Chapter 5: What He Had Made
It was poster board.
The same size as Andrea's.
Someone had reproduced her original message in careful block letters, every word exactly right, and below the text they had added something new — a small drawing of two figures sitting side by side in stadium seats, one of them with their hands raised.
At the bottom, in different handwriting, someone had written:
*For Andrea.
From Marcus and Deon.*
Andrea took it with both hands.
She read it once.
Then she read it again.
Her lips moved slightly on the second pass, the way they did when she was making sure she hadn't misread something.
Then she looked up at Marcus.
"Deon helped?" she signed.
"I called him during the seventh inning," Marcus signed.
"I described your sign to him.
He told me what to write."
"He's never met me."
"No," Marcus signed.
"But he said — " he smiled again, that same quiet one — "he said anyone who signs at a baseball game is already family."
Andrea pressed the new sign against her chest exactly the way she had pressed the torn pieces of the old one.
The difference was that her chin wasn't trembling this time.
I was the one whose chin was trembling.
Marcus looked at me.
"She's lucky to have you," he said out loud, in English, just for me.
"She's the one who told me not to fight," I said.
"I was ready to."
He nodded.
"I know.
I could see that from the field."
A door somewhere down the hall banged open and a voice called his name.
He held up one finger in that direction without turning around.
"One more thing," he signed to Andrea.
"That video."
She tilted her head.
"It's going to be online," he signed.
"People are going to see it.
Some of them will say things about you.
Most of them will be kind.
But some won't be, because that's how it goes." He paused.
"Are you ready for that?"
She thought about it with the same seriousness she had brought to every question he'd asked.
Then she signed: "Grandpa always said — if you do something true, you don't have to be afraid of people seeing it."
Marcus was quiet for a moment.
Then he signed: "I'm going to remember that."
He said goodbye to both of us, shook my hand, signed *see you* to Andrea, and disappeared back through the door at the end of the hall.
We stood there for a second in the fluorescent light.
Andrea looked down at the new sign.
Then up at me.
"Can we come back next season?" she signed.
"Yes," I signed.
"Can we get the same seats?"
I thought about the woman in the expensive coat.
The smug lean.
The torn cardboard.
"We can get better ones," I signed.
She almost smiled.
Then she signed: "Do you think she watched the game after they took her away?"
"I don't know," I signed honestly.
"I hope she did," Andrea signed.
"I hope she watched him play and thought about it the whole time."
We walked back out through the gray door into the evening air.
The stadium was emptying around us, streams of people moving toward the exits, voices and laughter mixing together in the cooling dark.
Andrea held the new sign in both arms like something she intended to carry all the way home.
My phone buzzed.
It was a notification from a number I didn't recognize.
The message read: *Hi — I'm a producer at a local news station.
We've received a video clip from tonight's game.
We'd like to speak with you about Andrea's story, if you're open to it.
No pressure at all.*
I looked at the message.
Then I looked at Andrea walking ahead of me, the sign held against her chest, her head tipped back slightly to look at the lights above the stadium.
I typed back: *Can I ask how you got this number?*
Three dots appeared.
Then: *Doug gave it to us.
He said to tell you he hopes it's okay.*
I stopped walking.
Doug.
The retired uncle with the coffee stain on his jacket.
The man who had filmed everything and asked for nothing.
Andrea turned around and signed: "Why did you stop?"
I looked at the message again.
Then at her.
"Someone wants to tell your story," I signed.
She looked at me for a long moment.
Then she signed: "Grandpa's story too?"
My throat tightened.
"Yes," I signed.
"Grandpa's too."
She turned back toward the exit.
Kept walking.
May you like
"Okay," she signed over her shoulder, without breaking stride.
"Then okay."
