It was easy enough to ignore the mess late last night after another uneventful day at Taylor’s bedside. I even pretended not to see it when trudging to the kitchen for my early morning coffee fix. But I can’t ignore the pristine white feather floating on my mocha-laden concoction before I even have my first sip.
Tears well, an overreaction for sure, unless you’re Sarah Bernhardt. It’s not just the coffee or the mess, I swear. But Rambo is repentant. He drops at my feet, resting his chin on his front paws with an apologetic whine.
“My fault.” I crouch down and scratch his perky ears. “I should have found someone to keep you for a few days.”
He rolls onto his back, offering up his soft belly for a rub. I know when I’m beat.
“We going to the hospital?” Michael stands in the kitchen doorway, dressed in baggy jeans and a wrinkled T-shirt he must’ve collected from the laundry pile. At least it’s goth-free.
“We’re not going to the hospital.” I stand to reword Paul’s command before leaving earlier. “I’m going—you’re going to school. You’ve missed too much as it is.”
“I can get the work from Dan. I want to be there if Taylor wakes up.”
“Even if she does, she won’t know you.” I can at least rest in Dr. Nielson’s prediction that Taylor will wake any day now, even if he says she won’t recognize us.
Michael’s jaw clenches and rebellion lights his eyes before he opens his mouth. “It’s Dad, isn’t it? He’s the one saying I gotta go to school.”
I stifle a sigh. Here we go again. The battlefield is occupied by opposing forces, and I’m playing mediator-in-the-middle. “Taylor’s going to need you more when she’s home, Michael.” I’m talking to a dolomite rock here. “I’ll need you more when she’s home.”
“You know I can make up the work. It’s a cinch.”
I’m tempted to call him on it but bite my tongue. We both know he can pull off straight A’s without breaking a sweat. So why doesn’t he?
“Come on, Mom.” The little-boy whine is reminiscent of his four-year-old self.
Shaking my head, I spot a backpack on a chair at the kitchen table. Taylor’s backpack. Ignoring Michael, I step over to it and my stomach clenches. “Where’d that come from?”
“Dad brought it in last night. He picked it up from the impound lot yesterday. It was in Taylor’s car.”
That’s right. How could I forget he went to look at the car? I reach for it but hesitate. Did Paul look inside the backpack? Did he find it? Maybe, but if he did, he didn’t let on. I’d have known. His kiss…his touch…something would have clued me in.
“What’s wrong, Mom?” Michael’s brows draw together.
“What?”
“You look—”
“No…nothing.” I scrape my hair behind my ears. “You need to get to school.”
“What about the hospital?”
“I’m going. A little later. When Dad gets done with a few things at church.” After I do a thorough search of Taylor’s backpack.
“But what about me?”
“Huh?” Even if I find the paper, then what? How can I explain it to Paul?
“Breakfast?”
“What? Oh, yeah.” I snatch a brown banana from the fruit bowl and slap it into his hand.
“That’s it? No French toast?”
“You’ll be late for school.”
Shaking his head, he mumbles something about child abuse and leaves. If he only knew.
I wait, breath held, until the front door slams. Plucking up the backpack, I set it on the table, my heart beating like I’ve just completed the fifty-yard dash. Oh, God, why did this have to happen? Why now?
The pzzzt of the zipper is loud in the sudden quiet of the house. Rambo hops up onto the chair and watches with the fascination normally reserved for the neighbor’s three-legged cat.
“Here goes nothing,” I mutter, pulling out the contents and placing them on the table. A physiology textbook, a bright red binder with pictures tucked into the plastic cover, a tattered green notebook. That’s it? I tip the backpack toward the window and search its innards. A folded paper lines the bottom. Breath short, heart beating in triple time, I reach for it.
The doorbell peals, and I jump. Rambo goes into watchdog mode, tearing across the kitchen, barking to warn the invader he’s on the job.
