Chapter 9 - THE BASEBALL BAT DISAPPEARED
Noah refused to go into the garage when we eventually returned to collect belongings.
I understood immediately.
His little baseball set was there.
Glove.
Plastic bases.
A bucket of balls.
And the empty rack where the bat had been.
Police still had it as evidence.
He stopped at the doorway.
“I don’t want baseball anymore.”
“Okay.”
“It’s bad.”
I crouched.
“Baseball isn’t bad.”
His eyes filled.
“The bat hurt me.”
“Yes.”
“That means bats are bad.”
I didn’t argue.
Not then.
We closed the garage.
Months passed.
Physical healing came first.
The cast came off.
His arm remained thin and stiff for a while.
Doctors expected a full recovery.
The emotional part moved differently.
Noah hated raised voices.
If something fell loudly, he jumped.
He began checking whether doors locked.
Sometimes he asked where I was three or four times before falling asleep.
I stopped traveling temporarily.
Then Dr. Moreno challenged me.
“You can’t promise never to leave.”
“I can work remotely.”
“For how long?”
“As long as necessary.”
“And what does Noah learn?”
“That I’m here.”
“Or that separation really is too dangerous to tolerate.”
I hated therapy almost immediately.
Useful sign.
So we practiced.
I went downstairs for ten minutes.
Then to the grocery store while Derek stayed.
Then to dinner.
Eventually, one overnight business trip.
Before leaving, I showed Noah the hotel.
Flight details.
Who was staying with him.
When I would call.
He asked:
“What if something bad happens?”
“You call me.”
“What if you’re far?”
“I call someone close.”
He looked toward Derek.
My brother grinned.
“The emergency uncle system.”
Noah smiled.
That phrase stuck.
One Saturday, almost eight months after the assault, Derek arrived carrying something.
A small foam baseball bat.
Noah immediately backed away.
Derek put it on the floor.
“Okay.”
No pressure.
They played cars instead.
The bat stayed in the corner.
The next week, Noah touched it.
A month later, he swung it at a foam ball.
Missed completely.
Then laughed.
I nearly cried.
Not because I cared whether my son ever played baseball.
Because something Travis had turned into fear was becoming an object again.
Nothing more.
Nothing less.
Eventually Noah asked:
“Can we throw the old bat away?”
I explained police still had it.
He thought.
“When they’re done, can they?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
He didn’t need it back.
Neither did I.
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Some things don’t deserve transformation into symbols.
Sometimes they can simply leave your life.
