Out of Left Field by Liza Ketchum Read Free Book Online Page A

She did a book for me, too. Embarrassing. I was bald forever.
    Hey, you don’t like my hair, don’t look at it. Anyway, something odd. Your book begins when you’re old.
    Not ‘old’ like you were in school, but already crawling and standing up, wearing your little overalls. No infant pics.
    I guess. Maybe they were too wiped out or too poor—
    You’re right. Too young for sure. And too old when I came along. What were they thinking?
    Awww. Don’t go mushy on me now. But my book starts on Day One. Fingerprints, even a footprint and—get this—a copy of my birth certificate. From Halifax.
    Who knows? Maybe I was just a cuter baby. Or maybe you were adopted after all. Even though you do look like Mum…
    Get out. You wanted a sister?
    True. You’re holding me in a few pics. Looking almost proud.
    Course I want kids someday. What’s that got to do with anything?
    Quinn, where have you been the past few years? Plenty of lesbian couples have kids. But first, like I said, I’d be happy to find someone to date.
    Enough. Sorry I came up empty on the birth certificate. You’ll have to bite the bullet, ask her to go to the bank. If that’s where it is.
    Dunno. Weird about Antigonish, eh? If you weren’t born there—where did you come from? Mars?
    Shutout
    “Making bread is like playing baseball.” That’s what I told Dad, a few weeks before he died. It was a Wednesday and he’d come home early. Didn’t say why. I was kneading a heavy lump of dough, twisting and folding, making counterclockwise turns, tucking in the loose ends.
    “How?” Dad’s eyebrow cocked.
    “It takes a long time. Just like some baseball games.”
    “That’s one way.” He lifted his forefinger, counting. “What else.”
    “You don’t know how it will come out. And it’s messy.”
    “Two, three. And?”
    “You can’t rush it. And you need strong hands.” I was making a big batch, four loaves, and the dough was sticking. “Bread and baseball are best on a warm day,” I told him.
    “That’s stretching it,” Dad said. “But it’s true: weather affects how the ball moves when it’s pitched or hit.”
    I glanced at the clock. Fifteen minutes of kneading. The dough was starting to respond. “They’re both nourishing,” I said. “Bread and baseball bring people together.”
    “Ah,” Dad said. “The romance of it all; the poetry. Baseball and beer; bread and wine.” We’d both stopped counting; we were having fun.
    “You only need five ingredients,” I said. “Flour, salt, yeast, oil, water.” I raised my fingers, encased in flour. “A bat, a ball, some kids, a few gloves, a grassy field.”
    “Grass is nice,” Dad said. “But not necessary.” I waited for him to launch into one of his hard-core rags to riches stories, like Pedro using a plastic milk jug for a mitt when he was a kid in the DR. Instead, Dad ran his hand over the dough. “And here’s the result: smooth and soft as a worn, oiled mitt.” He stood up, stretched. “How about a walk while it rises?”
    I don’t remember what I said, because Dad coughed, as if he were choking, and his face darkened. I jumped toward him, ready for the Heimlich we’d learned in Coach’s CPR class, but he shook his head, smiled, and reached for a glass of water. He gulped it down and clutched his chest. “Just heartburn,” he said, when he could speak. “Nothing serious.”
    He turned away, but not fast enough. I saw terror in his eyes. Then it passed.
    I must have gone through the regular routines after that, but I don’t remember. It was a bad batch; the bread never rose, and I had to throw it out—like a shutout you wish you hadn’t watched to the bitter end.
    Rain Delay
    We return to our routines after Mom’s trip to the lawyer: our jobs, and swim team for me, but my heart’s not in it. I’m relieved when the meet is over; even more relieved when Coach sends me a disapproving look but doesn’t call me in for a pep talk. Marty waits outside the locker