Free Out of Left Field by Liza Ketchum Page B

what he had?”
    “They think so.”
    “Man, I’m glad you’re alive.”
    “Me too. Don’t go maudlin on me.” I grin like an idiot.
    Marty jolts me out of my trance. “Did you call your dad’s friend in Canada? It’s even more urgent now.”
    “Ray? You’re right. But not tonight. They poked and prodded and nearly bled me to death. I’m whooped. And my aunt’s here with her family.”
    Shit. My aunt . What were we thinking? My cousins? I nearly drop the phone. “Gotta go. Call you soon.”
    I don’t wait for his reply. I push through the revolving doors. My family is huddled around Cora as if she’s a quarterback calling a play—but her skin is pale under her freckles. It’s obviously hit them too. My uncle yanks Cora to her feet, grabs Janine. Mom stumbles after them. “Leo, I’m sorry!” Mom whispers. “I was so focused on Brandon, I didn’t think—”
    Leo doesn’t answer. His shoes squeak as he pulls Cora and Janine toward the elevators.
    My aunt tries to twist away. “Leo, wait. Won’t the office be closed?” My uncle doesn’t break his stride. The elevator door closes behind them. Mom lists to the side and I catch her under the elbow, guide her into her seat.
    “I should have called them right away,” she whispers.
    “It’s okay, Mom. Cora will be okay. The twins, too.” No choice. They have to be.
    *
    Hours later, I’m too exhausted to sleep. The lights of a passing car cast thin beams across my ceiling. Mom’s asleep—I checked to be sure—but I can’t relax. Cora will see the doc first thing in the morning; nothing we can do until she’s had the same battery of tests. The twins escape the tests if Cora is okay. Mom and I wore ourselves out with questions we couldn’t answer: Why didn’t the doc ask Dad—or Mom—if he had siblings? Why didn’t Dad think of that himself?
    Now it hits me, full force. “Crap!” I sit up in bed and punch the headboard. He could have lived .
    I throw off my sheet and stand in the middle of the room, as if I had someplace to go. While we waited for test results, the doc opened up a plastic heart and put the pieces back together like a Rubik’s cube. I was wishing for a translator for some of the terms he tossed around, and I interrupted him with a rude question: “Could you have saved him?”
    The doc looked like I’d slapped his face. Kept his eyes on me though; I gave him credit for that. “It’s possible,” he said. “I recommended he have a defibrillator implanted. A tricky surgery that would have changed his quality of life forever.” More throat clearing. I glanced at Mom. She was frozen in her chair.
    The doc faced her straight on. “He said he’d talk to you about it and bring you in right away. He made that appointment for you, son. I wish—”
    Son? Forget it. Only one man calls me that name.
    Mom and I waited while he clicked his ballpoint pen open. And closed. Open. Closed. No way we’d let him off the hook. “Maybe he didn’t realize how urgent it was,” the doctor said at last. “Maybe I didn’t either—since he’d lived so long without major symptoms.”
    Now, I think of that scene in the kitchen a month ago, when I was making bread and Dad doubled up, coughing. Was that a sign? I pace the room like the tiger at the Franklin Park Zoo. “Goddamn it!”
    “Bran?” Mom’s voice is faint on the other side of the wall. “You okay?”
    “Sorry! Bad dream.” Mom must think I’ve gone over the edge. Maybe I have. I clutch my head, but two words ring inside me like a gong. If only. If only . If only I’d bugged Dad when he had that fit, made him go to the doctor. Or told Mom; bugged her until she made him go. If only the doctor had kept Dad in the hospital, given him the surgery right then. If only Dad had told us!
    If only we could bring him back.

Fifth Inning
    Phone call: Cat in Baddeck, to Quinn on Digby Neck, Nova Scotia
    Hey, Quinn. I can only talk a minute. I’m waiting for Mum outside the