Seven Years Later
When Wheeler woke in the morning, it was with an elbow pressed awkwardly against his cheek and a small metallic train crushed against his bicep.
"What?" He mumbled, still half-asleep. "What is it?"
"Baseball day," a little voice intoned bossily. "We're goin' to see the Yankees today."
Wheeler groaned, throwing one arm over his eyes and pushing the train lodged firmly under the other back towards its small owner.
"C'mon," the voice said, and this time the words were accompanied by a poking finger into Wheeler's shoulder. "You promised."
"Nah, that doesn't sound like me," Wheeler replied easily, shifting his arm and peering at the small boy sitting on the bed before him. "I don't remember promisin' to take you anywhere… except maybe to the dentist. Gotta fix those crooked teeth of yours."
The boy frowned. "They're my baby teeth. It doesn't matter if they're crooked."
"What? You wanna smile and scare away all the ladies?"
"I'm just a kid," the boy said, poking Wheeler's shoulder once more. "I don't care 'bout the ladies."
"What about Mama?" Wheeler asked him, sitting up and regarding the child with interest. "She's a lady."
Wheeler grinned as he watched the child think. Mikey was five and cute as anything, with his mop of unruly blond hair and bright blue eyes. When he thought, the child's face crinkled and his lightly freckled nose twitched. It always made Wheeler smile without fail. Although he knew he was biassed, Wheeler thought Mikey was the cutest and smartest kid he knew.
"Well, of course Mama," the boy replied slowly, looking at Wheeler thoughtfully. "But she still don't care 'bout my crooked teeth."
Wheeler stretched. "Yeah, she does. She's just too kind to let you know. C'mon then, let's get some breakfast. Big day ahead for us, at the... let me think, the dentist, right?"
Mikey crossed his arms over his chest. "No! The Yankees!"
"Yeah, we'll talk about that after I've had some coffee."
Wheeler padded downstairs with Mikey in his arms, flashing Trish an apologetic smile when he saw her in the kitchen.
"Sorry, I slept in," he told her, leaning down to kiss her cheek, and she smiled back, passing him a cup of coffee.
"I know. I thought about waking you, but you looked like you needed sleep. You've been burnin' the candle at every end. Besides," Trish added, pulling Mikey from Wheeler's arms, "I figured this little monster would get you up early anyway."
Wheeler took a sip of coffee, slipping into a seat by the kitchen table. The sunshine was streaming in through the half-open window, a gentle breeze playing with the ruffle on the plain cream curtains. It was going to be another cold but glorious September day; the perfect Saturday. He gave Trish a regretful look.
"Shame you have to work today," he told her, nodding at the sunshine.
She shrugged back, giving Mikey another cuddle before depositing him on the floor. "I've got tomorrow free. It's not so bad. And you and Mikey are goin' to have a great day. Baseball, right?"
Wheeler shook his head. "Nah, we'll probably do somethin' else. The Yankees are playin' a team so awful it isn't worth watchin' 'em today. We'll go another time, when the game might actually be good."
"No, baseball!" Mikey immediately protested.
"Mikey—" Wheeler began to argue, throwing Trish a pleading look. But Trish shook her head, rinsing out her cup in the sink.
"Leave me outta this. You got him into baseball. You can deal with it."
Wheeler sighed, turning back to Mikey. "Look, kid, we'll go another week. The Yankees are playin' the Mariners soon, and that game will be—"
"I wanna go today," Mikey cut in, with a fierce look in his eyes that reminded Wheeler completely of his mother. When Trish wanted something, she got it, and that determination was replicated exactly in her son. "You promised."
Wheeler took another sip of coffee. "Mikey, c'mon. I have to go to games all the time for work. Don't make me go to a game on my day off... especially when one of the teams is a load of—"
"Language," Trish immediately warned.
"— garbage," Wheeler finished, somewhat lamely.
"But you've been workin' all the time," Mikey pouted softly, "you never have time for me anymore."
