Vicki's Comeback Marc sat in the bleachers just behind home plate. He watched the shortstop closely. She was not so tall for a 16 year old girl, but she had a certain fire about her in competition. Even in the time between plays the intensity showed in her eyes. She was sweaty from a hard day in tournament play. Her dark hair was pulled back into a high pony tail that allowed her blue visor to fit just below it. Her sleeves were tied with shoe strings that ran up through the neck of her green and black jersey to give her some relief from the oppressive heat. Her skin was darkly tanned from the combination of her mother's Asian blood and the hours of summer softball play. Her black kneepads were dusty with a few tears. She kicked her left foot against her right, then her right against her left, then wandered back near the grass between second and third. She stood straight, feet apart awaiting the next play. Runners were at second and third. It was the bottom of the last inning and her team was ahead by one run. There was only one out. “Come on Barbie doll,” Marc mumbled under his breath as he looked at the tall slender blonde girl in the pitcher's circle. “We really need a strikeout here. A base hit and it's all over for us.” The stout girl standing in the batter's box turned and looked down the third base line to her coach. He touched his right hand to the brim of his hat then quickly wiped his left hand down his right arm, then his right hand down his left arm. He thumped his chin with his right index finger and clapped his hands twice. She nodded and turned back to face home plate. Barbie doll looked to her catcher. She was weary from a hard day's play, and her pitches the last inning had begun to show it. She was no longer getting the sharp ball movement, and the batters she faced were no longer baffled. She wiped each eye on her sleeve to remove the sweat, and prepared for the next pitch. Her catcher put two fingers down then touched the inside of her right thigh. She moved both feet into the squatted position and put her bare hand behind her back. She put the catcher's mitt into the lower inside portion of the strike zone. Barbie doll nodded. She put the ball into her glove. All infielders squatted, feet spread, gloves and hands near the ground between their knees. Barbie doll rocked forward. Strain showed in her face as she wind milled. She let out a grunt as she lurched forward releasing the ball with all her might from beside her hip. The batter cocked her front leg slightly at Barbie doll’s movement. She stepped forward twisting her hips and brought the bat around sharply. A loud ping sounded as aluminum contacted ball. The ball sailed just left of second base – too shallow for the outfielder. It was the perfect soft spot in a defense. “Yes!” some people sitting on the third base side began saying. “That's in there!” Marc watched Vicki. Her first move was perfect – she read the ball right off the bat. She ran to her left and back. Her glove remained close to her body. Her eyes were fixed upward over her right shoulder as she dug hard for position. “Go!” the third base coach shouted. The girls on second and third base left and started to advance. Vicki continued – straining for an extra bit of speed. Her eyes never left the ball as it came closer. “Come on,” Marc mumbled. Vicki leaped forward. Both feet left the ground and trailed behind her. She extended the glove she had held close to her body ... extending ... now stretching ... stretching. Her body moved parallel with the ground. She strained her left hand forward to get every available inch from her limited frame. Ball met leather. “Back!” the third base coach began shouting to his base runners. He waved frantically to stop their progress. Marc clinched his fist, as if to help squeeze. Vicki's right hand covered the prize in her glove. She arched her back then landed on her stomach. She bounced on the grass. The force of all the momentum she had mustered pushed her farther into the outfield. Glove and hands remained above the ground. The girl that once occupied second base realized the ball was caught. She turned and began pulling with all her might to get back to second base safely. Vicki hit the ground again after the bounce. This time she drew her knees up toward her chest. Her momentum carried her through a roll across her back. She tucked the first leg as it came beneath her on this roll, and used her momentum to push her body onto the second foot as it came into position. “One!” Marc said realizing she still had control of the ball. The red headed girl playing second moved into position, one foot on the bag, and the other stretched toward Vicki. Vicki brought the ball from her glove to behind her ear and quickly flipped it to her second baseman. The base runner began a head first dive – giving her best effort to get a finger onto the base before the ball arrived. The ball popped as it reached the pocket of the red headed girl's glove. All eyes turned to the man wearing blue and standing just between the pitcher and second base. He punched his right hand forward then pulled his fist back forcefully – his thumb straight up. “OUUUUTT!” he called. “YES!!” Marc shouted as he leaped over the bleachers in front of him. He pumped his clenched fist in the air and hooted. The team began leaping in celebration. Their coach ran