Lorraine nods. “She’ll be in good hands. The folks there know their stuff.”
Michael looks through the lens of his camera and snaps a couple pictures.
I shake my head. “Taylor would be pitching a fit if she could.”
He snaps a couple more. “I’m going to put together an album for her. A kind of before and after. Smile,” he says to me. Snap.
Tricia reaches out and pushes the camera down. “Just because she can’t protest…I certainly wouldn’t want someone taking pictures of me at my worst.”
“But that’s the whole point.” He lifts the camera again, pointing it at Josh. “When she’s back to her old self, she’ll want to see what she went through.”
“Don’t count on it,” Lorraine mutters.
“I gotta go,” Josh says. “I told my dad I’d meet him in the lobby five minutes ago.” He reaches out to touch Taylor’s arm, but she pulls away and tucks her fist into her armpit. He drops his eyes and shrugs, backing away from the bed. I want to say something to let him know it’ll be okay as I watch him exit. But my own doubt will communicate a hollow assurance.
Focused on Josh, Lorraine’s shout of, “No,” has my heart leaping as my head whips around to see Taylor gripping the PICC line, the mitt on her lap. Before I can stop her, she rips it out, eyes glued to Lorraine’s horror-stricken face as blood spurts from her arm.
* * *
We all shuffle into the elevator like a herd of cattle, stunned into silence. At least, I’m stunned. Who would have thought Taylor could shift from catatonic to rebellious in the time it takes to light a match?
“This is a good thing,” Lorraine had assured us earlier, as we stood around the bed, mouths gaping.
“She could have done serious damage,” Paul responded, incredulous. “How is anything about this good?” I gripped his hand in warning.
Lorraine didn’t seem to take offense as she swabbed Taylor’s arm. “She had to think through every step to get that PICC line out. First, she knew she couldn’t succeed with the mitt on, which is pretty clear thinking as far as I’m concerned. Then to get it off?” She looked at Paul and grinned. “Brilliant.”
“Well, I’m glad you’re amused.” Paul’s smile took the sting from his words. “How are you going to be sure she doesn’t do it again?” He took Taylor’s hand, bending down as if attempting eye contact with her.
“There are no guarantees, but we’ll do the best we can.”
“That’s not good enough,” Paul growled. I was with him on this one.
“It never is,” she said.
It was Tricia who suggested we leave. The sooner there were no distractions, the sooner Taylor would sleep. We thought that would slow her down until Michael reminded us that she was in a coma when she pulled out her ventilator and feeding tube.
Now we step out of the hospital, a stiff wind battering us as we make our way to the car. I shiver and pull my coat tighter, sinking into Paul’s side when he wraps a protective arm around me. But it’s not the February weather that has me dragging my feet.
“I don’t want to leave her,” I confess through chattering teeth.
“You keep pushing yourself, babe, and you’ll make yourself sick. She’s going to need you more when they transfer her to Mercy.”
“Paul’s right,” Tricia says. “She’ll be fine.”
I’m not convinced. Mother’s intuition or an overactive imagination? The visual of blood spurting from her arm makes my stomach flip. Maybe if I stay—who’s going to watch over her?
We reach the car and Paul takes his arm from me to retrieve the keys. I hesitate, eyes back on the hospital.
“Come on, Corey.” Paul fingers a loose strand of hair from my face. “The staff are trained for this.”
“It didn’t stop her from ripping out that line.”
“You can’t watch her every minute.” He opens my door and waits.
We pile in, me in the passenger seat, Michael and Tricia in the back. Paul gets behind the wheel and starts the engine.
“Besides, Mom,” Michael says. “You told me you’d help me with algebra.”
Paul looks over at me, eyes widening, then peers into the rear-view mirror. “Glad to see you’re taking your homework seriously.”
I wince, sure Michael’s going to take that comment wrong, and wait for the comeback. It seems everything Paul and Michael say to each other has some underlying meaning I’m not privy to.