Wheeler sat back, stunned. It was true, he was a busy man with a busy career. But he hadn't known Mikey felt neglected. He'd always tried to carve out time with the child, finding hours he didn't really have to take Mikey out or play games with him. He glanced up at Trish, wondering if she also felt neglected by him. But she was calmly washing dishes, her eyes only on Mikey.
"Sorry, kid," Wheeler apologised, reaching over to run a hand over Mikey's pale hair. "I'll try to be around more from now on."
"Wheeler—" Trish interjected softly, but Wheeler shook his head.
"It's fine," he told her. He gave Mikey a long look. "Alright," he conceded. "I'll take you to the game today. But you're buyin' the sumo dogs."
"I don't have any money," Mikey protested, all smiles again now that he had his way.
"Scuppered again," Wheeler lamented.
"Mikey, go and get dressed," Trish told the small boy, who skipped away, still clutching his train. "His Yankees jersey is by the front door," she added for Wheeler.
"Thanks."
"I should thank you for takin' him. You've got a very happy little boy there, Wheels."
"Like I said, it's no problem. I meant it, Trish. I really will try and be around more."
Trish gave him a long look. "For him? For me? Or for you, Wheeler?"
Wheeler stared at her, swallowing hard. "What do you mean?"
Trish sighed. "I don't mean nothin'," she cleared her throat. "So, tell me, who are the Yankees playin' today? The team so terrible they ain't worth watchin'?"
Wheeler sat back at the table, his eyes drifting to the window once more. Involuntarily, memory immediately tugged at his mind, filling it with images of golden hair against his shoulder and soft laughter in his ear. "The Orioles," he told Trish, keeping his voice even. "The Baltimore Orioles."
These days, Wheeler worked as a sports journalist for the New York Times. He didn't try to kid himself; he knew he'd got the job on the back of his Planeteer gig. Still, he worked hard and had been a success from the start, and it still thrilled him, even after six years, that half a million people read his work on a daily basis. Who'd have thought the kid from the wrong side of the Brooklyn tracks would end up where he had? He almost didn't believe it himself. To be thirty-one years old, financially stable, with a job he enjoyed and was good at seemed a small miracle. He also had Trish and Mikey, a home of his own, and friends he enjoyed spending time with. He had made something of his life, and he woke in the morning with a smile on his face and gratitude in his heart. Occasionally, there was a gnawing feeling within him that maybe, just maybe, there was something missing. He didn't dwell too much on that feeling though, preferring to keep his head down and occupy his mind and body with work, exercise and the occasional attempt at a social life. As with work, Wheeler didn't try to kid himself. He knew exactly what was missing from his life. He just chose not to think about her.
There was no point ruminating on something you couldn't have.
He and Mikey were outside of Yankee Stadium, in the throng of people queueing to enter, when his phone buzzed in his pocket.
"Hey, Gi," he said with a smile, keeping a tight hold on Mikey's hand while navigating both the crowd and the phone by his ear.
"Hey, yourself," she replied. "What are you up to? Sounds like a herd of elephants going by."
"Out with Mikey," Wheeler told her. "Wanna join us?"
Gi had moved to New York four summers ago, to take up a research position in Marine Biology at Columbia. For Wheeler, that had been a pleasant surprise. He'd assumed when the Planeteers disbanded that he'd see them infrequently, and for the most part, that was true. Ma-Ti had gone home, back to his tribe and the rainforest, and Wheeler hadn't heard from him in six years. Kwame had returned to Nairobi, but hadn't stayed there long. He'd moved to Paris to live with and eventually marry Sam, and he was happy and thriving. Gi had been through a turbulent few years, having followed Kenly back to Seoul only for him to break up with her six months after she left the Planeteers. She'd been lost until she'd moved to New York, but had found herself anew in a fresh role and city. She and Wheeler had become good friends, and Wheeler liked the fact that he could see her often. The days of standing knee deep in the blue waters of the bay of Hope Island holding vials had been replaced by Sunday morning coffees, and Wheeler was grateful for Gi and the link she represented to a past he looked back on fondly.