from the dugout. “Ball game!” the umpire behind home plate exclaimed, but few heard him. Marc leaned forward and cupped his hands over his mouth. He stomped his feet, straining until his face turned red as he shouted “THAT'S!! MY!! GIIIIIIRRRRLLL!!” Vicki looked toward the bleachers behind home plate at him. Her face lit up as she located Marc. The center fielder reached her and tackled her from behind. The rest of the team arrived leaping, tossing gloves and celebrating. “What a play!” one of the other parents said. All the parents began congratulating Marc. Marc looked back into the field. The team was all back onto their feet. Schoolgirl smiles decorated every face as they began jogging toward the dugout. Vicki slapped high fives with teammates as they jogged. “That smile,” he thought. “I wasn't sure I'd ever see it again, but there it is, and it looks great on her.” Two years earlier, he got that phone call. He looked at the caller id. It was Vicki's school. “Hello?” he said as he picked up the receiver. “Mr. James?” a voice said. “Yes.” “Hello Mr. James. This is Stacy Johnson, Vicki's counselor at school.” “Hello Mrs. Johnson.” “Mr. James, I have Vicki in my office with me. We really need to talk to you. Can you come down and visit with us for a while?” “OK,” he said, unprepared for the conversation to take this direction. “When?” “Right now if possible. Vicki says your office is not very far away.” “Yeah, I'm just about a mile from there. What's up?” “Vicki has some marks she needs to show you. We asked her which parent we needed to talk to, and she said she wanted to talk to you first. It's an urgent matter.” “OK, I need to talk to my boss then I'll be right there.” “Marks?” he wondered to himself as he drove to the school. “What sort of marks? It’s not discipline related, or it'd be the principal. But the counselor is telling me about marks?” Once at the school, he was quickly directed to Mrs. Johnson's office. He knocked twice. A voice inside told him to come in. Vicki sat in the chair across the desk from Mrs. Johnson in this tiny office. Her face looked as if she was unsure whether she should cry, or fight. He walked to her, and hugged her, but she did not reciprocate. “Have a seat,” Mrs. Johnson said pleasantly pointing to a second chair on the opposite side of Vicki. Marc sat down. “One of Vicki's friends noticed her arms today when they were washing their hands. She was really concerned about what she saw so she told her teacher. Her teacher told me, and I had Vicki come down here and show me her arms.” She turned her attention to Vicki. “Show your dad, hon.” Without changing expression, Vicki rolled her sleeves up. Marc's face did not change, but his heart fell within him. He took one of Vicki's arm, and brought it closer for inspection. On each forearm was a newly scabbed diagonal cut that went all the way across the underside of her arm. Up and down her forearm s were several similar scratches or cuts that appeared a little older. On some, all that remained of the wounds were descabbed red marks. Some were well defined, and some were broader as if abraded in the areas around them, but there was no denying they were serious wounds. Marc looked - mouth agape - into Vicki's face. Although a father is always expected to have the right answer, Marc had none. He searched, but he found no words. A lump raised in his throat. He could not cry, but he also could not swallow the lump. Dropping her arm, Marc reached for his little girl. He pulled her head over against his chest and held her. Now, she began to hug him back. Tears welled up in her eyes. She sniffled, but no other sounds escaped her. He leaned his cheek against the top of her head. In the next few weeks Vicki was in and out of the hospital. When she came home Marc set time aside every evening to talk to her privately in her room about what was happening. Sometimes, she felt as if she could not continue for a full day in school. True to her word, she called Marc at these times and he left work and picked her up. Sometimes they would go to the park together, sometimes back to his office, or sometimes they would go home and talk about what was going on. Marc believed that, although the process was painful, the pieces to their lives were beginning to fit back together. One evening, Vicki’s older sister came to Marc. She ducked into his room and motioned for him to follow. He complied. She closed the door, and leaned back against it. “Dad,” she said. “Vicki has a box knife in her room.” “What?” Marc asked startled. “She has a box knife in her room. She hid it under her mattress. I saw her. I don’t want to tattle, but I’m scared of what she’ll do.” “I understand,” Marc said hugging his daughter. “You did the right thing. I’ll check it out.” He looked at the clock. It was close to time for his normal evening appointment with Vicki. He went up the stairs and knocked on her door. Vicki answered it. He entered her room. “Do you mind if I check something out?” he asked. “Okay,” Vicki said uncertainly. Marc went to her bed, and lifted the near side of the mattress. A thin silver box knife lay on the box springs beneath the mattress just as Vicki’s sister said. Marc picked up the box knife and dropped the mattress. He pushed the slider down until it clicked. A razor blade slid from the opening at the bottom. “God, please give me