Page 48 of Fair Ball

I sip from my water bottle, imagining myself on the mound.

I close my eyes, wiggling my fingers as if holding the ball, rotating it in my hand.

I picture the runners on the base and see myself winding up, throwing⁠—

My cell phone buzzes, and I snap my eyes open. It’s Millie.

When I answer, she says, “You bought me a car.”

“I’m glad it arrived tonight.”

“You can’t buy me a car!”

“Why not?”

“Because.”

“Because why?”

“Because…it’s not ethical.”

I’d guess most of what I’ve done since I “hired” Millie is unethical, including but not limited to adopting a bird I hate, taking pictures she doesn’t know about, and thinking about what her hand might look like wrapped around my dick.

“It’s a bonus,” I tell her.

“Bonus?”

“For doing such a good job.”

She coughs out an indignant sound. “You’ve got to be kidding. I’m a terrible assistant.”

“No, you’re⁠—”

“You can stop pretending that I’m a good assistant or that you’re not paying me as a favor.”

“You’re a perfect assistant for me. You’re exactly what I need.”

“An Autistic girl who loves your bird and has a bad habit of spilling things?”

I smile to myself. “Yes, exactly.”

She’s quiet for a while, and I imagine her rubbing her knuckle or twirling her hair. Maybe even biting the side of her index finger.

It’s true. She may not be a good personal assistant, but she is perfect for me.

And it’s almost as if she can hear my thoughts because she murmurs a soft, “Thank you, Austin.”

CHAPTER 14

MILLIE

I repeatedly rub at the white petal. It fell from one of the roses in the giant bouquet Austin had delivered yesterday in honor of Mother’s Day. The one addressed to me is full of yellow and white roses, lilies, carnations, and sunflowers. The card read Rest today, Millie. You deserve it. Love, Austin. My mom’s bouquet was full of pink and blue flowers with a card that said Thanks for raising such a good person. Happy Mother’s Day, Austin.

And since I’ve been up since almost five o’clock this morning, I’ve had a lot of time to study these flowers. The curve of each petal, the striations of the markings. Even researched growth patterns of hydrangeas and how much acidity is needed to create that deep blue like the ones included in Mom’s vase.

As I sat in the oncologist’s office with her this afternoon, I reminded myself of the process. That you must be sure to lower the pH of the soil to under 5.5, which can be done by adding aluminum sulfate around the roots in early spring. The trick is to mix it in with water, a quarter ounce of aluminum for every gallon of water, careful to lower the pH by one unit every month. If you add too much acid too soon, it will kill the plant. I imagined planting a garden of hydrangea, a rainbow of color. Measuring and caring for something that I can keep alive.

Unlike my mother, who has stopped responding to treatments.