The Eighth Inning of Goodbye

The iphone buzzed against the metal bleacher — her again. I let it go to voicemail, just like I'd let three years of our marriage drift into that gray space where couples become zombies of their former selves: moving through routines, occupying the same bed, inhabiting a life that had long ago hollowed out.

"You're up, Dad!"

Maya's voice cut through my thoughts. She stood near home plate, chewing on her lower lip the way she did when she was nervous. The baseball tournament had been her idea — something, anything, to fill the agonizing stretch of silence since her mother left.

I gave her a thumbs-up. The clerk at the sporting goods store had assured me this bat would help her swing. Instead, she'd dropped it twice and struck out four times.

Barnaby, our golden retriever, sensed my mood. He pressed his wet nose against my knee, whining softly. I'd brought him because the house felt too empty without another living thing breathing in it. Maya needed this. I needed to not be alone with my thoughts.

The pitcher wound up. Maya swung — contact. A grounder toward third base. She ran like she was fleeing something, arms pumping, face determined. Safe at first. She jumped, triumph radiating from her ten-year-old body.

I felt a surge of love so fierce it made my chest ache. This was what remained when the rest fell apart.

"Dad!" She called out. "Can we get water? I'm dying out here!"

The concession stand line stretched forever. I bought two bottles — one for Maya, one I pressed against the back of my neck, letting the condensation cool my skin. Barnaby lapped gratefully from the portable bowl I'd packed.

The phone buzzed again.

*Come over. We need to talk. About the dog.*

I stared at the screen. We'd already split everything: the house, the savings, the baseball card collection her father had left her. Now she wanted Barnaby too.

Maya trotted over, flushed and grinning. "Did you see? I made it to second!"

"I saw." I ruffled her hair, memorizing this moment — the way her face lit up, how her uniform was stained with dirt and grass, how completely unaware she was that her mother was about to ask for the one stable thing she had left.

I pressed delete on the message. Not yet. Let her have this game. Let me have this one thing whole.

"Your mom says hi," I lied.

"Cool." Already turning back to the field. "Watch this next inning!"

I sat back on the aluminum bench, Barnaby's head heavy on my foot, and watched my daughter play a game that would end, but not today. Some things could wait nine innings. Others could wait forever.