“I’m not doin’ it for you.”
There it is.
“Good,” Paul says, maneuvering through the parking lot. “I’d rather you do it for you. College isn’t that far off.”
“It is for me, ʼcause I’m not going.”
Paul pulls out into traffic. “Of course you are.”
“So, Tricia,” I say, shifting in my seat to see her. “What do you think about putting together a little care package for Taylor?”
“What do you have in mind?”
“Well, her cuticles are pretty ragged. I thought we could pick out some nail polish, give her a little mani-pedi.”
“Sounds great. I have a new color I picked up in New York.”
“That’s right, you must be anxious to get home. How long have you been gone now?”
“Three weeks. My assistant is feeling a little overwhelmed. Once Tay’s in the rehab hospital, I’ll head home. I should have had the spring line out by now.”
Paul and Michael are blessedly silent, and I breathe a sigh of relief. The queen of distraction. I’ve spent the better part of my life playing the shell game of life. Keep changing the subject and pretty soon, the thread of conversation is shifted.
“You can’t make me go to college.”
Or not.
Paul’s knuckles tighten on the steering wheel. “What do you expect to do with your life without college?”
“Uh, photography.” There’s an edge to his voice—an intonation that communicates with crystal clarity that Paul is clueless. The height of disrespect.
“Michael,” I warn. “You might want to—”
“Photography?” Paul snorts. Oh, why does he allow Michael to push his buttons? “I’m not supporting some starving artist.”
“I don’t expect you to.”
“Hey, Cor,” Tricia cuts in. “Maybe once Taylor’s out of rehab, you girls could come down for a long weekend. We could take walks on the beach. There’s a new restaurant I’d love to take you to.”
Bless Tricia.
“Sounds great.”
Paul clears his throat. “How do you propose to support yourself, Michael? Photography, just like any other artistic endeavor, takes time to perfect.”
“I’ll get a job.” He all but tacks on a “duh.”
“A job? Why don’t we start with the restitution you promised to pay off? A thousand dollars.”
Rubbing at a headache forming between my eyes, I scrunch down in my seat.
“You’ll get your money,” Michael says. “What’s the big deal, anyway?”
“The big deal?” Paul slams the steering wheel, and I jump. “The big deal is that I might lose my job thanks to your lame-brain stunt. Is that big enough for you?”
Silence.
It takes a moment for me to put all the pieces together—Paul’s inability to forgive Michael for vandalizing the school and the anger that’s evident whenever the issue comes up. His distraction when at home and preoccupation with work. It all fits.
And if Paul’s job is on the line because of a juvenile act, what will happen when the truth of Taylor’s accident comes out?
* * *
Paul
The first time Corey and I got into an argument, a month into our marriage, she gave me the cold-shoulder treatment for days. It didn’t bother me too much—I preferred quiet anyway. But now, eighteen years into our marriage, her stony silence makes me nervous. She’s not just stewing, she’s thinking. And when she’s done thinking, she’ll have plenty to say.
When we get home, I pu
ll the car into the garage and glance at Corey, but she’s got avoidance down to a science.
“Get your algebra book, Michael, and meet me in the dining room in ten,” she says, climbing out of the car.
“Will do.” He passes me like I’m invisible, and I follow him to the door leading into the house and hold it open for the ladies.
Tricia pats me on the arm as she passes and gives me an apologetic smile. I don’t know what she has to be sorry about, but the fact that she is doesn’t bode well for me. She and Corey are connected like Siamese twins. Whatever Corey feels, Tricia’s aware of it.
“Dinner will be ready in about forty-five minutes.” Corey doesn’t bother to look at me. The ETA on dinner is the only thing she’s said to me since I lit into Michael.
There’s not much point in trying to talk to her yet. She’s not done processing, and I have a little of my own to do, so I hide out in my office.