He had no idea where Linka was or what she was doing. He'd blocked her from his life as much as he could, and if Kwame or Gi ever mentioned her, he cut them off quickly.
"I need to get over her," he'd explained to Gi, "and I can't do that if I'm around her, or thinkin' about her. Cutting her out is the best thing for the both of us."
"You're an idiot," Gi had replied, but she'd honoured his request not to talk about or mention Linka in their conversations.
Kwame had been harder to convince, particularly when he'd been getting married.
"I want all my best friends by my side," he'd complained, dangerously close to stamping his feet. "Even Ma-Ti is coming, and he lives off the grid in Brazil."
"I know," Wheeler admitted, "but you know why I can't make it."
"If this is about Linka again, honestly, you don't need to worry. She's with—"
But Wheeler cut off Kwame before he could say the words he knew in his heart were coming. She's with Gregor now.
"It's not about Linka," Wheeler said sharply. "I have a big game to report on—"
"This is my wedding, Wheeler."
"— and Trish's due date is the week after. You know I can't fly to Paris and leave her."
That had silenced Kwame.
"Baby boy due June 5th," Wheeler carried on in his friend's silence. "Michael. That's gonna be his name."
He looked at Kwame's wedding photos later with Gi, who was bubbly and full of gossip after her trip to Paris.
"Honestly, the cake was amazing, the music was brilliant, and the speeches made me weep," Gi had told him. She handed him a photo of Kwame, resplendent in traditional African prints and colours, and Sam, in impeccable black tie, grinning as they cut into a six tier wedding cake. "Carrot, Chocolate, Lemon, Vanilla, Caramel and traditional fruit," Gi recited. "Sam told me that if I took a slice of the cake and put it under my pillow, I'd dream of the man I was going to marry."
"Did you try it?" Wheeler asked with a grin.
"Yes," Gi admitted, her cheeks turning pink.
"And did you dream of your husband-to-be?"
"No," she complained. "Just woke up with a face full of raisins and cake crumbs. But Linka—" immediately, Gi winced. "Sorry, Wheeler. I didn't mean to bring her up."
Wheeler shrugged. He instinctively knew what Gi had been going to say: Linka had tried putting cake under her pillow too.
So, she wasn't married yet.
Not that it mattered, he reminded himself. There were no pictures of Linka in any of the images Gi shared with him. He knew she'd have been a bridesmaid though, just like Gi. Knew she'd have been there with Gregor by her side.
"Any sign of the baby yet?" Gi asked, tucking her photographs away.
"Not yet. He's clearly trouble. Already six days late and still keepin' his Ma waitin'."
Now, Wheeler glanced down at Mikey — trouble incarnate — and smiled.
"So," he asked Gi lightly. "You comin' to join us?"
"Hmm, that depends. What are you two up to?"
"We're at Yankee Stadium. Baseball day."
Silence came from the other end of the phone.
"Gi?" Wheeler asked, worried.
"What? Sorry, sorry. It's nothing. I just... no. It's nothing."
Still a little concerned, Wheeler promised Gi he would see her the next day for coffee and hung up. He looked down at Mikey, squeezing the boy's hand.
"C'mon," he told him. "Let's go and get those sumo dogs and then take our seats."
There was little left by way of seating when Wheeler and Mikey arrived, and so, his hand forced, Wheeler swallowed down an oath and merely winced when he ended up paying out a small fortune for two seats by third base. It was worth it though, he decided, when he saw Mikey jumping up and down with excitement, his Yankees jersey billowing as he moved, the old shirt at least four times too big for him.
"I should get you a new one," Wheeler said, tugging on Mikey's jersey, but the child shook his head.
"This was your old jersey," Mikey said. "I like it."
"It's the most worn out jersey here," Wheeler replied, but he smiled all the while.
"Nope," Mikey said, pointing ahead to his left. "Look at that old thing over there."