Paper clutched to my chest, I groan. Who in their right mind shows up at someone’s house before eight? My tattered robe isn’t the most flattering—only exemplifies the extra ten post-pregnancy pounds I’ve settled into over the last fifteen years. Maybe I can pretend I’m not home. It’s not like anyone can hear me over Rambo’s incessant alarm.
“Corey!”
It can’t be. I cram the paper in my pocket and schlep across the kitchen on slippered feet to peer around the corner. Rambo stands at attention in front of the door, tail wagging, body shuddering with each bark. Even though the figure is as distorted as a Picasso painting through the leaded glass, the blonde bob is impossible to mistake for someone else.
“Tricia?” Speaking her name dissolves my emotional fortitude. I rush to the door and throw it open to be swallowed by a warm embrace and Oscar de la Renta.
“I got here as soon as I could,” she tells me over my sobs. “It’ll be okay. Everything will be okay.”
* * *
Bless Tricia, she doesn’t even give the family room a second glance, as if clumps of feathers spread about are part of the decor. With a flick of her hand, she clears a spot off the couch and settles. “So? How’s Taylor? What’s the prognosis?”
I swipe at my eyes, hook my hair behind my ears, and set my frumpy self on the other end of the couch. I could be dressed to the hilt and still feel as classy as a gawky thirteen-year-old—not that I even own anything hilt-like. “I thought you were still in New York.”
“I was. Until I got your message. Placerville’s just a quick detour to home. I rented a car at the airport, and I’ll head down to Carmel when I’m sure everything’s good here.”
“Define good.” I slump back and rub my face.
Tricia’s brows furrow. “How bad is she?”
“Still in a coma. Doctor thinks she’ll come out of it any day now. But—” I shake my head as my eyes well. “We’re not sure what to expect. Brain injury, amnesia…”
“So, you take it a day at a time.” Sensible words, but her eyes swim every bit as much as mine. “My goddaughter is strong. She’ll be just fine.”
Until she remembers.
“It’s my fault.” The words hang out there, and a decision must be made. Do I confess it all? Oh, what a relief it would be to say it aloud.
“That’s ridiculous. Unless you were behind the wheel.” She reaches out and takes my hand. “You always did take on too much. Remember sixth grade P.E? That was the year—”
“No.” I shake off her hand. It would be so easy to let her smooth it all away, to take my sin and water it down until it resembles nothing more than the melodramatic mutterings of overwrought emotions. “It is my fault. We…Taylor and I…we had an argument. She was upset. I should have stopped her, but—” I press my fingers to my lips to still their quivering. “I was…in shock, I guess.”
“Shock? About what? The argument?”
I reach my hand into the pocket of my robe and finger the folded sheet of paper. Although I haven’t yet looked at it, I know what it is. And I can’t expect Taylor to forget. At least not for long.
“Corey? What’s this about?”
“A science experiment, of all things.” I try to laugh but it gets stuck on a sob.
“You and Taylor fought over a school project?”
I shake my head and leave the veil of messy hair over my face as I pull the paper from my pocket and offer it to Tricia. Holding my breath, I watch her unfold it then smooth it out on her linen-clad thigh. Taylor’s name, discernible even upside-down, is written in the top right corner. I can’t make out everything she’s printed in the boxes, but I recognize
it as the same worksheet she waved in my face not four days ago.
“Okay.” She looks at me and shrugs. “I don’t get it.”
“Her physiology lab. They did an experiment on blood typing.”
“So?”
Good grief. Do I have to spell it out?
The snick of the front door opening, and Paul’s voice rings out. “Corey.”
Heat suffuses my face as I snatch the sheet from Tricia. Act normal. I suck air into my lungs. “In here.” Voice too high. I clear my throat and crush the paper in my pocketed fist, praying Tricia won’t say anything about it to Paul.
“Are you ready?” He stops at the threshold of the family room, eyes widening. “Tricia. Hey. I didn’t know you’d be here.” A tired smile accompanies his words.
“I didn’t wait for an invitation.” She meets him halfway for a hug. “I got Corey’s message and here I am.”
“Well…” He steps back. “That’s…great. Corey can use your support.”
