“Josh, Alexis.” I paste on my pastor’s-wife smile. The one I pull out in dire emergencies. I may not look like I have it together, but I can fake it pretty well. “So good to see you both.”
Tricia steps forward, hand extended. “Hi. I’m Tricia Sewell. Corey’s friend.”
“This is Josh and Alexis Andrews,” I tell Tricia. “Josh is Taylor’s…friend.” At least that’s what Paul wants to believe—all he can handle at this point. I resist the urge to gather my hair up and straighten my clothes. Not that I can do much with the jeans and sweater I’m wearing. Alexis is wearing the same combo, but like Tricia, she could be wearing a flour sack and it’d look good.
“So nice to meet you, Tricia.” Alexis flashes her beauty-queen smile, then turns to me, not a brunette hair out of place. “How’s our girl doing?”
Our girl? That’s a little too familiar for my liking. I tuck resentment aside and give them a quick rundown. “Talk to her,” I tell Josh, who nods and appears to be on the verge of tears, which softens me. “I’d like to believe she can hear us.”
Tricia nudges me with a shoulder as we watch the two enter the ICU. “What’s with the mom?” she whispers.
I grit my teeth to hold back the snarky remark that sits on the tip of my tongue. Why don’t I trust Alexis? She’s never been anything but…nice. Okay, maybe a little condescending, but I suppose if I looked like that, being humble wouldn’t come naturally.
“Don’t bother answering. I can see it in your face.”
“What?”
“Does she attend your church?”
“She used to.” What can I say that doesn’t land me in gossip?
Tricia’s eyebrows disappear behind flaxen bangs. “Pretty friendly with the pastor?”
I grimace. With the sin of adultery hanging on me like a nasty leech, gossip is the least of my worries. “She went through a divorce last year and wanted Paul to counsel her.”
“I’ll just bet she did.”
“Hey, guys.”
I jump at Paul’s voice and turn to see him with a Starbucks coffee cup in each hand. “I thought you were going to find a vending machine.” I take the cup he offers me with a trembling hand. Maybe coffee isn’t the best choice right now.
“They don’t have mochas.”
“Oh, sweetheart, you didn’t have to—”
“It wasn’t a problem. How come you’re out here?”
“Taylor has visitors,” Tricia says.
“Josh and Alexis.” I watch Paul’s face for a sign when I say, “Alexis.” A man would have to be half dead to not be smitten with her—as obvious as she is. But Paul’s scowl isn’t of the smitten variety. “What?”
“Do me a favor. Call me on my cell when they’re gone. I’m going for a walk.”
“But Paul—”
“I’m afraid I don’t have the patience for her right now.”
I watch as he retreats. “I wonder what that’s all about.”
“Maybe you’re not the only one with secrets,” Tricia says.
Chapter 6
Corey
A burning band of tension tightens along my shoulders as I work alongside Paul in the kitchen. Alone. Well, except for Rambo, who’s scoping out the floor like a bottom-feeding catfish. Tricia’s off on some errand, and Michael’s locked away in his bedroom. Doing his homework? I hope so, because Paul will check on him and I can’t take any battles tonight. The scents of garlic and basil compete with the lit cinnamon candle that sits on the counter—my ill attempt at a room deodorizer.
We have enough food in the freezer to feed us for the next six months, thanks to the Helping Hands ministry at our church. Food is a universal comforter, for both the giver and the receiver. I don’t have to plan meals or take the time to cook. The only downside is that I’m not quite sure what it is we’re eating most of the time.
I don’t want to think about Taylor’s tracheotomy scheduled for tomorrow. I don’t want to think about the lab sheet I hid up in the closet after Paul caught me slipping it into my underwear drawer. And I don’t want to think about Paul’s strange behavior around Alexis Andrews.
What’s left?
Tricia’s crack about secrets keeps playing over and over again in my head. I want to ask Paul about it, but what right do I have to question him? My own dark secret, looming like the shadow of death, is big enough to choke the life out of all of us.
