Three Strikes

The psychic's shop smelled of sandalwood and desperation. Elena extended her palm, watching the woman trace the lines with practiced fingers.

"I see a child," the woman said. "Soon."

Elena's throat tightened. She'd paid eighty dollars for this moment, for the possibility that the universe might finally grant them what three years of fertility treatments hadn't. Her hand trembled as she pulled it back.

Marcus was in the garage when she returned. He sat in the folding chair they'd positioned behind home plate during their backyard batting practices, holding his old baseball glove like a rosary. The neighborhood cat—a ragged calico they'd named Mabel—sat on his shoulder, purring against his neck.

"What did she say?" he asked, not looking up.

"She said soon." Elena ran her hand through his hair, finding the first silver strands at his temples. "She said what we needed to hear."

Marcus nodded. Mabel jumped down and wound between his legs. "I was thinking," he said, "maybe we stop trying. Maybe this is the life we're supposed to have. Just us. And the cat."

Elena felt something crack inside her. Not break—crack, like a bat connecting with a ball, that perfect moment before you know if it's a home run or a pop fly. She'd wanted him to fight for it, for them, for the family they'd promised each other. Instead, he was offering surrender.

"You're giving up?" she whispered.

"I'm trying to be realistic, El." He finally looked at her, and she saw the exhaustion etched around his eyes. "I'm tired of the treatments, the appointments, the hoping. Every month is another strike. We're struck out."

Elena thought of the negative pregnancy test she'd hidden in her purse that morning. Her palm still tingled where the psychic had touched it, where she'd promised something that might never come.

"One more," she said. "We try one more time. Then if it doesn't work, we'll adopt. Or we'll be the best aunt and uncle in the world. But we don't quit before the last pitch."

Marcus studied her face, then slowly smiled. He picked up his glove, tossed a baseball in the air. "Play catch?"

Elena grabbed her own glove from the shelf. As the ball sailed between them in the gathering twilight, Mabel stalking invisible prey in the outfield grass, she thought: sometimes you have to swing for the fences even when you know you might miss. Because missing was better than never stepping up to the plate at all.