in her bathroom, drowning in the mechanical buzz of her blow-dryer. I smelled her hair burning and counted the small slaps on the tiled floor as she walked. She was pacing. I wondered what it meant to be the one and how Mom knew now. I wondered if she had said the same thing about Dad. The thought made me feel much older than I was. I remember that scared me a bit, like I wasn’t allowed to think that yet, that I was trespassing on adult thoughts.
“Joshy?” Mom called.
“Yes?”
Mom walked out of the bathroom. Her cheeks were blotchy and red, her forehead shined with sweat. With one hand she held the handle to a round brush that was stuck to the top of her head, knotted in her thick bangs. She still looked pretty though; her big eyes were outlined in black makeup and her face, which was usually sort of pale, had a soft orange glow.
“I’m stuck,” she gestured to the brush in her hair. I laughed; she looked funny, like someone had taped a bird’s nest to her head. She rolled her eyes, “Could you hold this for me? I need to untangle it.”
I unwrapped my legs from her robe so I could stand up. A car honked from outside.
Mom froze, her eyes bugged out. “Shit! That’s Mitch” she said. And then, to me, “You didn’t hear that.” I crossed my heart, instantly erasing the word from my head. “Can you run out there and tell him I just need five minutes?” she asked.
I nodded. Outside, Mitch leaned against a bright red car. His arms were crossed. My brain was in overdrive, thinking over all Mom had told me about him. He was tall and had three older brothers. He was left-handed. He golfs on the weekends with work friends. He told Mom she looked good in red. He was excited to meet me too. I was still at the age where I believed everything Mom told me was true. The closer I got, the less he resembled Bruce Hamilton’s shiny TV hair and square jaw. Mitch had small, discerning eyes and four deep lines running across his long, shiny forehead. He squinted down at me.
“You’re Josh?”
I nodded.
“I’m Mitch.”
I nodded again. We stood facing each other, a wall of silence between us. I puffed out my chest, determined to fill all of my double digits, “are you excited for—”
“Where’s your mom?” he asked.
I deflated. “She’s stuck,” I replied.
He exhaled loudly and swung open the passenger door. “Well?” he asked. “Getting in?”
“Mitch!” Mom appeared on the porch. She had her shoes in her hands and she wore one of Dad’s old baseball hats. It was his bright blue one from the trip they took to Washington DC when I was a baby. I didn’t know she still had it. I had the sudden, childish urge to hug her legs. But I was too old for that now. She hugged Mitch with one arm, slightly pressing her cheek into his. She turned to me, her smile glowed bright against the deep golden late-afternoon light, “You want shotgun Joshy?”
“Oh,” my face was hot, “I thought I wasn’t supposed to.”
She laughed. “It’s a special occasion, why not?” She squeezed my arm as she walked past me to get into the backseat, patting her hat down on her head the whole time. I lowered myself into Mitch’s car very slowly, waiting for it to sense my young age and eject me out the sunroof. The AC vent on the dashboard was freezing, blowing directing at my face. I sat in silent contemplation, wondering if I was allowed to adjust it. Mom tied her shoes in the backseat, chattering the whole time about work to Mitch.
She pulled herself up, so she was right in between Mitch and me. “Isn’t this fun!” she said. I wasn’t sure if it was yet, so I didn’t answer. Luckily, she was asking what I would later know was a rhetorical question. She continued, “Joshy loves baseball, isn’t that right?”
I nodded, this time with gusto, very sure of my answer.
“What do you play?” Mitch glanced over at me from the driver’s side.
“Huh?”
“What position do you play?” he said it slowly, each word its own sentence. Like I was a little kid.
“I don’t play yet”
“Then you like watching baseball.”
“Oh,” my throat dried up. I didn’t know there was a difference. “I guess.”
Mitch hit the gas and looked up at his rearview mirror, somewhere in it was Mom. He addressed her, “Cute kid.” He said it like a joke. I didn’t get it, but I had a feeling it was made at my expense.