wisdom,” he prayed in his mind. “I don’t know how to handle this. What do I do?” He hid his breaking heart behind a stern look and turned to Vicki. Vicki looked up. “Where did this come from?” he asked bluntly waving the box knife in his hand. “I don’t know,” Vicki answered. “When you came home, we set a rule that you were not supposed to have anything sharp in your room.” “I didn’t put it there.” “Can we not leave you in your own room? Do we need to move you into our room?” “Daddy! I didn’t put it there!” “Who did?” “I don’t know.” “You want me to believe someone came into your room with a box knife, and put it under your mattress, and you don’t know who did it?” Vicki sat sullen. Marc sat down at the end of her desk. “Put your arm on the desk,” he said, sternness not fading. “What?” “You heard me. Put your arm on the desk.” Hesitatingly she complied. He examined her arm. No new wounds appeared. “Do you want to cut?” “Daddy! No!” “Tell me what’s going on. Do you want to cut?” “Daddy!” she screamed, anger beginning to show in her voice. He held her arm next to the desk with his right hand. With his left hand he extended the box knife to her handle first. “Take it!” he demanded. “NO!” “Take it!” She reached her free hand and took the knife. He exchanged which hand held her wrist. He laid his free arm along hers – forearm up – and grabbed her just above the elbow with his thumb and index finger. “You want to cut?!” he said raising his voice to match the intensity in Vicki’s. “Daddy! Stop it!” “If you want to cut, you’re going to have to cut me first!” “Daddy! Stop it!” she screamed again. Tears appeared in her eyes. She pulled her arm, but his grip was strong enough that she could not pull away. “No!” he demanded. “Cut me.” “Daddy! Stop it!” she screamed. “I can’t stand it anymore!” “Neither can I!” he yelled. “Cut me! I won’t stop you! It’ll hurt me much less if you cut me than it will if you cut yourself!” “Daddy!” “If you want to cut yourself, you’re going to have to cut me first!” Vicki dropped the knife on the desk. She dropped her head onto his arm - still lying on top of hers - and began to sob bitterly. Marc moved his chair around the corner of the desk that separated them. He pulled her into his lap. She wrapped her arms loosely around him, dropped her head to his shoulder and wept bitterly. He held her tightly and cried with her. “Daddy,” she sobbed. “I need to go back to the hospital. I convinced them I was okay, but I was lying. I knew what they wanted me to say, and that’s what I said.” “Okay baby. We’ll do whatever you need.” “Daddy, I’m through playing games with it. I’m ready to do whatever it takes now. I just want to be better. I don’t want to feel like this anymore!” “I believe you. You’re going to get better. I’ll call them. We’ll take you back.” The weeks ahead were fraught with difficulty, but Vicki’s attitude was different. She was determined to make the change. Marc and Vicki’s mother only saw her during the one hour visitation period each day. The return to school brought many more tears as the cruelty of those with no sympathy brought harsh words down on her. She cried almost every evening as she told Marc what had happened. But each evening after the tears were dried, she told him once again that she was determined to stay the course. “I know I can’t run away from it,” she said. The return to competitive softball brought some relief, but Vicki struggled to find her competitive fire again. Concentrating enough to practice batting was a constant struggle, but each day she determined she was going to do better. Each day she practiced and tried – never giving up. Each day Marc could see evidence of her progress toward full recovery. There were no more games – Vicki meant business. Now, this day two years later, she celebrated with abandon along with her teammates. Softball players are hard to fully understand. One part of them is fierce competitor, ready and willing to endure scrapes and bruises to get that extra base or make that next out. Another part of them is the soft girlishness of eyes alight when cute boys passed by. One girl was nick-named “guns” for her strong arm, but the strong armed pitcher was nick named Barbie doll. Perhaps that contrast in each player was what Marc saw in Vicki that made her still seem so fragile to him. He believed she was recovered, but his protective instinct kept him alert - looking for any sign of a setback. Marc ran to the opening behind the dugout. Seeing him there, Vicki pushed through her teammates and through the back of the dugout. He extended his hand above his head. She jumped slightly and smacked it hard. Her smile went ear to ear and heart to face. “That’s what I’m talking about!” Marc said smiling back at her. “Man! What a play!” “Thanks,” she beamed back. “But you know what?” “What?” “I think I’m rolling my wrist when I bat. I’m not sure what it is, but I’m having trouble getting in the middle of the ball. Do you think you can take me to the batting cages tomorrow so I can figure out what I’m doing?” “I think I probably can,” he smiled. “Okay,” she beamed and ran back into the dugout laughing with her teammates as she stuffed her glove and bat into her bag. “Yes,” Marc thought to himself. “She’s recovered.” He smiled, but behind the smile his protective instinct kept him on watch.
Copyright © 2005 Steven L Howard |