“Who’s handling the women’s Bible study next week?” Paul takes the dripping pan from my soapy hands and wipes it with the same quick efficiency he applies to every task.
“Rebecca Simpson.”
“What?” The pan clatters to the floor startling a yelp from me and a bark out of Rambo. Paul retrieves it, pulling it into his stomach like a football. “Why would you pick her of all people?”
What’s his problem with Rebecca? First Alexis, now Rebecca. “She’s helped me out in the past, so when she asked—”
“Asked? You mean she came to you?”
I take the dishtowel from Paul and dry my hands. “What’s this all about?”
He shakes his head and puts the pan in the cupboard. Why won’t he look at me? Is Tricia right? “There are women better qualified than Rebecca. What about Karen Jacobson?”
“She doesn’t have time to prepare with all the kids. I haven’t had a chance to lay out everything, and Rebecca’s okay with that. She’ll do fine.”
He grunts and fiddles with wiping up the sink.
“What’s wrong with Rebecca?”
“You’d be better prepared if you’d give up that substitute position…”
I stifle a sigh. Here we go again. “First off, I’m ill-prepared because I’ve been living at the hospital, not teaching. But even if I was, you agreed I could work part time—”
“If it didn’t get in the way of your duties with women’s ministry.”
Closing my eyes, I rub at the headache forming between my brows. “We’ve been through this, Paul. If I want to keep my credential valid—”
“You already have a full-time job.”
“So, I should let all those years of college just go to waste?”
“You’re teaching.”
“Women’s Bible study wasn’t what I had in mind.”
“Whatever you do, do it for the glory—”
“Don’t.” My tone comes out sharper than intended, and I rein it in. “Please, don’t quote scripture when we’re in the middle of an…of a discussion. It’s not fighting fair.”
Paul steps close, slips his hands around me and flashes his placating smile, the one that lights up his hazel eyes. “You’re right. Sorry.” He presses a kiss on my forehead. “I just want you to be content with the work God’s called you to.”
“The work God’s called you to,” I say against his chest. Why can’t he understand? “I didn’t major in theology. I majored in liberal studies.”
“It doesn’t matter at this point anyway. Taylor may need full-time care for a while once she’s out of the hospital.” He gives me a quick squeeze before stepping back. “But I’d rather you find someone other than Rebecca Simpson to handle things for now.”
I’m being manipulated. “Why?”
“It’s just—”
“Mom.” Michael breezes in and plops an open textbook onto the counter. “You gotta explain this algebra equation again. I’m not getting the same answer that’s in the back of the book.”
I hold my hand up to stop him. “We’re in the middle of something here.”
“But—”
“No,” Paul says. “That’s fine. We’re done.” He walks past Michael and out of the kitchen.
“Hang on, Michael,” I say, following Paul.
I find him in his office, a room that reminds me of my father. He sits behind his heavy oak desk surrounded by shelves full of books—volumes of Systematic Theology and commentaries on every book of the Bible by authors like MacArthur and Henry.
Judgement sits heavy in this room.
I d
on’t cross the threshold. “What’s your issue with Rebecca Simpson?” And Alexis Andrews, I want to add.
He sighs and shakes his head. “I don’t want to get into it right now. It’s church politics and—”
The phone rings. He checks caller ID and snatches up the receiver. “I have to get this.”
“Is it the hospital?” Maybe Taylor’s awake.
He looks me in the eye. “No. Yeah, Mark,” he says into the receiver.
And I’ve been dismissed.
Stepping from the doorway, I hesitate when Paul mentions Drew Simpson’s name in a tone that’s less than pastoral. Eavesdropping is wrong, but I ignore the prick of guilt and lean against the wall, tilting my head close to the doorframe.
“There you are.”
I whip around, heat shooting through my body, to see Tricia. “Oh, uh, you’re back.”
