“Why don’t you have Mark do the message? Isn’t that the whole point of an associate pastor?”
“I can’t. This is something I need to do.”
“This,” I say, tilting my head toward Taylor, “is something you need to do.” How can his job be more important than his daughter?
“Visiting hours are over, babe.”
“I’m not a visitor. I’m her mother.” And I want to spend every moment possible with her before my Great Shame comes crashing down on us.
“Look, Cor—”
“You go.” It’ll be easier with him gone anyway. Keeping up pretenses with him watching my every move makes me edgy.
“What?”
“No, really. I’ll be fine. If you can’t come back in the morning, I’m sure Tricia will come down the hill and pick me up. Besides, Michael will want to come tomorrow, since there’s no school.”
Paul stuffs his hands into the front pockets of his slacks. “He has community service tomorrow.”
“He’s almost done. I’m sure the manager at the thrift store will cut him a little slack.”
“I want him to finish it up so he can start working to pay back the restitution.”
I keep my eyes on Taylor when I roll them big enough to draw envy from an eleven-year-old. Why does Paul have to push Michael so hard? And why, for heaven’s sake, does he always have to win an argument? “I’ll call you when she wakes up.”
“Fine. I’m too tired to argue with you.” He drops a kiss onto my head, and I keep my back to him as he shuffles out.
Tension I wasn’t aware of eases from my shoulders. I lean over Taylor’s bed and buss her cheek with a kiss before following Paul out in search of a nurse. There must be some kind of chair-bed available and maybe a blanket and pillow. As tired as I am, I could curl up on the pristine linoleum floor and sleep about a year.
Within ten minutes, a young man in scrubs rolls a pink vinyl-upholstered chaise into the room. “I’ll be back with some blankets and a pillow.”
“Oh, this’ll be fine. I don’t want to be a bother.”
“No bother. It gets pretty cold here at night.”
“Well, if you’re sure.”
He’s halfway to the door when he turns around. “She’s going to be fine.”
“Excuse me?”
He points to Taylor. “Your daughter. Everyone’s talking about what she did earlier. We see restless coma patients, but what she did took some strategy. Very cool.”
He’s back in a few minutes with bleach-white blankets and a pillow. “You won’t get much sleep with the nurses popping in here constantly, but at least you’ll be more comfortable.”
After he leaves, I rummage through my purse in search of the toothbrush and floss I stashed there on our first visit to the hospital and slip into the sterile steel bathroom. The fluorescent lighting above the mirror is unflattering, but even knowing that, I’m shocked by my appearance. Forty-one isn’t looking good these days, with exhaustion etched in the bags beneath my eyes and my pale complexion.
But it doesn’t matter, because Taylor will be awake before morning.
* * *
Aside from the glow of a soft light above Taylor’s bed, the room is bathed in darkness. The chaise brings back memories of the futon in Paul’s first apartment, with its serviceable upholstery and lack of cushion. Everything was so simple back then. I knew right from wrong, drilled into me by my staunch, by-the-book father.
And yet, here I am facing the consequences of disobedience. And I’ve dragged my daughter right along with me. But then, if things were different, she wouldn’t even be here, would have never been born. Somehow, I don’t think Paul’s going to see the irony in that. Tricia urged me to tell him everything. Now. But how? His reaction toward Michael after getting into trouble is just how my dad reacted whenever my brother got out of line. How my dad would have reacted if he’d known of my Great Shame.
A shiver skitters up my spine.
Did I sense that about Paul? Is that why I got cold feet at the last moment and almost backed out of the wedding only a week before we said our vows? Is that why I was so easily swayed to party with Tricia when I should have been working on seating charts and wedding favors? Paul preaches forgiveness, but there’s a side of him that seems to take every mistake as a personal affront. Michael is the perfect example.
If he can’t forgive Michael for a juvenile mistake, how will he ever forgive me? Maybe he’ll never speak to me again. What if he wants a divorce?
