A Morning Like This by Deborah Bedford Read Free Book Online

like a major leaguer. With
     patient, withdrawn concentration, he launched a fastball and Braden swung over the plate.
    Thwack
.
    Dust flew in graceful whorls as the ball hit the catcher’s mitt.
    The umpire strong-armed the signal. “Stree-ike.”
    “Good cut.” Abby clapped even harder. “Keep your head down, Brade. You’ll get it.”
    Braden stepped backward out of the box. He turned, his eyes searching the seats as he looked for his family. “Where’s Dad?”
     he mouthed.
    Abby held out her hands, palms up, and mouthed back, “I don’t know.”
    “Speaking of David,” Cindy Hubner offered Abby some M&M’s from an open bag, “how was your anniversary last night?”
    Abby shook her head no thanks and hugged her skirt over her knees. “We had a good time. We always do.”
    “Everybody in town talks about you two, you know. You and David are so lucky, having the sort of marriage you do. I give you
     both a lot of credit.”
    Abby hated to admit this, but it always pleased her when someone noticed. “You know, we trust God for a lot of it,” she said,
     grasping for some way to appear humble and divert attention. “We couldn’t do it on our own.”
    High above, the Wedgwood-blue sky was calm as a beaver pond and wisps of evening clouds clung to the summit of the mountain.
     On the Snow King trail people hiked, looking distant and small. At the extolling of their marriage, at David’s strange absence,
     Abby felt like one of those faraway, upward-bound people: breathless, slightly lost.
    Braden moved back into the box and positioned himself in readiness, his elbow angling toward the sky. Out on first base the
     runner got ready, dancing sideways on muscular little-boy legs, batting-glove fingers flapping from a rear pocket.
    The pitcher cocked his knee. The throw came—high and inside. Braden watched it zing past as the runner on first sidled out
     and then back to safety.
    “Good eye!” everybody shouted. “Good eye, Brade. Way to see it!”
    “Ball,” the ump said, holding up a finger on each hand to indicate the count. “1-1.”
    “Come on, pitch! You can get him,” a parent yelled from the opposite bleachers. “Give him the chair.”
    “Protect the plate, Braden,” Cindy shouted beside Abby. “Don’t let this one get by you.”
    Braden pounded his bat on the plate. He took a practice swing. As the windup started, the spectators grew quiet.
    On the mound, the pitcher shifted his weight, readjusted, reared his elbow, and let the ball fly. Braden began a full-armed
     swing, stepping in to protect the plate.
    Braden’s bat sliced through empty air. The ball sailed in and smashed his cheekbone with a hollow thud. Blood splattered on
     his baseball cleats.
    The little boy buckled to the ground. The black batting helmet went flying. The bat lay at an awful detached angle in the
     dirt. Abby rose in the stands.
“Braden!”
    When Abby recollected it later, she would not remember leaving the bleachers or skirting the fence. She would not remember
     shoving coaches away or kneeling in the dust. She would only remember the sight of Braden’s confused expression and tear-streaked
     face, his bangs matted with dirt and sweat.
    Blood saturated Ken Hubner’s hankie. “He’s got a bloody nose, Abby. Don’t panic. I think he’s going to be okay.”
    But when Ken moved his hand away, Braden’s nose was already swollen to the same size and shape as an eggplant. Half-moon bruises
     already shadowed his eyes. Cindy handed an emergency bag of frozen peas from the snack cooler over the fence. “Get these on
     him, Abby. They’ll help with the swelling.”
    “Where is David?” Ken asked as he reapplied the handkerchief.
    Abby couldn’t think over the loud buzz in her head. “I don’t know.”
    “You’re going to want to take this guy to the emergency room. His nose could be broken.”
    This is ridiculous. He’s a little boy who’s gotten hit by a ball. A minute ago, everything was