The Bear in the Garden

The baseball cracked against the aluminum bat with a sound like a gunshot, and Marcus flinched. His nephew Leo ran the bases, unaware that the entire infield of his uncle's life had collapsed.

Marcus sat on the edge of the swimming pool, feet dangling in chlorinated water that tasted like childhood summers and failed dreams. The pool party was Sarah's idea—something about 'normalcy' and 'moving forward.' She'd spent all morning arranging spinach dip and artisanal crackers on patterned ceramic plates, her movements precise and terrifying.

'You're doing it again,' she'd whispered earlier, her hand brushing his arm. 'Swimming in your head.'

She was right. Since the miscarriage, Marcus had been swimming underwater, holding his breath until his lungs burned, surfacing only when necessary. The bear in their garden—his brother Dan's joke retirement gift after Marcus sold his startup—sat with its fiberglass snout pointed toward the sliding glass door, its black glass eyes accusing him.

Dan was alive somewhere. Colorado, maybe. Or Oregon. The last email had been filtered to spam, something about Bitcoin and redemption. Marcus hadn't opened it. Some bears you didn't poke.

'Throw it, Uncle Marcus!' Leo called from the outfield, grass-stained and sun-browned and heartbreakingly young.

Marcus forced himself to stand. The swimming pool lapped at his calves. Somewhere behind him, Sarah laughed at something her sister said—bright, practiced laughter that didn't reach her eyes.

He'd forgotten how to float. That was the problem. You had to relax to stay on the surface, and Marcus had forgotten how to do anything but fight.

The baseball landed in the grass near his feet. Leo's hopeful face waited.

Marcus picked it up. The bear watched. Sarah's spinach dip sat congealing in the sun. He threw the ball, and for a moment, the arc was perfect.