Heroine(85)

I text her to let her know I’m going to the park, and grab a jacket. There’s just enough of a chill in the air that I need it. Kids getting out of school rush past me on their bikes, and I pull my hood up to cover my face as the upperclassmen start driving past. I leave the sidewalk and cut into the grass, going down the hill to where the softball fields are. They’re unkempt this time of year, and I’ve started to come here when I can, pulling up clumps of crabgrass with my bare hands. It feels good to have dirt under my fingernails again.

Today I’m not alone.

There’s a Pokémon backpack resting against the fence, and a little girl is trying to toss her own ball in the air, then get both hands on her bat and hit it into the fence. It’s not going well. Her face is red with frustration as she tosses it either too close or too far away from her, and she can’t get her hands back on the bat quick enough.

I pull my hood down.

“Plant your back foot,” I say.

She jumps, alarmed, and the ball falls to the ground at her feet.

“Sorry,” I say. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

She doesn’t answer, only bites her lower lip.

“Want me to toss for you?” I ask her. “It’s really hard to do it by yourself.”

She looks around, sees that there are other people in the park and we’re not alone. Taking comfort in this, she nods, still not speaking. I crouch down next to her, ignoring the familiar twinge in my hip. She turns to face me, ready to clean my head from my shoulders. No one’s ever done this for her before.

“Nope,” I say, getting back up. “The way you were before, facing the fence. See, I’ll be down here and I’ll toss it, you hit it into the fence. Don’t swing on this one, just watch.”

I toss it and it falls in between us. Her fingers twitch on the barrel. She really wanted to swing.

I pick up the ball. “Ready?”

She nods, but her swing is a mess. Her shoulder dips, back foot sliding all over the place, trying to pull all her power from her arms, not using her hips. I stand back up.

“What’s your name?”

“Angie,” she says.

“Okay, Angie,” I tell her. “I know you really want to hit the ball, but that’s not going to happen until we fix your swing. Will you let me show you how to do it right?”

She nods, but there’s a second of hesitation before she hands the bat over to me.

“All right, look.”

I show her how to stand, how to plant her back foot and follow through, how to use her hips and move everything except her head.

“That stays still. Keep it pointed at Carolina,” I tell her.

“At who?”

“At the pitcher,” I correct myself.

“’Kay,” she says, holding her hand out for the bat. I give it to her.

She’s wearing cheap flip-flops, so her back foot keeps wanting to slide when she pivots, but she gets the bat on the third one I toss, and gives a little yelp of surprise. The next two she whiffs and her face goes dark with concentration when she tries again. She’s under it a little, but makes contact. It sails over the fence and into the weeds, her face sinking as it lands out of sight.

“That’s my only ball,” she says.

“I’ll get it,” I tell her. “There’s poison ivy.”

I pick my way through the tall grass, looking for the telltale flash of white. I spot it, but it’s not her ball. It’s a syringe, used and tossed, waiting here in the grass for Angie or some other kid in sandals to step on it, proof that Patrick couldn’t care less about the message I asked him to pass along.

Fuck him.

I pick it up carefully and throw it into the short grass where I can grab it later and dump it in a trash can.

“You find it?” Angie calls.

“One sec,” I say, spotting another needle. It joins the first, and then I do find a softball, not Angie’s white one but a bright yellow one.

“Cool,” she says when I hand it to her. She wipes the sweat from her forehead, then asks me what time it is. I check my phone and tell her.

“I gotta get home,” she says, slinging her backpack over one shoulder, her bat over the other. “Think you could toss for me tomorrow after school, maybe?”

“Yes,” I say.

“Cool,” she says again. “What’s your name?”

“Mickey,” I tell her, and she makes a face. My heart sinks because she knows who I am and she’s about to tell me she can’t be here tomorrow after all because I’m a junkie.

“That’s a weird name,” she says instead. “See you later.”

I go back into the grass. I find three more needles, and two more softballs. One of them is Angie’s, worn to gray, the stitches frayed.

The needles I throw away.

The softballs, I keep.

Those I’m going to need.





Author’s Note


I’ve been in pain. I’m guessing you have, as well.

In the summer of 2012, I underwent advanced surface ablation. In short, a doctor scrapes the epithelium off your corneas and treats the surface of your eyes with a laser to improve your vision. This is an option for patients who want LASIK but whose corneas are too thin for that treatment.