“I’m back.” Her mouth twitches and I know she knows. “I was just…I mean, Paul and I…”
“Yeah. So I see. You have a few minutes? We need to talk.”
Great. The last thing I want to talk about is the night of my Great Shame. “Michael needs help with his algebra homework. I told him I’d be right back.”
“I feel responsible,” she says, planting hands on slim hips.
I latch onto her arm and pull her into my bedroom, closing the door behind us. “What’s the matter with you?” I grind out between clenched teeth. “Paul was in the next room.”
“I talked you into going to that stupid party that night. Remember?”
I drop onto the bed and fight the urge to climb in and hide. “You didn’t force me to be stupid that night.” I scrape both hands through my hair and look into her sympathetic eyes. “What am I going to do?”
* * *
Paul
Gut clenching, I resist the urge to hurl the phone across the room and, instead, drop it on my desk. The elder board’s pushing a meeting—new complaints about the worship music, and the children’s ministry leader isn’t getting the support she needs.
The dissension growing has nothing to do with either. I’m half tempted to walk away, but I’ve worked too hard and too long to give into a few dissenters. Community outreach has never been stronger, membership is up, collections are up. What more do they want—my blood?
From cradle to grave, that’s what they want. Middle-of-the-night phone calls when someone’s sick, fighting, or depressed. I’m everyone’s best friend except when I’m not.
And my daughter’s in a coma.
I push up from the chair, back protesting from neglect. I would love to get a run in tomorrow, but we’ll need to leave early if I’m to have time to work on Sunday’s message and be prepared to defend myself at Monday night’s board meeting. Nothing like being called on the carpet. What do they have in mind? A hand slapping or a request for my resignation?
I need a distraction. Maybe Corey’d like to take a walk.
Michael sits alone at the kitchen table, textbook open, head resting in one hand while the other taps out a beat with the eraser end of a pencil. Rambo’s planted under his chair and raises his head when he sees me. “Where’s your mom?”
He shrugs. “Not my turn to keep track of her.”
I grind my teeth and bite back a reprimand. When did he morph into a smart aleck? It seems like every comment I make is met with disdain. “I thought she was helping you with homework.”
“And I thought she was with you.”
I start to walk away and stop. Someone has to be the adult here. “You need some help? I know I’m not as good at algebra as your mom, but—”
“I’ll wait for her.” He doesn’t bother looking at me, like I don’t warrant even that respect.
“You want to talk about it?”
“What?”
“Whatever it is that’s eating you. Been eating you for months.”
“Nope.”
I shake my head. “This attitude’s got to stop, Michael. Whatever your problem—”
His head snaps up. Well, at least I got his attention. “My attitude? You started it.”
“I started it?” Stepping up to the table, I plant my hands on it and lean in. “I’m not the one who vandalized the elementary school. That was you, my friend.”
“How many times do I gotta say I’m sorry?”
“It’s not enough.”
He snorts. “So much for repentance.”
Clenching my fists, I check my temper. “If you were truly sorry, you’d cut the attitude.”
“One’s got nothing to do with the other.”
“How can you say that? Every action has consequences. You trash the school, you’ve got to pay the consequences.”
With both hands, he shoves his textbook toward me, pencil flying into the air. “And you’re not gonna let it go.”
“Let it go? You have no idea the repercussions of your little stunt. What you do effects other people, Michael.”
“Like you?”
“Yeah, like me. Like your mom. She subs at that school, you know. How do you think the teachers are looking at her?”
“You’re such a hypocrite. You don’t even want her there.”
“That’s beside the point. We’re not talking about me here. We’re talking about you and your thoughtless actions.”
“Forget it,” he says with a sneer, jumping up from his seat. “You guys should have stopped after Taylor. Seems she got your goodie-goodie gene.” He shoulders past me.
Breath short, I hang my head and search for scripture to grasp onto. What is his problem? We’ve been over this so many times I’ve lost count. When will he learn to take responsibility?
“What was that all about?”
