Grumbling ensues around the table but brings no clear answer.
“That’s not the only complaint, Paul.” Gary slides a sheet of paper across the table to me. A bulleted list of offenses along with two rows of six signatures at the bottom.
I peruse the accusations, most of which are laughable. “This is ridiculous.” Then my eyes light on number seven. “They want me out because my wife works part time.”
“Their logic is that if Corey had been home instead of teaching, Michael wouldn’t have gotten into trouble in the first place,” Gary says.
I flick the paper back at him. “Look, guys, you know this is bogus. Attack me all you want but leave Corey out of this. She’s a great mom. They want to push me out, fine.”
“No one can push you out,” Mark says. “Unless you let them.”
Pinching the bridge of my nose, I weigh my options. A little time, that’s what I need. “With Taylor just coming out of the coma and facing weeks of rehab, Corey’s not going to be working for a while.”
Gary clears his throat. “She’s not going to be able to do much for the women’s ministry, either.”
Chuck raps his knuckles on the table. “Even Simpson isn’t going to raise a ruckus because Corey’s tending to her recuperating daughter.”
Maybe not. But Taylor’s recovery is only a short distraction. What we need is a permanent solution.
* * *
Corey
The rainstorm of the weekend has passed, and the clear night sky is bathed with stars—a proverbial light show for anyone who takes the time to look up. If it weren’t Tricia’s last night with us, I’d be researching traumatic brain injury from the websites Taylor’s doctor gave me today. Or maybe I’d be snuggled under my down comforter, the latest romance novel keeping me company along with a cup of hot chocolate. For certain, I wouldn’t be walking in the thirty-five-degree chill of the night.
I zip up my down coat, take hold of Rambo’s leash in gloved hands, and look at Tricia. “Which way?”
“Let’s walk downtown. It always looks like something out of a Thomas Kinkade painting at night.”
“Where do you think he got his inspiration?” A slight breeze carries with it the comforting aroma of wood burning, puffs of smoke drifting from the neighbors’ chimneys. I draw the scent into my lungs and hold it there for the brief moment it allows me to forget the spiderweb of lies I’m living.
Stopping to let Rambo sniff, I look at Trish. “I wish you weren’t going home tomorrow.”
“Taylor’s going to be fine, you know.”
I can’t do more than nod for the lump that cuts off my words when I remember leaving Taylor at the hospital earlier today. She was sitting in a wheelchair, tugging at the neck brace still in place. It has to remain until she can tell them she’s okay. Will that day ever come?
I ran my hand over the shorn part of her head, praying she would make eye contact with me, look at me—something.
“It’ll be easier after they move her.” Paul slid his hand up under my hair and squeezed my neck.
“Do you…do you think she’ll ever be the same again?”
Before Paul could answer, Lorraine came in with an armful of clean sheets. “You’ll be amazed,” she said. “I’m telling you, the girl’s got spunk.”
“We have to go, babe,” Paul whispered against my temple. “I have to get some things done before the board meeting.”
Leaning down at eye level with Taylor, I kissed her forehead. “We’ll see you tomorrow. Okay?”
“Okay,” she said, clear as day.
With a squeal of excitement, I looked from Paul to Lorraine then back at Taylor. “Did you hear that?”
Paul grinned. “She talked.”
“Automatic response.” Lorraine dumped the sheets on the end of the bed. “She didn’t have to think about it. That’s normal. Once she’s in rehab, it’ll happen more and more until she’s jabbering away like always.”
Cupping Taylor’s chin in my hand, I looked into her eyes. “I can’t wait.”
I shake my head now to dislodge the memory. “It’s not just Taylor.”
Tricia nudges my arm with an elbow. “You’re going to be fine, too.”
“You know what Paul’s doing right now?”
“Attending a board meeting. At least that’s what he said when he left tonight.”
“It’s not just a board meeting,” I say. “He’s defending his position. There’s a group demanding his resignation.”
“Because of Michael?”
“How’d you know?”
“Aside from his outburst driving home from the hospital yesterday, Paul said something when I walked in on him and Michael arguing the other day that clued me in.”
I sigh. “It sounds like you knew about this before me. They’re saying it’s because of Michael.”
“But?”
“It doesn’t make sense. It’s been almost a year. Why would they wait this long to make such a stink about it?”
“Did you ask Paul?”
“Yes.”
“And? What’d he say?”
I smile and tuck away his affectionate response for a later time. It might come in handy when he’s spitting mad at me. When he might view every past intimate moment as an act of betrayal, because that’s what went through my mind as we made love last night. Every day I hold back the truth is just one more deception.
“He said I was brilliant.” I shrug. “I’m not sure what he meant by it. I can’t imagine what it’ll do to him if he’s forced out. He’s spent the last ten years building up that church, working ridiculous hours for even more ridiculous pay.”
“You guys have weathered storms before.”
“It feels like a tsunami’s coming.” I blow out a breath and watch the cold of it evaporate into the dark. Our lives are as fragile as that puff of air. “Paul asked me to find someone besides Rebecca Simpson to handle the ladies’ Bible study. In fact, he told me to find someone else. I was irritated because it felt like he was manipulating me.”