Wheeler took a bite of his chilli and cheese dog as he followed Mikey's hand. "It ain't polite to point, Mikey," he said, glancing over to where Mikey pointed, pushing the child's hand down. He looked back to Mikey, giving him a knowing smile. "Anyway, that's an Orioles fan wearin' that old thing. They can't be expected to know any better," he added conspiratorially.
"Yankees all the way," Mikey agreed.
"Yeah, Baltimore sucks, and—"
Wheeler stopped mid-sentence, all the air seemingly frozen in his lungs, the chilli and cheese dog suddenly an uncomfortable lump in his stomach. Heart pounding, he looked back to where Mikey had pointed, to the Orioles fan in the old, worn out jersey.
It couldn't be.
Wheeler peered more closely, taking in the fan with a careful eye. From here, he could just make out a black and red Orioles cap, with a knot of blonde hair peeking out from under it. It was an unseasonably cold and crisp late September day, and the woman was wearing a black long sleeved shirt with a scarf around her neck, watching the game carefully. Wheeler couldn't see her face, but then, he didn't need to. It was the jersey that caught his eye, and with it came a crawling feeling all over his body that he had seen it somewhere before.
The jersey was old and worn, faded so that the black seemed grey in places, the once vibrant red now a muted maroon. It looked as though it had been patched several times, with the seam at the neck showing signs of repair, and the sleeves having been restitched at some point.
"What is it?" Mikey asked, following Wheeler's eyes.
"Nothin'," Wheeler muttered, but he couldn't tear his eyes from the Orioles fan two rows ahead.
Wheeler spent most of the game unashamedly staring in her direction. She was with a man, who spent most of the game on his phone, clearly bored. His wedding ring glinted in the afternoon sun, and when Wheeler caught a glimpse of it, he felt his stomach inexplicably drop. Her hands were gloved, and Wheeler watched with half a smile as she leaned forward at times to yell at the players, the coach, and the opposing team.
Was it her? For a long time, he couldn't be sure. But then, around about the eighth inning, when the Orioles missed a pitch even Mikey could have hit, the woman moved her hands in frustration and sat forward.
"Bozhe moi, are you here to play ball or start a knitting club?" she shouted, and the half-smile Wheeler had been sporting erupted into a full grin.
Linka. It was definitely her.
He made no move to speak with her, paralysed by a sudden indecision and fear. When the game finished, with fans streaming out around them, he stayed in his seat, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, staring in her direction. Mikey tugged on his sleeves, but Wheeler wouldn't be distracted. Linka turned a few times to speak with her husband, but made no move to leave her seat either. Wheeler watched as she closed her eyes at one point, tipping her head back to catch the late afternoon sun, her hands wrapped around her stomach. She seemed to be waiting for the crowds to die down before leaving the stadium, and Wheeler wondered why. When she opened her eyes again, she scanned the crowds around her, watching as they filed out and away.
"C'mon," Mikey whined. "I wanna go home now."
Mikey. Wheeler felt a hard dose of realism hit him.
He was here with Mikey and Linka was here with her husband. What the fuck was he doing, staring at her, half-hoping, half-fearing, that she would turn around and see him?
"Yeah," he agreed, his voice hoarse, tearing his eyes away from Linka and concentrating on the child next to him. "Pick up your soda, and for the love of God, don't tell your Ma I bought it for you."
Mikey bent to pick up his soda, happy to be moving. He took Wheeler's hand, babbling away about the game, clutching his soda as they moved down towards the exit. Wheeler couldn't help himself, glancing in Linka's direction as they passed. Her husband had stood and, like them, was moving towards the exit too, while Linka was picking up her things, adjusting the scarf around her neck.
It happened before Wheeler could stop it. Mikey tripped, tumbling down, the soda in his hand flying out of his hand and landing with a quiet smack, the contents splattering in every direction.
Including all over Linka.
Wheeler's stomach dropped. His first priority was Mikey, and he picked the child up, checking him over. He was fine, thank God.