Questions swirl around in my mind, accompanied by the beep, beep, beep of Taylor’s heart monitor, making sleep impossible. I’m so tired, it hurts. Tension hums throughout my body and my head won’t stop spinning. Scenarios play, one after another, of Paul’s reaction when he learns of my unfaithfulness. When he discovers Taylor isn’t his biological daughter.
My stomach roils.
God forgive me, please. I’ve made such a mess of things. Please don’t let Taylor suffer for my sin. I know I don’t deserve it, but I beg You to walk me through this nightmare. But God’s silent. A fog of guilt separates Him from me.
Reaching into my purse on the floor beside me, I rummage around for my cell phone. It’s been three hours since Paul left, so I must have slept some, even though exhaustion still crushes me like a lead weight. Thumbing through the apps, I tap the little Bible and wait for it to load—all of ten seconds. Incredible. Psalms is where I go when my mind is too fuddled to find the words for prayer. There is comfort in David’s brokenness and sin. A man after God’s own heart—that’s how he’s described—and yet he was unfaithful too.
But there’s no comfort to be had for me tonight. The verses flitter away, forgotten, as soon as I read them. Condemnation is a heavy cloak snuffing out any peace I might draw from God’s Word.
“Repent,” my dad would say.
Tricia said the same thing, sort of. “Tell him. You’re making yourself sick with worry. The sooner he knows, the sooner he’ll get over it.”
Or not.
I’m so lost in my own little pity party, the noises coming from Taylor’s bed don’t register at first. Not the shuffling of limbs and sheets I’ve grown accustomed to, but instead grunts and groans. Is she trying to talk?
I stumble off the chaise and trip over the blanket encircling my stockinged feet as I rush to Taylor’s bedside, my phone skipping across the floor.
“Taylor?” Leaning over the metal rail, I place my hand on her forehead then on a rosy cheek, my heart hammering so hard, I can’t draw a decent breath. “Wake up, sweetheart.”
Her eyelids flutter. Have they done that before? Maybe. I don’t know. Then a grunt escapes tightened lips. Okay, that’s new. I glance at the monitor, as if I know what to look for. Everything I know about hospitals I learned from reruns of House. Not at all comforting.
More grunts and groans. Head moving. Legs pumping.
I don’t want to leave Taylor’s side, but I can’t find a call button. “I’ll be right back, sweetheart. Hang on.” The ridiculousness of my command shocks a giggle from me.
Rushing out of the room, I scramble for balance on the slick hospital-polished floor and grab the attention of two nurses—neither of whom I recognize—working behind the low lights of the station. “She’s waking. I think my daughter is waking up.”
“Let’s have a look,” the older nurse says.
“Don’t you think you should call the doctor?”
“I will, Mrs. Shaffer. Let’s just be sure first.” She moves at an easy pace to align with her calm tone, but I don’t bother to wait for her to catch up.
My eyes search out Taylor’s before I reach her side, breath held, willing her to be awake. Her eyelids move again, but this time, I see a slit of an opening. “Hey, Tay. Wake up, sweetie. Can you hear me?”
The stout nurse, identified as Joan by her name tag, steps up to the other side. She glances at Taylor then focuses on the monitor. “Heartbeat’s increasing,” she mumbles.
“
That’s good, right? That means she’s waking.” Excitement climbs up my throat and I fight the urge to squeal like a little girl. In this precious moment, I push away any thoughts of doom and gloom.
Love trumps fear every time.
Joan adjusts Taylor’s blanket before moving to the end of the bed. “I’ll page Dr. Reynolds.”
Dr. Snooty, she means. “Can’t we call Dr. Nielson? I mean, isn’t this important enough—”
“Don’t let Dr. Reynolds rattle you. Dr. Nielson will be here first thing in the morning. I’ll be right back.”
Taylor’s hand moves beneath mine, just the tiniest flutter, like the butterfly kisses I once brushed on her cheek to work a giggle from her. I’m grinning so big, my cheeks hurt. If only Paul were here.
Glancing around the floor, I spot my phone. I snatch it up and move back to Taylor’s side. Taking her hand in mine, eyes on hers, I thumb our phone number. It rings once, twice, three times.