The hesitancy in his voice alerts me. Did something happen at the church? “I didn’t expect you back so soon.”
“I can’t concentrate at work.” He rubs an eyebrow. “Thought we might as well get down to the hospital. But…well…I can see you’re not ready.” Impatience laces his tone.
“Give me ten minutes.” I turn my back to him and give Tricia a little head shake. Will she get that I need her to keep this between us?
Their voices fade as I slip down the hallway and enter our bedroom. Rambo’s curled up in the muss of the unmade bed, and I long to snuggle beside him and sleep until this nightmare is over.
But I don’t deserve oblivion.
Growing up, my father’s favorite mantra was, “You reap what you sow.” Well, I’m reaping now.
My fingers tremble as I pull the crumpled paper from the pocket of my robe. My sin is stamped there, as sure as a big red A. I smooth it out and refold it. Snatching a pair of panties from my drawer, I slip it beneath the underthings then muss them up to be sure it’s hidden.
“Corey?”
I jump at Paul’s voice right behind me and slam my finger in the drawer. My heart’s hammering clear up my throat, choking off the cuss word that trips across my mind. “Almost ready.” I can see his reflection in the mirror atop the dresser, just standing in the doorway, and my face heats. How long has he been there?
“You okay?” He crosses the room and comes up behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist. Okay, good. Normal’s good.
“Yeah. I just need to get dressed.”
“What’re you hiding in here? A note from a secret admirer?” He reaches out and grasps the handle of the drawer and I freeze.
I can’t think.
I can’t breathe.
Chapter 5
Paul
Corey’s acting…strange. To be expected considering the circumstances. I don’t even know what normal is anymore. She took my head off for teasing about a secret admirer. I get she’s tense, but the whole drive down to Sacramento, she didn’t say two words. Tricia sat in the back seat and rambled on. I made the appropriate responses. I think. Then again, maybe I didn’t. Either way, she wasn’t deterred, just kept rambling. About a buying trip, her shop, whatever.
Walking down the hall toward ICU, I wrap an arm around Corey, give her shoulder a gentle squeeze. She melts into me for only a moment, but it’s long enough to reboot my senses, reconnect. It would help if I knew what she was thinking. “You okay?”
“Fine.” The word’s whispered, but with a tired smile, so I don’t push. I have enough problems of my own. Don’t need to borrow more.
We’re admitted into the ICU, approach Taylor’s room, and Corey pulls ahead.
“Oh, God,” she says, braking at the entrance, covering her mouth with a hand.
I step up behind her, half expecting to see Taylor awake. Instead, I’m slapped with the image of my daughter, hands mitted and tied to the bed railing, gown bunched up around her thighs.
Corey rushes to her side, Tricia right behind, and I turn in search of a nurse or doctor. Someone who can tell me what the heck’s going on.
Two nurses are at the front desk. I don’t bother to wait for their conversation to cease. “Why’s my daughter tied up?”
They look at me. “She’s been restless,” says one. Janet? Yeah, according to her name tag. “We’re afraid she might pull out her feeding tube and ventilator.”
That must mean… “She’s waking?”
“Coma patients sometimes become agitated. It doesn’t mean they’re waking up.”
“Oh.” It would be good if something positive happened.
“But it’s only a matter of time, Pastor Shaffer. We’re confident Taylor will come out of it soon. Her vitals are stable, no swelling…all good signs.”
I pray she’s right. My spunky daughter, so full of life...well, it doesn’t do any good to go there.
Entering Taylor’s room, I see her gown is back in place. Corey stands at her side, fingers touching the stubble on Taylor’s scalp. Tricia watches from the other side. They don’t notice me, and I take the opportunity to observe.
An odd couple, Corey and Tricia. Was it this obvious back when I married Corey? Has she changed so much? Or was it Tricia? Corey’s settled into the thankless job of a pastor’s wife, blended into the background, while Tricia…well, she’s anything but settled. But it’s Corey’s heart I see when I look at her. What she is, not what she isn’t. I wouldn’t trade her for the world.