Mom was busy fixing her shoe, she glanced up, “Huh? Cute?” she bent forward and kissed the top of my head. “Joshy’s all me,” she said. From this close, her hat still smelled like Dad and when I turned to look at her, dimpled and bright, it hurt. Dad was supposed to teach me how to play baseball. If he had, then I could have told Mitch I was the pitcher, or the third baseman. I flushed with disappointment, and then embarrassment. For nine and a half years, I knew what it felt like when Dad disappointed me: being the last in the carpool line, yelling at Mom, throwing away his box tops before I could cut them out. But this was different, abstract in a way I’d never been able to comprehend before. Dad had, once again and without even being here, disappointed me when I thought he couldn’t anymore.
We arrived at Mandarin Mills just as it got dark. From the car window, it was everything I imagined it would be up close. A shabby wooden building with a real waterwheel attached. Bright, blue-dyed water rotated the mill and then cascaded through mini waterfalls above the entryway. A welcome sign lit up with fairy lights greeted us. I got out of Mitch’s car, the air smelled like popcorn and leather and my fingers defrosted in the warm summer air. I grabbed Mom’s wrist and dragged her through the parking lot, “Come on, come on, come on!”
We walked down to the batting cages. Mom had let me get whatever I wanted at the concessions, so I held a half drunk bright red slushie in my hand. The walkway was surrounded by large canopy trees. Mom made me stop and pose by a large stump so she could get a picture of my bright red tongue. Mitch trailed behind us, carrying a bright red bat and two helmets.
The cages were magical up close. The nets were so tall I had to squint to see the tops of them. Loud cracks of metallic bats colliding with baseballs rang through the air. I buzzed with excitement. Nothing was missing. Everything was perfect.
Mom sat down on a bench as Mitch opened up one of the cages. I took a big gulp of my slushie then put it down and bounced over to Mitch.
“Here.” He handed me the bat. I picked it up to do a few practice swings, narrowly missing his face. “Watch it!” He grabbed one of the helmets and shoved it on my head. It was heavy and loose around my ears. I was disoriented; sounds muffled inside my helmet, the padding reeked of sweat and greasy hair. I swaggered into the cage. Somewhere to my right Mom was cheering and clapping.
I stepped up onto the wooden platform and looked out at the range. My heart was racing with sugar. I felt uninhabited, bursting with energy. I imagined a booming voice announcing: coming up to bat is fan favorite Joshua “Joshy” the Menace, he currently holds the record for most homeruns in a single inning. I pictured a frenzied crowd, their cheers mixing in with Mom’s.
The sound of the cage closing snapped me back to reality; Mitch had followed me inside and stood on the opposite side of the cage. He kicked at my left foot. “Move your feet.”
I kicked his foot back and giggled. “Like this?” I shuffled my feet around in little dance. Mitch’s face scrunched up in annoyance. It struck me as very funny, so I added in my arms, flapping them around like a chicken, “Like this?” I heard Mom laughing behind me and I joined in.
“Kid—” Mitch warned.
I ignored him, reveling in my sugar high. I wiggled my butt around. That struck me as absolutely hilarious, and I doubled over laughing.
“Kid!” Mitch’s voice raised but I kept laughing. Out of nowhere, a white whirl flew past my head and slapped against the net behind us with a loud smack. I froze, eyes wide with shock.
“Jesus,” Mitch bent down and picked up the baseball that had been pitched to us. “You can’t be screwing around in here. Didn’t your dad tell you that?”
My stomach dropped. I felt very silly suddenly. I turned to look at Mom, she couldn’t hear us from her spot, but she pointed at me and gave a thumbs up. She was asking: you good? I nodded and turned back to Mitch, “Sorry.”
“Whatever,” he rubbed at his temples. “Just get into your stance.”
I swung my bat around my shoulder and stared at the silver machine. It murmured and hummed like an animal. Before I could blink, a ball whipped out of its black, ominous mouth. I jumped back and the ball smacked into the cage again.
Mitch groaned, “Kid, you gotta at least try to hit it. Scoot up.”
The machine hummed, angry it missed me. I looked at Mitch, “It’s really fast.”
“It’s supposed to be.”
I looked back to the machine. Its dark mouth stared at me. It was going to devour me. I felt dizzy; my heart missed a beat. “I don’t know if I want to—”
“Oh come on,” Mitch threw his hands in the air.