Easing behind my desk, I click into my email and watch message after message load. The usual Sunday evening activity—perusing the reviews. What grade will Mark get for his efforts? Critics happy to share their opinions. In one of my lighter moods, I thought about tacking a grading chart on the back wall of the church along with a stack of stars to be placed by the members: one star—poor; two stars—fair; three stars—good; four stars—excellent. But I’m not secure enough to share my reviews with the entire congregation.
Of course, a chart’s not necessary for most. They’re not shy about letting me know how they feel. Only ten emails today—and nine of them are positive. I have to admit, it stings to see my associate get better reviews. What does that say about the body? What does that say about me?
I whittle away the better part of a half hour returning emails and planning how I’ll answer to the board tomorrow night. I glance through the letters I’d locked in my bottom drawer. Better to keep them to myself for now.
I’m not looking forward to dinner. Not with the silent treatment I’m sure to face. But skipping it? That’ll show weakness.
The smell of cooking wafts down the hallway the moment I open the office door. We’ve been living on mystery casseroles since Taylor’s accident, thanks to the kindness of the church ladies, and I’m grateful. But what I wouldn’t give for a recognizable meal. I can’t tell if I’m eating chicken, tuna, turkey…tofu.
The table’s set with cloth napkins, cut flowers, and lit candles. Maybe I’m not in as much trouble as I thought.
“Well, isn’t this nice?” I say to anyone who’ll acknowledge me.
Corey carries in a casserole dish, hands covered by hot mitts, much like those Taylor’s wearing. “Tricia did it.” She sets the food onto a trivet and returns to the kitchen, passing Tricia on her way out.
“I thought we should celebrate Taylor’s transition.” She sets a salad and rolls on the table. “I’ll go get Michael.”
I follow Corey to the kitchen, where she’s scrubbing at the tile counter with enough gusto to take out the grout, and stand at the entrance. “Look, Corey, we need—”
“Are we gonna eat?” Michael calls from the dining room, plopping into a chair.
“Hold your horses, kiddo,” Tricia says, ruffling his hair.
It’s then I notice his hair. When’d he get it cut and how did I miss it? I’m tempted to comment on it, but all it’ll get me is more attitude.
Dinner’s an awkward affair, and I’m grateful when it’s interrupted by a phone call from Mark. I excuse myself and escape back into my cave until the house is quiet.
The wood floor squeaks as I step into our bedroom, expecting to find Corey sound asleep—or at least faking it. Instead, the room is bathed in soft light emanating from the pair of reading lamps on our nightstands. Knees drawn up to hold her book, Corey’s propped up on pillows, head down, hair spilling forward. Her reading glasses, black-framed, sit on the end of her nose. And she never looked cuter.
“Hi,” I say, testing the waters.
She takes the frames off and looks at me, her blue eyes filled with something I can’t quite read. Concern? Sadness? Whatever it is, it’s not anger.
“Why didn’t you tell me your job’s in jeopardy?”
Closing the door, I move across the room. The bed frame squeaks when I sit at Corey’s feet. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”
She slams her book closed and tosses it aside with a sigh. “You’re so missing the point. How long has this been going on? Close to a year?”
“What? No. It’s only been a couple weeks.”
“Then how can it be Michael’s fault?”
“Simple. The board received letters from some of the families in the church who are asking for my resignation. Their main issue is that I can’t control my kid.”
She leans forward, brows marred. “But, Paul, that was almost a year ago.”
“So?”
“So, why did they wait this long? If it’s such a concern, wouldn’t they have been up in arms about it right after it happened?”
Realization hits me upside the head like a sledgehammer. As a rule, dissension spreads through a congregation with tornado-like speed, churning everything, or everyone in its wake. But if Michael wasn’t the catalyst, what was?
Suspicion sours my stomach. But at least knowing my opponent gives me a fighting chance. No way I’m going down without a fight.
I take hold of Corey’s shoulders, lean in and plant a big kiss on her lips. “You’re brilliant, babe.”
