I’m dead asleep after pitching a shutout against the Mariners when my phone rings with the tone I assigned to my parents. They’d never call me at this hour unless something was up with Everly, so I pull myself out of a deep sleep to reach for the phone on my bedside table.
“Hey.” As I move to get more comfortable, the ice pack on my shoulder falls off, making a squishing sound as it lands on the bed. My arm aches like it always does after I pitch.
“I’m so sorry to wake you, Austin.” Mom sounds frazzled. “But Ev has a fever. We’re at urgent care now, and I thought you’d want to know.”
I sit up, now wide awake. “What’s her temp?”
“One-oh-three.”
“Seriously? How long has she had it?”
“About eight hours now.” Which means they waited to call until after my start, knowing worries about Everly would mess with my concentration. “We were giving her medicine, but nothing was working, so we brought her in.”
“I’ll come home.” I’m required to travel with the team, even between starts, but exceptions can be made. The team’s management knows I’m a single father and are accommodating—to a point. Since I have four days until my next start, it shouldn’t be a problem to fly back to Baltimore.
“We’re so sorry to have to call with this news, but we thought you’d want to know.”
“You did the right thing. I’ll be there as soon as I can.” I end the call with my mom and place another to my manager, Mick Danvers.
“Why aren’t you asleep?” he asks, his voice gravelly with sleep.
“Sorry to bother you, Coach, but I’ve got a situation at home. My little girl has a high fever and is in the ER. I need to go home, and I’m hoping you won’t mind if I catch up to you in Oakland.” It’ll be a bitch to add two cross-country flights to my week, but I don’t care about that. Not when Ev is sick and needs me.
“Of course. Do what you’ve got to do. Let us know how she is.”
“I will.” I release a deep sigh of relief. Mick is fair but tough, so I wasn’t sure if he’d let me go.
“Hell of a start tonight, AJ. Everyone is very pleased.”
“Thanks, Coach.”
“Keep me posted.”
“I will.” My next call is to book a flight home as quickly as possible.
Seven of the longest hours of my life later, my flight—on a plane without freaking WiFi— touches down at BWI. I fire up my phone to a string of new messages from my mother, each more frantic than the last. They’ve admitted Everly. Something isn’t right with her blood.
My chest is so tight, I wonder if I’m having a heart attack as I run through the airport and grab the first cab I see, completely jumping the line. I don’t care. I need to get to my baby girl. She’s my whole world, and the possibility of anything being wrong with my angel is too horrifying to bear.
The thirty-minute ride to the hospital feels almost as endless as the flight did. By the time I join my parents in the pediatric ICU waiting room, I’m fairly certain I’m on the verge of a medical crisis of my own. How did she go from a fever to the pediatric ICU at Hopkins in the span of a few hours? My mother bursts into tears when I walk in. I drop my bag inside the door so I can hug her and my dad, who seems equally undone.
“Thank God you’re here, son,” Dad says.
As I look at them, I realize they know something I don’t, and judging by their expressions, whatever it is will rock my world.
“Austin,” Mom says tearfully, “Everly has leukemia.”
MARIA
Fifteen months later…
I force myself to endure Sunday brunch with my boisterous extended family without checking my phone. I grocery-shop afterward and do a number of other necessary workweek preparation errands, while still ignoring my phone. Never has avoiding my phone been more painful than it is today, as months of anticipation have led to this day. I’m elated, excited, nervous and worried that the connection between myself and Mr. A, as I know him, won’t be the same once we’re no longer anonymous.
Just over a year ago, I donated bone marrow to save the life of a two-year-old girl who was battling leukemia in Baltimore. At the time, I knew nothing else about her or her father, except that my transplant saved her life.