* * *
Paul
The circle of light from a reading lamp is the only thing that dispels the shroud of darkness in my office. I check the clock—three a.m.—and press my fingers against blurry eyes. Sleep’s been sporadic, filled with anxiety—over Taylor, issues at church, arguments with Michael, Simpson, Alexis. Can’t remember the last time I slept a full night—long before Taylor’s accident—and weariness fogs my brain like a drug.
I shove at the papers that pool my desk—disorganized notes for Sunday’s message overshadowed by letters that reek of blackmail. Corey’s right. Maybe I should pass the responsibility to Mark. He can whip up something to speak on in no time. That’s his job, right? But then I’ll look weak when facing the board Monday night. Of course, if I speak unprepared and the message bombs—
The ringing of the phone startles me, and adrenaline pulses through my veins as Rambo materializes from beneath the desk. It can only be Corey. A quick glance at the caller ID proves me right. “Yeah, Cor?”
“She’s waking up.” Her tone hovers at a level only dogs can hear.
I smile past the sudden moisture that blurs my vision. “You’re sure?”
She sniffles. “Positive. Can you come?”
“On my way. Give her a kiss for me.”
Coffee. Black. That’s what I’ll need to get down the hill. Gathering up the mess on my desk is all it takes to wipe the silly grin off my face. I should have told Corey, but with everything else…it doesn’t matter. Somehow, someway, it’ll get handled. I shove the notes into my laptop case, lock the vile letters in the bottom drawer, and push out of my seat.
I’m tempted to forget the coffee and head out, but I’ll regret it before I’m ten miles down the highway. Setting the coffee to brew, I jot a note to Tricia and Michael, check the thermostat, and collect my coat, Rambo shadowing my every move. Rain and wind pelt the windows sending a chill up my back.
But Taylor’s awake, which is more than enough to dispel the dreariness of the night.
Standing over the coffee maker, I tap impatient fingers. Come on. The spit and gurgle tells me it’s about done, and I snatch up the pot. After filling two travel mugs with hot coffee, I doctor one with chocolate syrup and milk, just as Corey likes it.
Rambo rushes to the door with me, tail wagging, black eyes watching me with expectation—like he shares in the excitement. “She’s awake.” I ruffle his head before heading out.
The car’s parked in the driveway, and I duck my head against the cold, fat raindrops as I cross to the driver’s side. It takes some maneuvering to secure the armload—coffees in holders, iPad, coat—and my impatience increases the challenge.
Traffic’s non-existent. Who in their right mind would be out at this hour in this weather? I tune the receiver to talk radio and let my mind drift. The windshield wipers thwump back and forth, mesmerizing, hypnotic, and I roll the window down just enough to feel the chill on my face. One accident per decade’s enough.
It’s all I can do to stay alert enough to make it to the hospital, but forty-five minutes after backing out of the driveway, I pull into the parking lot, coffee mug empty. Lights beckon me, and I gather up Corey’s travel cup and my iPad—in case I have a chance to work on the message.
The hospital is eerily quiet, the silence occasionally punctured by the squeak of a nurse or doctor traversing the corridors on rubber-soled shoes. The lights are low, shadowing the recesses of the halls and waiting rooms. No one hanging out at this hour. I press the elevator call button, its immediate ding startling. My heart picks up a beat with each floor I ascend. When the doors whoosh open on the fifth floor, my stomach flips, like I’ve just topped the peak of a roller coaster.
Breaching the closed doors of the Neuro-ICU department slows me down. I press the call button and wait. Feels like an eternity. I tap my phone against my thigh, patience thin now that I’m so close. Should I call Corey? Would that speed up the process? I dial her number then hit END before it rings through. Just wait. When the doors open, I’m greeted with the sight of staff scurrying in and out of Taylor’s room.
So, it’s true. Thank You, God.
Corey’s standing in the same place I left her over five hours before. Difference is, now a smile lights her face. After giving her outstretched hand a squeeze, I wrap an arm around her and concentrate on Taylor. Her eyes are open, but no focus or recognition.
“Taylor?” I choke out her name and try to make eye contact. There’s a nurse taking vitals, another checking her drip line.