“So? You find someone else. It’s not worth a battle, is it?”
“It’s too late. I’d already given her everything.” I glance at her. “What was I supposed to do? I had no idea what his problem was, and I wasn’t about to get in the middle of something.”
“I’m sure he’ll deal with it.”
“It turns out Rebecca’s husband is the one who’s raising such a stink about Michael.”
“That’s not good.” She nudges me with her elbow. “When are you going to tell him the truth?”
“About Rebecca?”
“No.”
“It’s been a year since Michael’s incident.” I glance at her. “A year. Did Paul sound like he’d forgiven him yesterday in the car?”
“It’ll only get harder.”
“Paul’s not the only one who’s going to have a fit over this—not that he doesn’t have every right. But how will I explain it to Taylor?”
We turn the corner to Main Street, lit up with old-fashioned streetlamps—iron and glass domes—that give an air of a simpler time. Aside from the occasional restaurant, the shops are closed, but interior lights glow to showcase unique window decor. And the bell tower, Placerville’s historic nod to the volunteer firefighters more than a hundred and fifty years before, looms large in the middle of downtown.
We stop in front of a clothing boutique that reminds me of Tricia’s. “You’ll be happy to get back to your shop, I bet.”
“Have you told your family about Taylor?”
I keep my eyes on the vintage-style dress draped on an emaciated mannequin. “It’s complicated.”
“That’s what I thought. I thought it was strange that there haven’t been phone calls back and forth.”
“I told them she’d been in an accident but didn’t let on how serious it is. I can’t face them right now.”
“Your dad can’t read minds, you know.”
Tugging on Rambo’s leash, I start walking agai
n. “Maybe not, but I don’t doubt he can read my face.”
“And when they learn the truth?”
“I might as well save it all up and hit them with it at once. Who knows? I might have to move back home.”
“That’ll never happen.”
“You don’t know that.”
“If it gets that bad, you can come live with me. It’ll be like the old days.”
I laugh despite myself. “We didn’t live in luxury in the old days.”
Tricia shrugs. “That’s just location. Carmel, Placerville, or Indiana—it doesn’t matter much. Wherever I am, you always have a home there.”
Chapter 10
Paul
The first time I heard Corey laugh, it hit me—she’s The One. It was a crisp fall day—the kind that makes me think pumpkins and leaf raking. Wheaton College, Indiana. A time when anything was possible. Liberal Studies and English—a double major—and the excitement in her voice when she talked about wanting to teach…well, it was the same for me and preaching. But over the years, the demands of my calling took precedence over the dreams of her youth.
And last night, I all but agreed the status quo would remain. To keep the dissension beasts at bay, I threw her to the lions.
Pulling on a sweatshirt, I pad out of the bedroom on bare feet. I close the door, but leave it unlatched and make a straight shot for the thermostat. The house is cave dark and about as cold. I would much rather stoke up the wood stove, but we won’t be around long enough to keep it stocked.
Taylor will be moved to the rehabilitation hospital today. Her doctor assured us that this is where the real work begins. It’ll be a full-time job for Corey over the next several weeks. She won’t have time to even think about going back to work. And when the time comes that she can…we’ll deal with it then.
I turn on the hood light above the stove and get the coffee brewing. After unplugging my iPad from its charger, I pull up Yahoo and sit at the kitchen table to check out the headlines. Some are pertinent, others just a waste of space. But isn’t that the way of the world?
When the coffee maker beeps, I get to work on Corey’s mocha. I would have braved the cold to hit Starbucks, but it’s not worth the risk I might run into a church member. Last night’s meeting went my way, but I’m still hanging by a thread, and it leaves me raw.
Coffee mug in each hand, I toe open the bedroom door and almost trip over Rambo in a hurry to get out. Corey’s still sound asleep. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. Placing both cups on her nightstand, I look at her in the dawn light turning the room into shades of gray. She’s on her back, only her head poking out from the layer of blankets, hair in a tangle on her pillow.
I finger a strand of hair off her face and nudge her cheek with my lips. “Babe?” I whisper.
“Hmmm?” she sighs.
“Brought you a mocha.” I sit at her hip. “Extra chocolate.”
“Why’re you whispering?”
“Didn’t know I was.”
“What time is it?”
“A little after six.”
“We’re not going to the hospital for,” lines of concentration appear between her brows, “five hours.”
“I’m heading to the church to get a little work done first. I thought you might want to know how the board meeting went.”
“Oh.” Eyes now open, her arms emerge from her cocoon to push the covers back. Sitting up, she blinks a couple times. “You should have woken me when you got home last night. I never heard you come in.”
“I didn’t have the heart. You were zonked.” I retrieve her coffee and hand it to her.
“Mmm. Thanks.” She takes the mug in both hands, sips, and sighs. “Now tell me what happened.”
“Bottom line, the board’s backing me. Thanks to you.”
“Me?” With the mug still in one hand, she pushes a strand of hair behind her ear. “What did I have to do with it?”
“You,” I say, planting a kiss on her nose, “asked the question we should have all thought of. Why wait this long to make such a stink about Michael?”