"My soda," the child whined, and Wheeler kneeled down, dusting Mikey's hands and knees off.
"We'll get you another one, don't worry," he told him, before he stood again, taking a deep breath.
He turned, and came face to face with Linka.
Shock was written all over her face. Her cheeks paled and her mouth hung slightly open as she took him in, and Wheeler saw her eyes scan quickly over Mikey too.
Shit, Wheeler thought. He wondered if Gi had told her about Mikey. Or about Trish.
"Hey," Wheeler said softly, and Linka nodded, chewing on her lip and nervously playing with the end of her ponytail.
"Hello," she replied, just as quietly.
And then they just looked at one another.
Fuck, but she was still as beautiful as ever, Wheeler realised. Still tall, still lithe, still grass-green eyed and lovely. Her husband was one lucky bastard.
"Sorry 'bout the soda," Mikey suddenly intoned, and Wheeler watched as Linka looked away from him to the boy at his side.
"It is alright," she said. Her accent had changed, Wheeler realised. It sounded different.
"At least your jersey is really old," Mikey continued. "So it ain't ruined."
Linka laughed, looking down at her Orioles shirt. "I can wash it, don't worry. And yes, it is old," she looked away from Mikey, catching Wheeler's eyes again. "It was a gift from an old friend."
They stared at one another once more, and Wheeler felt that old, dangerous leap of his heart.
"Hey, look—" he began, but just as spoke, Linka's husband called out.
"Lena, Lena, komm schon. Wir müssen ein Flugzeug erwischen. Wir haben Ihr kleines Baseballspiel gesehen. Es ist Zeit sich zu bewegen."
German, Wheeler immediately thought. Her husband was German.
"Ja, ich komme, Pieter. Gib mir einen Moment," Linka called back. She gave Wheeler one more rueful smile, before picking up her coat. "Goodbye," she said softly.
Wheeler, suddenly rendered mute, only nodded. The stadium was near empty now, and he watched, feeling ever more bereft, as Linka began to walk away.
Walking towards her husband.
"You didn't marry Gregor then?" he called out, the words appearing out of nowhere, surprising even himself.
Linka turned back, giving Wheeler a soft smile.
"No. I was, let me remember the phrase... ah yes. I was spoiled for him by someone else."
And with that, she was gone.
When Trish came home, Mikey was already asleep.
"You got him to bed," she said gratefully, falling onto the sofa next to him.
"Yeah," he muttered. He was staring at the television, his mind in pieces.
"How was the game?"
"The game? Fine."
"Who won?" Trish asked.
"Who won?" Wheeler repeated. He had no idea. He'd spent more time watching Linka than watching the players. He would never admit that to Trish though. Not when he'd been at that game with Mikey. "Uh, the Yankees," he took a stab in the dark, hoping he was right. They were certainly the better team.
For a moment, Trish watched the television with him.
"Wheeler, we gotta talk," she eventually said.
"Okay," Wheeler agreed absently. "Everything with you alright?"
"Yeah, it is. Actually, things are great."
"Good."
"Wheeler. I'm... uh, I'm seeing someone."
At that, Wheeler turned to stare at her. He clicked the television off, nodding slowly.
"You are?"
"Yeah," Trish admitted. "His name's Frank. He's an artist. Sold a few pieces to the gallery. We've been datin' for a few months now."
Wheeler sat quietly, a little stunned.
"Wheeler," Trish continued, "you've been a great friend. You picked me up when I was at my lowest. After Gary walked out on me, leaving me broke and pregnant, you stepped up and helped me out. God knows you weren't in a great place yourself then, but you pulled it together to be the friend I needed. And you've been there for Mikey, all of his life. I still remember when I told you I was pregnant, and that Gary had gone. You took me to all my appointments. Set up all the baby stuff. You didn't need to do that."
"It kept my mind busy, havin' you to concentrate on."
"Well, you need to concentrate on somethin' else now, Wheels."
"But I love Mikey," Wheeler stuttered.
