Free Out of Left Field by Liza Ketchum Page A

pictures from the echocardiogram: your death sentence—or your reprieve.
    The Zone is safe. Not comfortable, but better than reality. It’s where you went during the wake and the funeral. It’s where you go when someone asks, trying to be kind, “How’re you doing?” And it’s where you are now, while the doctor flips through papers, brown eyes intent on the numbers, as he studies your file, which has gone from an empty folder to a fat one in a few hours.
    And then—the miracle: The doctor smiles. No, he positively beams. You tumble out of The Zone and into the room. Just like the home run ball that careens over the wall and shatters a car window on Landsdowne Street. “So far, so good,” the doctor says. He reaches out to shake your hand, as if you’ve just won a race. Or the lottery. Or something even better.
    “Yes!” You leap to your feet—and your mom keels over. She does it so gracefully, you can’t move. All hell breaks loose. The doctor dives and catches her before she hits the floor. Alarms sound, hands push you out of the way, a nurse steers you from the room as Mom’s eyes flutter open. Someone asks her the question you should have thought of yourself: “When did you last have anything to eat or drink?” You find yourself in the waiting room, cell phone in hand. Your heart pounds in your ears; sweat streams down your face. You’re out of The Zone—and grinning like a fool.
    Those two words— instant death —no longer apply. You will live .
    Off the D.L.
    The nurse pokes his head out the door. “Your mom’s fine,” he says. “We’ll keep her quiet for a bit, check her vitals, but it was probably the shock and worry. Anyone in the family you can call, to help out?”
    I’ve punched in Cora and Leo’s number before I even think what I’m going to say. When my uncle’s deep voice comes on the line, I almost get down on my knees to thank Someone—except, like Dad, I’m not sure Anyone’s out there listening. Instead, I tell my uncle we’re at the Faulkner, that I needed some tests, that Mom and I are okay, but she fainted—
    “Hold tight,” Uncle Leo says. “I’ll call your cell when we get there.”
    Before long, Cora, Leo, and Janine blow through the glass doors as Mom and I find seats in the lobby. Mom’s cheeks are pink again and she smiles as the family pulls chairs into a tight circle. Janine grabs my knee when Mom explains why we’re here.
    “Mom, tell them the important part: I’m okay.”
    Aunt Cora’s eyes fill; so do Janine’s. Maybe it’s the late afternoon shadows gathering on the lawn (have we been here that long?) or all that poking and prodding, but suddenly I need air. I point to my phone and head for the door.
    Marty answers right away. “What the hell happened? You missed the meet—Coach is ripshit.”
    The meet. I’d forgotten all about it. The hospital wall holds me up as I give him the abbreviated version. “My dad had a rare heart condition. The main symptom is instant death.”
    “You’re kidding.”
    “Afraid not. And it’s inherited—fifty percent chance I might have it, too. So they rushed me to the hospital.” I take a deep breath. “I’ve had every test in the book. Things look good so far. One more test and I’ll be off the D.L., ready for a normal life. Whatever that means.”
    Marty whistles. “Your dad knew?”
    “Sounds like he found out right before he died.”
    “He never told your mom?”
    “They had a lunch date scheduled for the day he… We think he planned to break the news then. He made an appointment for me—but…” I can’t talk straight. He checked out instead , is what I’m thinking.
    “Wow. So that’s why Mr. Magoo wanted to find his—other kid. To warn him.”
    “Must be.”
    “It’s up to us now,” Marty says.
    I shiver, even though heat shimmers on the pavement. “What if it’s already too late?”
    “Young guys die of it, too?”
    “Remember Reggie Lewis?”
    “You’re kidding. That’s