“She’s awake,” Corey says, hugging my arm. “I told you she’d wake up.”
She’s awake. But that’s it. There’s no spark of recognition. No life behind the blank look. Fear knots my stomach and lodges a rock in my throat. “Is she okay?”
“She’s awake,” Corey whispers. “Dr. Reynolds says it’s perfectly normal for her to look…well…” She turns teary eyes on me. “For her to look lost. Remember Dr. Nielson said she wouldn’t wake up talking.”
But he didn’t say she’d appear brain dead.
Chapter 8
Corey
The “step-down” unit Taylor’s in to await transfer to the rehabilitation hospital is much smaller than her ICU room. Maybe it just feels that way because there are too many people crammed into it, like a tin of sardines. Rain runs in rivulets down the lone window, obscuring the parking lot view. Taylor sits up in bed and looks almost normal, aside from the mitts on her hands, neck brace, and spiked hair on one side of her head.
And the fact that she doesn’t talk—at least not in any language we can decipher.
“Zetipo nishimini chabot,” she mutters, as I drape the pink bathrobe I brought from home around her shoulders, leaving her arms free. A PICC line runs from her right forearm, connected to a drip line, and I’m careful not to disturb it. Taking her hand in mine, I run a thumb across her dry and jagged cuticles.
“What’d she say?” Michael stands at the end of the bed, camera slung around his neck, and looks at her like she sprouted wings.
Paul and I flank one side of her, Josh the other, and Tricia occupies the only chair. We all look at each other—I suppose, with the hope that one of us can translate.
Paul grips the bed rail. “Dr. Nielson said it’ll take some time for her to find her voice.”
Josh shrugs. “I think it’s kinda cool.”
The neck brace will be her constant companion until she can tell someone she doesn’t need it. Does it make it hard to swallow? My own throat constricts in sympathy. I reach out and hook a strand of silky brown hair behind her ear, hoping to draw her attention. But she stares straight ahead, a slight catatonic daze. No recognition. Her face has taken on the resemblance of a Picasso painting I remember from college—eyes that are askew, a smile that doesn’t work.
Guilt makes it hard to breathe, hard to look Paul in the face. And if I can’t look at him, how can I ever bear to face Taylor?
The utter joy I felt when Taylor woke is being chipped away, minute piece by minute piece, like an artist sculpt
ing to the core of his masterpiece to reveal deep-seated anxiety. She’s awake, yes, but she’s not my daughter. How can my daughter possibly come back from this shell of a girl? I don’t dare utter my fears, as if to do so will make them true.
“You know,” Michael says, pointing at Taylor’s hair, “she might like that. It’s kinda the in thing.”
“Don’t give her any ideas,” Tricia says.
The two visitors at a time rule doesn’t apply here, and word’s gotten out—Taylor’s awake. Her friends have been parading in, one after the other, sporting excited grins and stuffed animals. But when reality hits a scant few minutes later, they stare at their feet and make excuses to leave, grins gone, arms empty after depositing their furry friends on any available surface.
It’s Sunday, which I imagine contributes to the number of kids able to make the forty-five-minute drive from Placerville. It didn’t take much persuasion to talk Paul into skipping church this morning and accompanying us to the hospital. He’s been quiet—too quiet. I’d like to chalk it up to exhaustion or the fact that Taylor has a long road ahead. When my own guilt leeches in, I think maybe he found Taylor’s lab report, that I didn’t do such a good job of hiding it in a shoe box on the top shelf of the bedroom closet. But if that were true, he’d be anything but quiet.
Lorraine, Taylor’s nurse, hustles into the room, shaking her head at the row of colorful animals propped in the corner. “How’re we all doing here?”
Michael grunts out a chuckle. “Taylor’s learned a foreign language since she woke.”
“If only we could interpret,” Lorraine shoots back. She edges her way past Josh, who steps against the wall to give her space. “Just want to check her fluids.” She fiddles with the I.V. “Is she being transferred to the on-site rehabilitation center?”
“There’s no room,” Paul says. “We’ve chosen Mercy General. I think they’re moving her Tuesday.”
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