That’s code for no.
“Whatever, Dad.” I hang up, not giving him a chance to respond. He calls his son once a week, if that, and only for a few minutes. I squeeze my phone and scream, wishing like hell I could wring Greg’s neck. After a few minutes with my temper tantrum, I emerge from my car and head into the house.
When I walk through the door, I know I won’t find Chase in the living room or kitchen. He’s either in his room or in the backyard, trying to get better at baseball. I knock on his door and hear his tiny voice telling me to come in. His walls are decorated with posters of different sports players. I have no idea who they are, but he talks about them like he’s known them all his whole life.
Chase is on his bed, facing the wall. I lay down next to him on his comforter which has every baseball team logo on it. It was a gift from Santa last Christmas. “What’s for dinner, bud?”
“Dunno.”
“I’m not familiar with that restaurant. Or is it food? Does Grandma know how to make it? Do you know what’s in it?”
Silence.
I reach for his hand and he gives it freely. I know there will be a day when holding your mom’s hand is uncool, but until then, I’m going to do this until he tells me we have to stop. “I know you work hard, Chase. I wish there was something I could say or do to make things seem fair.”
“It’s because I’m not friends with Matty and B Mac. They’re the cool kids. They decide who’s on the team.”
“Well I think you’re a pretty cool kid.” I push his hip a little bit, hoping he laughs, but he doesn’t and that makes me want to cry.
“You have to say that because you’re my mom.”
“Actually, I don’t.” As much as I hate letting go of his hand, I do it so I can turn and face his back. I run my fingers through his light brown hair and wish things were easier for him. “When I was a little girl, my dad used to tell me that if I wanted to be friends with someone, I just had to walk up to them and tell them.”
“That was the olden days. It doesn’t work like that anymore, Mom.”
Ouch, bud. “Well, how about we have a party for your birthday? We can invite all the kids from your class. We can get one of those jumpy castle things and a pinata.”
“I’m not a baby.”
“You’re my baby.”
“Kids will make fun of me. They already call me a baby and a loser at school because I’m so short.”
There’s no holding back my tears no matter how hard I try. I pull him to my chest and weep. His plight breaks my heart. I don’t even know what to do to help him, except love him and try to give him every reassurance I can. My words though, fall on deaf ears because of the actions of others. I know my son isn’t perfect. I know he has faults and can be a sasshole sometimes, but he’s still just a child who should only have to worry about his homework and when to come in for dinner.
We stay like this well into the night, with dinner long forgotten and my ringing cell phone ignored. There isn’t a single person that I need to speak to that can’t wait until later. At some point, Chase turns to face me.
“How come Dad doesn’t come visit me?”
Loaded question. I inhale deeply, giving myself a moment to compose my thoughts. As much as I want to badmouth his father, I won’t. With only his nightlight illuminating the room, I smile. “Bud, I wish I had an answer for you, but I don’t. Your father is busy at work and your sister is still really little.”
“She’s not my sister.”
“She is, but I understand why you say that. The decision your dad made, it’s not her fault. It’s not yours either. You’re both just caught up in adult drama.”
His eyes start to water. “I don’t care. I hate him,” he says through tears. “I hate him so much.”
Me too, bud. I pull him to my chest and hold him while he cries. Anger burns deep inside me . . . at his father, at the Little League coaches, at the kids who just can’t be nice. I don’t want to be that mom, but I can’t sit by and watch as my son loses a bit of himself each time he gets knocked down.
When Chase is finally asleep, I slip out of his room. My purse and briefcase are by the door where I left them. There are real estate contracts that need to be signed, scanned, and emailed but those are going to have to wait until later. I pick up my cell phone,
scroll through my contacts until I come to Brett Larsen’s name and hit the text bubble.
Hi, Brett - it’s Bellamy Patrick, Chase’s mom. What can I do to help my son? Two years in a row now he hasn’t made the team. I’ve sent him to camps, clinics and have paid you for private workouts. Is he that bad of a player?
I read and reread the message, hoping I don’t sound desperate. If my son needs a different hobby, I need to know. But this coach, Brett, who is friends with my ex-husband, insists Chase has what it takes yet won’t give him an opportunity. My stomach growls but I’m not sure I can eat anything, and when I look in the refrigerator, nothing looks appealing.
Brett makes me wait almost an hour before he responds. My finger hovers over the alert, afraid of what his message might say.