Tricia’s voice behind me draws me up. “Nothing.”
“It looked like something to me.” She arches an eyebrow. A challenge?
Heat crawls up my neck. “He’s…difficult.”
“You’ve all been through a lot lately.” She steps past me and retrieves a glass from the cabinet. “I’m guessing Taylor’s accident is just as hard on him as it is on you and Cor.”
“It’s not that. This has been going on—” The ringing of the landline cuts me off. It’s after nine. I don’t think I can take another church emergency. When it stops, I assume Corey got it in the bedroom. “Anyway, his behavior isn’t recent. I’m sure Corey told you what happened last year. You know, the vandalism—”
“Yes.” Filling her glass at the sink, she glances at me. “But that was out of character for him, wasn’t it?”
Pushing a hand through my hair, I rest my hip on the door jamb. “That’s when it all started. But since then… He was always on the honor roll until then.” I shake my head. “It doesn’t make sense. He could get straight A’s without any effort. In fact, he has to work at flunking out.”
“It’s obvious he’s angry with you. So, what’d you do?” Is that suspicion lurking in her eyes?
“Nothing. I mean, maybe I’ve been a little busier at work, but nothing to warrant this attitude. I don’t know, I—”
“Paul.” Corey’s panicked tone has my heart tripling. She rushes into the kitchen, arm flailing as she tries to shove it into the sleeve of a sweater. “That was the hospital on the phone. We need to go.”
Chapter 7
Corey
Taylor doesn’t look any different than she did when we left the hospital late this afternoon, and disappointment has tears burning my nose and eyes.
“I tried to explain to your wife on the phone that she’s still unresponsive,” the on-call doctor tells Paul. “Taylor gave the staff quite a scare tonight.”
“I don’t understand how this happened,” Paul says.
“The nursing staff can’t be in the room at all times,” the doctor explains, his attention on Paul. “Somehow, even with her hands mitted and tied down, she managed to rip out her feeding tube and ventilator. This isn’t the way we would have liked to test her capacity to breathe on her own, but it doesn’t change anything.”
He doesn’t bother to look at me. Does he think I’m some kind of a moron for rushing down here tonight? “Will she still have to have a tracheotomy?”
“No, of course not. She’s breathing fine without the ventilator.” His tone reminds me of a kindergarten teacher explaining the basic fundamentals to a five-year-old.
“Then something’s changed, hasn’t it?” I ignore Paul’s warning nudge. Maybe it’s exhaustion prodding me to challenge this man, or maybe I know my daughter better than he does. “She heard Dr. Nielson earlier today and decided to take matters into her own hands.”
Paul tucks me into his side. “It really doesn’t matter. What’s done is done.”
Doctor Snooty leaves as a nurse steps up to check Taylor’s vitals. “Be encouraged,” she says. “This is a great sign. Taylor had the nursing staff a little freaked out, but the physical therapists are celebrating.”
I reach out and stroke Taylor’s pink cheek. “Why’s that?”
“It shows us two things. Strength of character and healthy brain activity.” She flashes me a smile that makes up for the doctor’s attitude. “We’re calling her Little Houdini.” She flicks the tube running from the drip bag and resets the machine before leaving.
Slipping a finger around a strand of Taylor’s silky soft hair, I look up at Paul. “She’s going to wake up anytime, Paul, I just know it.” The thought of it quickens my pulse. Will she remember everything that led up to her accident? Dr. Nielson told us that she won’t wake up talking and walking, like coma patients do in the movies, but who knows how long before her memory returns?
“I’m sure she will, babe,” he says around a huge yawn. “But I doubt it’s going to happen tonight. Let’s go home and get some sleep. We can come back first thing in the morning for a couple hours.”
I shake my head. “She’ll be scared if she wakes up and I’m not here.”
He rubs the back of his neck. “Corey, I still need to work on the message for Sunday. And the board’s called a meeting for Monday night I’m not prepared for.”
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