"And he loves you. You're his favourite uncle. But Wheeler, Mikey and me... we need more. Mikey was right this morning, you have been busy recently. I want someone there for Mikey all the time. Not just every so often."
"I said I'd be around more—"
"And I asked you why? Who for, Wheels? Me?"
"You and I, if you'd ever said you wanted to... to pick things up again—"
Trish stared at him, long and hard.
"You know, I think if I'd ever said to you, yeah, let's get married, just like we always talked about when we were kids, you'd have done it," she mused. "But your heart wouldn't have been in it, Wheels. You don't love me in the way I want to be loved. Your heart," Trish added, clearing her throat, "still belongs to someone else."
Linka. Wheeler immediately conjured up her name, her face appearing as if by magic in his mind.
It had been seven years, but he'd never stopped loving her. Time had dulled the pain, but he was still an utter lost cause for her.
"Okay then," Wheeler replied slowly. "I still wanna be around more though. For Mikey," he added. "I remember what it was like to have a deadbeat Dad. The kid deserves more. Gary was a right prick, leavin' you both like that."
"Agreed," Trish said with a smile, sitting back on her sofa. "But Wheels, I want Mikey to spend more time with me. Me and Frank. Frank has already met him a few times, and I want to encourage that. Quite frankly, Wheeler, you're gettin' in the way."
Wheeler sat back too, inexplicably feeling crushed.
"You can still be the favourite uncle," Trish clarified quickly. "But Mikey and I... we're a family. And we get in your way too. You've been so dedicated to us... but Wheeler, a heart like yours, you need a family of your own. You should see women. Find a nice one. Or," Trish gave him a sidelong glance, "rekindle with the one you really want."
"She's married now," Wheeler said painfully.
Trish looked surprised. "Really? Last time I saw Gi, she never said a thing about that."
"You've spoken to Gi about... about Linka?"
He hadn't said her name in years, and his tongue felt odd, moving to make the correct syllables and sounds.
"At Mikey's last birthday party. She brought her up. Apparently she was visitin' at the time."
Wheeler nodded slowly. Trish leaned over and squeezed his hand.
"I should get home," Wheeler said tiredly. "Thanks for lettin' me crash in Mikey's room last night. I didn't want to traipse home after work yesterday and then fight the traffic this morning."
"It's fine," Trish said with a smile. "It's always fine. You're the favourite uncle, remember?"
Wheeler nodded again. He stood slowly, giving Trish a smile.
"I'd like to meet this Frank," he said, and Trish nodded.
"He'd like to meet you too. Although I should tell you, he's a Mets fan."
Wheeler scowled. "I already don't like him."
Trish laughed. "Get yourself home, Wheeler. Any plans for tomorrow?"
"Coffee with Gi."
"Tell her I said hi."
"I will," Wheeler said, walking towards the door. "And Trish," he looked back to her. "If you'd ever asked, I would've married you, you know that, right?"
"I know," Trish said, and for a moment she looked thoughtful. "But Wheeler, that's exactly why I never did."
The next morning, Wheeler sat in his favourite coffee house, waiting for Gi. He hadn't slept well, and ordered a double-shot espresso. He'd been tormented all night by thoughts of Linka, picturing her husband again and again.
Pieter. Wheeler remembered her calling him Pieter. Her husband's name was Pieter.
Husband. Linka was married. Wheeler's stomach rebelled, and he sipped at his coffee delicately.
When Gi walked in, she was already weighed down by shopping bags.
"I stopped at the market," Gi told him, handing him a carrier bag. "Here, it's some of that onion relish you like. Honestly, it was two for one, and you know I can never resist a special offer. Obviously, I got some for Ma-Ti and Kwame too. I know Ma-Ti checks his post box every so often, and Kwame keeps telling me he doesn't need onion relish, that the French cook too and—"
"Did you get some for Linka?" Wheeler asked, and Gi stared at him, sitting abruptly.
"Umm, I..."
"Gi," Wheeler sat forward, looking at her intently. "Tell me everything you know about her. Please."