It was a sunny autumn afternoon three years ago when Jonathan found out his father died.
Jonathan was ten years old, and he had just played in a game of baseball, a popular sport adopted from World A. He was dusty and sweaty, but he wore smile that could have lit up an entire city. He had hit his first home run against the only other undefeated team in the league, winning the game. His head was filled with images of his teammates gathering around him, shouting and cheering. His mother had hugged him enthusiastically, she was so proud.
She let him stop off at his favorite restaurant for lunch, telling him, “Your father will be so happy. He’s always hoped you would be a baseball player.”
Jonathan smiled proudly, and asked her hopefully, “One day, can we go on vacation to World A? I want to see a real, live baseball game!”
Jonathan’s mother laughed and ruffled his hair affectionately. “Yesterday you wanted to go to World B to see the elves. What will we do with you?”
Jonathan shrugged, a small smile tugging at his lips, and finished up his fish and chips.
“I’ll tell you what,” his mother said. She dabbed her mouth delicately with the corner of her paper napkin. “If your father and I can get a week off of work, we’ll go to World A and see all of the sports; football, rugby, everything! And then maybe we’ll go to World B, and visit the Elves’ Forest. How about that?”
Jonathan nodded enthusiastically. His mom paid the bill and they left the restaurant. Jonathan raced his mom to the parked car, an invention taken from World A. He won, and enthusiastically leapt into the passenger seat.
In their townhouse, Jonathan went up to his room to play video games, his new World A addiction. His mother stayed in the kitchen, baking snicker-doodle pinwheel cookies to celebrate Jonathan’s baseball victory.
When the telephone rang later that afternoon, Jonathan was curled up in his father’s favorite chair in the living room, reading a thrilling novel about pirates and treasure, and eating a freshly baked cookie. He was so into his book, he didn’t notice the phone ring, his mother’s chirpy voice as she answered the phone, the silence that followed, and the clunk of the receiver as it hit the floor. He looked up only when he heard a sob. He had never heard his mother cry in his entire life. He dropped his book onto the floor, running down the hall and into the kitchen.
His mother had collapsed into a chair, tears streaming down her face. A voice was coming from the phone end, but neither Jonathan nor his mother picked it up. His mom opened her arms, and he hugged her, clueless. She cried into his shoulder, stroking his hair. They stood like that for several minutes.
“Daddy’s gone,” Jonathan’s mother whispered in his ear, when she had stopped crying long enough to talk. Jonathan drew away from her, and looked into her eyes. He shook his head slowly, but she sobbed and nodded. His eyes darted to and fro, and he started backing away from the hug. Jonathan could feel a painful prickle in his eyes, and he tore away, running towards the back door.
“Jonathan?” his mother made a move to go after him, but sat back down, letting him leave.
Jonathan exploded outside, the door banging violently against the wall. He jumped off the steps and sprinted as fast and as hard as he could. Everything had gone painfully silent. The houses he passed by became mere blurs. He had no idea where he was going until he reached the local baseball field. He ran to the fence and clung to it. Sound came swiftly back, and he could hear his choked breaths, the rapid beats of his heart, and the metallic clanging of the fence. He tried to hold back his tears, but they streaked down his face like bolts of lightning.
Jonathan could still remember his dad taking him there for the first time. He closed his eyes, replaying when his father first taught him how to hold a bat, how to throw and to catch. Just two months ago he’d had his tenth birthday party in the baseball park. All of his friends had come; it had been quite a crowd. He could see his dad holding an ice-cream scooper, wearing an apron patterned with baseball mitts, and calling out, “Who wants some dessert?”
Jonathan would have treasured those moments more if he had known there wouldn’t be anymore of them.
He opened his eyes, and climbed over the fence. He jumped off, kicking up dust as he landed, and continued running, wiping his face with his sleeves.
Jonathan got home several hours later, just as the sun had started to set and his mother was getting worried. She was sitting on the couch in her bathrobe and half of her hair was up in curlers. She had a tub of ice cream in one hand, and a spoon in the other. The television was on, but she wasn’t watching it. Jonathan’s aunt Hannah came in, bustling with a tray of tea.
Hannah was a few years younger than his mom, and she was round and friendly. Jonathan had seen her often; she only lived in the next town over. Her hair was often tied in the back of her neck, and this was one of the rare times Jonathan had seen her without a smile on her face.
“Here you go,” she said, setting tea on the table in front of the couch. She took away the beer bottle that was opened but still full, tsking. She caught sight of Jonathan.
“Oh, you’re back!” Her face was lined with gentle concern. “Is there anything I can do for you?”
Jonathan shook his head mutely and trudged upstairs to his bedroom. He lay down on his bed; he didn’t care that he was dirty and sweaty. He tried staring at the crack in his ceiling for a while, but his eyes fell on his baseball gear on his desk. He could feel his insides boiling as he stared at it, and more tears slid down his cheeks. Something deep in the pit of his stomach was burning, and his throat felt as if it were on fire. He choked out another sob, and in one swift movement, he stood up and swept it off into the waste basket on the side. He flounced back on his bed, and fell asleep, completely exhausted.
By the next day, everyone had heard about Jonathan’s father. Rumours about his death danced and flew around. The neighbors gossiped in hushed whispers, watching him from the corners of their eyes.
His mom told Jonathan that the Angel Agency, where his father was working at the time, could not release any details about his death, but Jonathan didn’t care. Dead was dead no matter how one died.
Some of his friends came to cheer him up. They stood outside, waving their mitts and urging him to come out and play. But Jonathan shut himself inside, reading books and only leaving the house to go to school. He had given up on video games too; they suddenly seemed so fake and silly.
Several years passed, dulling and numbing the pain, but Jonathan had vowed to never play baseball again.
And he never did.
