13. Jackson

"Fly me, fly me, fly me!" yells Paul, reaching up his tiny hands towards me.

"Sorry, buddy," I say. "Uncle Jackson's elbow's hurt. Means I can't lift anything up at all."

"Oh." He frowns, his eyes wide and watering. Dammit. This is why I don't hang out with these kids anymore. The level of guilt-tripping they can achieve just by opening their eyes is astonishing.

Well, at least that's one of the reasons. Painful as it is to admit, I guess it annoys me to see John and Sophia and their perfect family, grinning away with their careers and their children. Everything is just oh so rosy for them — and here I am, a so-called professional baseballer who can't even win a single significant trophy.

"Tell you what," I say, crouching down. "Let's play ball."

"Me too!" says Carrie, muscling her way in.

She's slightly older and always fighting for the attention that she sees her brother getting, always demanding to be part of every conversation, whether she belongs there or not. I get it, though. This is exactly the way me and John used to behave. Hell, it's the way we still behave. The younger siblings always get everything they want. It's deeply annoying.

Carrie and Paul take their positions. This was a game we invented when Carrie started to talk, called "indoor play ball," and it's basically no-rules, imaginary baseball. This way, I can teach them about my favorite thing in the world, and no one has to worry about getting it wrong or breaking anything. It was another great idea from me.

As the kids settle, I glance over to Freya who's chatting with Sophia. I like Sophia, even though I don't think she likes me very much. She's good for John, too.

And then the kids take all my attention back. "Uncle Jackson! Throw it, throw it," says Paul. This kid's got a fiery temperament, and he gets almost everything he demands. I can understand why; it must be hard not to cave to a kid like him — all innocent on the outside. Though I bet that, on the inside, he's secretly a mastermind.

"You ready?" I say, taking my mound and pretending to shine the ball on my shirt. "How's my catcher?" Carrie falls deep into a squat and fixes me with a hard stare directly in the eyes. She makes a nonsense gesture at me, and I can't help but smile.

There's only three people in the world who can break me that easy, and two of them are under the age of five.

When they were really young, I used to babysit for them occasionally, and not knowing what else to do with two babies, we used to watch baseball together. So they know more than most kids their age, and now Carrie's developing a brain, she's actually starting to mimic tactics.

It's probably been over a year since I saw them last, though. They're getting big. It makes me think about all the moments I've missed. Freya's right about this too, damn her. Family is important, and these kids are only going to grow up once. Am I already distant to them?

I wink at Carrie, but her frown stays stern. A girl after my job, I see. I wiggle, getting ready to throw, and from across the room, John calls, "And here's Kerr taking the mound, getting ready to throw to the biggest competition of his career — young hotshot Paul."

This is another crucial element to indoor baseball — somebody to tie the story together. Usually it's me, but sometimes John can be persuaded to stop pretending he hates sport. It's the closest we've ever had to real family time.

I raise both eyebrows at Carrie, then pitch a fastball directly into her mitt. I think it should have struck Paul out, but John's clearly feeling generous in his commentary. "Oh, look at that! It sails over the field, right down past second. It's flying! It's going! Look at that, it's gone!"

He cheers and runs over with his arms raised to lift Paul into the air. "Who's the best little slugger, huh?"

"Me?" says Paul, under no doubt of his competence.

"That's right," says John, setting him down and ruffling his hair. "Hey, kids, do you mind going and hanging out with your mom for a minute? I've got to speak to Uncle Jackie."

I roll my eyes. I guess it's not the worst as far as childhood nicknames go, but I hate it.

"It's good to see you," says John, stepping closer as the kids run off.

I grunt, not completely sure where this conversation is going.

He keeps going, barreling on to his point. "We miss you, you know. We don't see you that much. It's good when you come to stuff, because it feels like you never want to."

"All right. I get enough guilt-tripping from Mom," I snap, then soften. He means well. And I'm not going to say it, but he's right. I should try harder. "Sorry," I mutter.

John grins at that, and I shake my head. "Don't even start being smug about it. I'm sorry I don't find time for you guys, okay? I should. Don't say anything. I'm not saying you're right; I'm just saying… ugh… maybe we should do this more."

For a change respecting what I say, John just smiles and changes the subject. "They love watching you play, you know."

"You watch my games?" I sputter.

"Of course we do. We're family. That's what we're supposed to do."

I grit my teeth hard, grinding them together. How am I supposed to react to that? I mean, really, what am I supposed to say? We've never really been good at being the way a family is meant to be.

Somehow, John seems to have learned the art of conversation at last, because he keeps going. "Sometimes we come over here to watch on Mom's big screen. She still thinks you're the catcher, though."

"Still? I thought we finally got through to her about me being a pitcher."

"No," laughs John. "God love her, I don't think she'll ever understand the rules of baseball."

We both laugh at that, and even though this conversation isn't going to fix anything between us or make up for any of the lost time I've missed, this is the most natural I've felt with John in a long, long while. It's like there's a shift happening, something subtle yet real; something that's telling me I've been wrong to isolate from my family. That there actually is a place for me, if I want it.

How have I changed so much in such a short time? At least I know exactly who to blame for this.

"You know, I think you should take a vacation more often," says John, folding his arms and following my gaze over to the kids. Sophia and Freya are playing with them now, and I can't help but notice how natural Freya seems to be with them.

I guess it's one of the main skills of nursing, to be able to put people at ease, but seeing her do it gives me butterflies in my stomach — and even I'm not too stupid to know what that means. I've gone and gotten attached. And if I'm not careful, I'm not going to want to let her go again.

"I'm not on vacation," I throw back, not looking away from Freya.

"A break, then. It's good to get some of your time for a change."

"Well, when I retire, you can have as much of me as you want."

"When will that be?" asks John, and I realize I haven't told him I'm thinking about it. I've barely told anyone, honestly. I don't want it to be a big deal. It's not the kind of attention I can handle.

"It's not so far off now," I say, hoping I look nonchalant instead of panicked. "They're already bringing in fresh blood. And I'm not going to be able to keep up at the Major League level forever. I just want to win one World Series. I want to go out on a high. Once I've hit the top of my career, then I'll have all the time in the world for everything else."

John's eyes widen, just like his son's. "Wow. This little break's really doing you the world of good, isn't it?"

"I didn't want it," I say, trying desperately to hold on to my carefully constructed persona of someone uncaring.

"I'm pleased to see it," is all John says.

I know that what he means is it's nice for them to see me, and it's good that I've been thinking about my future. He's pleased to see that I'm caring about stuff other than the game. And usually that kind of condescension from him would drive me nuts. Just because he's got his life together doesn't mean he knows everything. I still have a few tricks in me.

But as I keep watching Freya, I can't help thinking about her. Really, it's not the break that's done anything for me. It's been the influence of someone who really cares. Someone who's been willing to put up with all my bullshit, to see through to the person I could be underneath. Who am I becoming?

"Anyway," says John, finally letting awkwardness win again. "Let's keep playing ball, yeah?"

"Yeah," I say, and for the first time in years, give my brother a genuine smile.