“Joshy?” Mom called from the bench. I turned to look at her, my face betraying me: helpless and scared like a baby.
“Mom—” my voice broke a bit. She cocked her head in concern, but my eyes latched onto her hat. I stopped. Dad’s hat. I wasn’t going to let my birthday be ruined. “Never mind,” I said. I squared up to the machine and slung my bat over my shoulder. I dug my heels into the dirt, planting myself. I took a breath in. The machine propelled a ball at me. I swung with all my might. My bat connected with the ball with a hard snap. The ball flew through the batting range, a perfect arch. “YES!” I threw my bat on the ground. “HOMERUN!” I whipped around to look at Mom, “DID YOU SEE THAT?”
She cheered. I let out another celebratory hoot and then, almost as if it were in slow motion, her smile dropped, “Joshy!” She pointed behind me. I turned back around, just in time for a ball I hadn’t seen hurdle into my stomach. All the air ripped out of me. I doubled over, this time in pain, and fell to my knees.
“Shit!” Mitch grabbed me by the arm and pulled me out of the cage. My head spun and light spots danced all over my vision like little baseballs. Mom rushed over, frantic. I looked up, bleary with pain. Mom and Mitch crowded around me; bright lights framed their faces from behind. They looked like two shadowy blobs.
“My tummy—” I didn’t finish my sentence; my stomach lurched. I retched and then threw up. I heaved on all fours until my vision cleared. I looked up and stared, with horror at Mitch who was covered in bright red vomit.
“Oh what the fuck!” Mitch lurched back. My stomach pulsed where the ball had hit me. I was certain it had burned a hole right through me. I closed my eyes and curled up on my side. My mouth was sickly sweet with regurgitated slushy and deep shame. Mom and Mitch’s voices rang out. I couldn’t hear them, but it sounded like they were arguing. I groaned and they stopped. I heard Mitch walk away, steps heavy and sopping with puke. Mom moved so she sat down next to me and pulled my head into her lap.
“Sorry,” I croaked. My throat was dry and raw.
Mom pulled my helmet off; I wasn’t aware it was still on. A rush of night air blew through my hair. Mom always knew how to make me feel better. She asked, “Can you sit up?” I nodded and with her help, pulled myself onto the bench she had been sitting on. “Mitch is getting some water,” she said. “And then we’re gonna head home.”
I nodded. I was afraid if I tried to speak, I’d start crying. Mom wiped at my cheek, apparently, I already was. “It’s all messed up,” I said.
Mom laughed. I looked up in surprise. “If it helps,” she pulled off her baseball hat. Her bangs had been cut off where her round brush was earlier. “I had to cut it out,” she ran a hand through her hair, “We’re all messes Joshy.”
There was still a pit in my stomach. “Dad messed it all up.”
She sighed, “It’s okay you know,” she rubbed little circles on my back. “You can miss him. You can want him here.”
“You miss him?” It was desperate, a broken plea of permission.
She wrapped her arm around my shoulders and whispered, “I miss him.”
I leaned into her. Mitch’s figure appeared from the end of the walkway. He was wearing a Mandarin Mills tee shirt from the giftshop and had two water bottles in his hands.
“Mom,” I said, I grabbed her hand, now urgent.
“Yeah?”
“Is Mitch the one?”
Her face darkened a bit, around her eyes. “I don’t think so,” she said. She stood up and pulled me with her.
I remember walking out of Mandarin Mills and feeling different, heavier. I didn’t know that Mom wouldn’t see Mitch again after that night. Or that instead of listening to her talk about her dates, I’d spend my evenings helping her rub castor oil into her scalp for growth. But I remember sitting with Mom on the ride home and recognizing the weight on my shoulders. The weight of grief from dads who leave and men who will never fill their shoes, no matter how broken they were to begin with. The truth that I would always be a little disappointed in my dad. I fell asleep at some point, and I woke up to Mom carrying me up to the porch. That night, when she tucked me in, she placed Dad’s baseball hat on the bed next to me and whispered, happy birthday Joshy.
Rachel Loring 