Previously: Jackson is hurt and confused. Before that: he gets a phone call. There is a boy on the other end. The boy is looking fro Millie Boones. Jackson says he has the wrong number. The boy says no one else will help him. Jackson tells Ana about the phone call. Ana takes an unexpected interest in the phone call. She suggests they take a road trip to investigate. Jackson, smitten beyond the point of return, agrees.
There is also some lovely prose about Chicago and storms over prairies.
Take it from the top:
fernweh (fern-way) n.
1. An ache for distant places
2. Being homesick for anywhere but home
I can’t remember exactly how old you were when you got hit in the head, but I remember the sound of it, that certain thud, and I re- member how much it bled. You sat up and the blood just ran down your face. The pitcher sat down on the mound and cried. I wanted to comfort him almost as much as I wanted to comfort you. You were my little boy again, covered in dirt, leaning against me as I held the gauze against your head.
Strangely — and I think I’ve told you this — that was what made me start to love baseball. It was you father’s mission — one of his missions — to get me to love that sport. It’s mindful meditation, he’d say — it’s all about being alive in the moment, awake in the stillness, anticipating nothing, ready for anything because the stillness is full of potential. When the pitcher lets go of the ball, anything can happen.
Now you’re broken again, bleeding from the head again, and I’m even more helpless than I was the last time. There’s no lesson here to be learned about the beauty of baseball.
I’ll hold you as well as I can; you might feel a change in the air. I hope it’s a comfort. There. Your breathing has changed; it’s deeper and more steady.
Your father drove to the hospital from the field. Your brother was in the front seat, you and I were in the back seat, with you leaning against me while I pressed an ice pack against the swelling. I think that was the last time I held you like that. At least I can’t recall another time. I remember thinking, as we pulled up to the hospital, I might not get to do this again. That is, be a mom like that.
That night you sat at the table while the rest of us ate leftovers. You needed seven stitches and you had a concussion. Your brother had a great time wiggling his hand in your face and asking you how many fingers he was holding up. I knew you were tired when you didn’t even bother to swat it away. We had to wake you every few hours to check your pupils and ask you the basics like name, date, where you were. For days afterwards, it was your father’s favorite joke to reply, when people asked how you were doing, that you just sat there, stared into space, didn’t respond to the sound of your own name. In other words, like a perfectly normal teenager.
You look so much like your father, the thin build, the wavy hair. I want to wake you up now, and check your eyes, and ask those same questions, but I can’t, and your left eye is swollen shut, anyways. I’m guessing you have another concussion, and you’re going to need stitches, and you have several broken bones. I hope that’s the worst of it, I hope there’s no internal bleeding, at least not much. The best I can do is stay with you. That’s the best I’ve been able to do for a long time. I can stay here and I can listen, and I can love you. You can feel that sometimes, right? I tell myself you can.
Thank you for reading. “Mother - Part Two” will start like this:
This is going to sound terrible, so forgive me for saying it, but I envy you.