“Well?” Tricia stares at me, hand on hip. “Did you find out anything?”
“She’s been restless.” I step up next to Corey, slide my hand under her hair, rest it on her neck. Warm. Soft. She looks up at me. “They were afraid she’d pull out the tubes.”
“I wish she’d wake up.”
“I know, babe. Me, too.”
“What a mess,” Tricia mutters.
Corey’s shoulders tense under my hand. Her eyes remain fixed on Taylor.
“This could be my fault.” I disengage my hand from Corey’s hair. “Michael said she was upset when she left the house. He said…” The accusation in his eyes still burns in my memory. “He said she was coming to see me at the church.” Was I so focused on the Simpson mess I forgot an appointment with my own daughter?
Corey slips her hand into mine, rests her head on my shoulder. “It’s not your fault, Paul. Don’t even go there, okay?” She looks up at me, tears swimming in her blue eyes.
Would I be so quick to dismiss blame if it were the other way around? I’d like to think so.
“Good. You’re here.” Dr. Nielson strides into the room, white coat flapping. His presence fills the space. I would love to reproduce that energy from the pulpit. He diminishes my six-one frame by mere authority.
“Is something wrong?” Corey asks, then winces, eyes closed. “I mean besides the obvious.”
He glances at Tricia but faces Corey and me. “I’m concerned about the damage the ventilator might do to her vocal cords if we leave it in much longer. I think it would be wise to perform a tracheotomy tomorrow.”
“Trach…tracheotomy?” Corey turns to me, panic brightening her eyes.
I hug her to me. “That seems a little extreme.”
“Standard procedure in a case like this. We don’t know how much longer she’s going to be non-responsive. I think being proactive is our best defense against complications that could arise.”
I nod and hope he knows best.
* * *
Corey
I can’t get the vision of the upcoming tracheotomy out of my head. There has to be a better way. The thought of Taylor’s throat being slit so a tube can be inserted…well, it’s nauseating. How quickly life can take a sharp turn from normal to madness.
We take our positions around the bed, like voyeurs at the zoo. Taylor’s legs flail on occasion, and she pulls at the bindings around her mitted wrists. She’s going to wake soon. I just know it.
“I’m going to get some c
offee,” Paul says an hour into our visit. “Either of you want anything?”
“A mocha, if you can find one.” I never did get my morning fix.
“I’ll see what I can do. Tricia?”
She shakes her head and watches while Paul leaves. As soon as he’s out of sight, her head whips around and she pins me with a narrowed glare from the opposite side of Tay’s bed. “I got it.”
Got it? Got what? Did I miss something?
“The experiment. Blood typing.”
My heart leaps. “Shush.” I look at Taylor.
“She can’t hear us.” But Tricia lowers her voice. “And even if she can, it’s not like she doesn’t already know.”
“We can’t talk about this now,” I whisper. “Paul could—”
Tricia comes around to my side of the bed and leans into me, her perfume assaulting my nose. Oscar de la Renta doesn’t blend well with sterility. “You told me nothing happened that night. You swore to me.”
“I never imagined—”
“Mrs. Shaffer?” A nurse stands at the entrance. “Taylor has visitors. Looks like maybe a friend from school and mom.”
“Oh?” How much did she hear? “Well, that’s fine.”
“Do you want to step out while they visit?”
“Step out?”
She points to a sign above the doorway. No more than two visitors at a time. “We’ve been a little lax,” she says, “but if you want to allow them both to come in…”
“Yes, of course.” I snatch my purse from the chair next to Taylor’s bed and lead the way out. If Tricia’s going to berate me, I’d rather she not do it in front of Taylor anyway. Coma or not.
Stepping through the double doors to ICU, I’m stopped short in the hallway. Why am I surprised? Josh Andrews and Taylor have been close since the beginning of high school—maybe too close. Although, it’s not the kid who makes me feel about as awkward as a pimply-faced teen, but his mother. Alexis. The name fits. I’d bet my last meal she was a high school cheerleader.
Illusions Page 3