Chapter 9
Paul
Conversation and laughter float down the hall as I step through the side door of the church offices—voices of board members I handpicked. Men whose lives I’ve been part of for going on ten years. Chuck, who shoots hoops with me twice a month. Gary and Bill, my staunchest supporters when enacting changes. Dan, who I counseled along with his wife through a tough time in their marriage. Jeff and Wayne, miracle workers with the finances. And Ben, my accountability partner. These men are my friends.
And yet, it feels like I’m walking to my execution.
Mark moves past me. “You ready?”
I grunt a non-committal answer and follow him into the meeting room. The guys mill around, doctoring their coffee and dipping into danishes from a pink bakery box. Dorothy, super secretary, strikes again. She seems to think no meeting would be official without carb-loaded sweets.
“Hey, Paul.” Ben’s voice booms out. “How’s Taylor doing?”
Conversations cease and the focus homes in on me, like I have a bullseye on my forehead. “She’ll be transferred to Mercy General tomorrow. In-patient rehab.” I move through the bodies to the coffee carafe as the guys within arm’s length pat me on the back.
Dan reaches past me to dip into the bakery box and pulls out glaze-covered dough. “Mark said she shows promise as an illusionist.”
I can’t help but chuckle. “Yeah. The hospital staff’s nicknamed her Little Houdini.” The horror of watching her rip out her PICC line yesterday’s been replaced with a keen sense of pride at her spunk. That’s my girl.
I’m asked a few more questions about her progress as we take our seats around the table. Although there’s plenty of space in the room, the walls close in on me. I don’t want to think about all I have to lose. They can’t force me out, but without their support, staying would be tough.
Chuck, who keeps the minutes, plops a notebook on the table, takes a sip from his cup, and clears his throat. “I’m sure Paul would much rather be with his family right now, so the sooner we get this meeting started, the sooner he’s back with them.” His balding head is glistening with sweat. Not a good sign.
“You know,” Mark says, “this meeting wouldn’t even be necessary if it weren’t for Simpson trying to usurp authority here.”
“True.” Gary pushes his hand through graying hair, shoulders slumped. “But the fact remains, his accusations aren’t without biblical merit. And he’s got eleven other families backing him in this.”
Resting folded hands on the table,
I rein in my temper. Biblical merit? I can’t argue with that. But it reeks of a set up, and I’d bet my last meal the real culprit isn’t Simpson.
“First Timothy three, four and five,” Gary continues, opening his well-worn Bible and marking his place with a finger. “One who rules his own house well, having his children in submission with all reverence—for if a man does not know how to rule his own house, how will he take care of the church of God?”
“I hate to say it,” Wayne scratches a brow, “but these twelve families, well, they’re the financial backbone of this church. Without their contribution—”
“We’re sunk,” Jeff finishes.
“Sunk?” I scan each member in the room. “A little melodramatic, don’t you think? I started with about a hundred and fifty members ten years ago. We’ve got, what?” I look at Mark.
“About a thousand, give or take.”
I nod. “A thousand. And you’re going to tell me twelve families are the financial backbone?”
Jeff leans in. “Unhappy members are like a cancer. It might start small but look out. It’ll spread.”
Mark pounds a fist on the table. “You guys seem to forget who’s really in charge here, and it’s not Simpson or his army.” He points a thumb at me. “It’s not even Paul.”
“That may be.” Dan shakes his head, eyes downcast. “But like Gary said, his accusations have biblical merit, even if we don’t agree with his methods.”
I straighten my shoulders and take a deep breath. “So, why now?”
“What’s that?” Wayne asks.
I lean on my elbows. “Michael messed up, I’ll grant you that. And it’s obvious I didn’t have control of the situation.” I make eye contact with each man and hold their attention for a beat before moving on. “But that happened almost a year ago. So, why’d it take so long for Simpson to bring this to the board?”
Dead silence for a moment.
“Good question,” Mark says, thrumming his fingers on the table. “Anyone bother to ask Simpson that?”
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