“So it’s over?” It’s not relief in her voice, but what? Concern? Fear?
“Well…for the time being. Simpson’s not going to just back off.”
She scowls. “What’s his problem anyway?”
“I don’t know.” But I’ve got my suspicions. One who’s quick with an accusation often has the most to hide. “We’re not going to worry about it right now. Our baby girl’s going into rehab today. We need to focus on her.”
Corey places her mug on the nightstand and takes my hands. “Listen, Paul. There’s something I need to tell you.” Her eyes flicker away from mine, and I tense. “I…I didn’t get someone else to facilitate the Bible study class.”
“But—”
“I know you told me to.” She holds tight to my hands when I try to pull away. “Please listen.”
Slow to anger. Quick to hear. It hasn’t been my go-to verse lately. I take a deep breath. “I’m listening.”
“I’d already given everything to Rebecca. I had no idea her husband was causing problems in the church. But even if I had, I don’t know how I could have asked her to return it all without making things worse. And really,” she adds, tugging on my hands, “I don’t think she has anything to do with this.”
“How could she not, Corey? She must know what he’s up to.”
She drops her eyes and shrugs. “Not necessarily. It’s not like you shared this whole mess with me until you were in the thick of it.”
The truth of it is too logical to argue. And I don’t want to argue—there’s no point. “You’re right. I should have told you.”
“I…”
“What?”
She shakes her head. “Nothing.”
“You sure? Everything out in the open from now on. Remember?”
“I was just going to offer to make you some breakfast while you shower.”
“That’d be great.” But as I head into the bathroom, the tension I felt earlier remains. Could be because I still haven’t told her everything, but…
What isn’t Corey telling me?
* * *
Corey
We slip through the double glass doors and down the long hall to reach the reception area. The walls are painted what once might have been a soothing green but now appears tired—like a woman faded with the loss of her youth. The decor wasn’t important to us when we chose this hospital for Taylor’s rehab—we focused on the professionalism of the staff and the quoted success rate. This is not an institution that puts more value on appearances than it does results.
The U-shaped front desk is ripe with activity as receptionists, nurses, and therapists, dressed in colorful hospital scrubs, interact. The wall across from the desk is plastered with a whiteboard to rival any classroom—charted activity for patients. When we viewed the facility last week, we were told that we could walk in and be informed about Taylor’s whereabouts at any given time—once she starts therapy. Although I’m not expecting to see her name, I scan the whiteboard, nonetheless.
“Do you think Taylor’s here yet?” I ask Paul, shifting the overnight bag from one hand to the other.
“In her room,” a receptionist informs us, pointing to the room within eagle-eye observation range from the reception desk.
“Let me take that.” Paul reaches for the bag, but I hold tight.
“It’s fine.” There’s some comfort in carrying Taylor’s things.
Taylor, wearing a hospital gown, neck brace still in place, sits in her wheelchair across from the speech therapist we were introduced to on our previous visit. Veronica. Dark hair, olive complexion, and a very white smile. She’s holding a piece of what appears to be a sandwich. As we step up to the doorway, I hold my breath. We were told yesterday that the first thing they’d do is a swallow test. If Taylor was unable to pass that, a feeding tube would be reinserted.
“Do you like egg salad, Taylor?” Veronica offers the sandwich.
She’s eating. Thank You, God. My hand covers my lips to stifle the whoop of sheer joy. But I can’t stifle the tears as Paul’s arm snakes around my waist and pulls me close. Not wanting to distract Taylor from the first meal she’s had in more than a week, we don’t move.
Before Veronica can offer another bite, Taylor leans forward and opens her mouth. Her eyes don’t appear to be focused on anything. Veronica gives her another bite then turns to flash us a smile.
“Good news,” she says. “Looks like we can forgo the feeding tube. Taylor’s passed the swallow test.”
Paul and I step into the large, private room as Taylor finishes her sandwich. In the center is a hospital bed with a blue cage attached—it looks like a miniature version of a bounce house—next to a hospital-issue nightstand. A toilet and sink are tucked into one corner with only a curtain for privacy. Dresser drawers take up half a wall, an empty cork board above it.
“Not quite like home,” I murmur to Paul.
He gives me a one-armed hug. “It could be worse.”
“I think that’s enough activity for one morning,” Veronica says. “I’ll call a nurse in to put Taylor to bed, and we can discuss her care.”
I kneel in front of my daughter and attempt to make eye contact. “Her eyes…” I glance at Veronica, who’s observing.
“They’re a little askew,” she says. “Right now, it’s causing double-vision which makes it hard to make any kind of eye contact. That’ll change with a little time.”
Double vision? I can’t even imagine it.
Paul points to the bed. “What’s with the cage?”
“It’s to keep Taylor protected. She’s not able to walk on her own yet, so we don’t want her to stumble out of bed. Once she’s mobile, the cage will be removed.”
Paul’s eyes widen. “It seems to me that she’ll be better protected tucked into a cage once she’s mobile.”
Veronica grimaces. “It’s considered inhumane to cage a mobile person. We have to adhere to the letter of the law. Ahh. Here’s Nancy now.”
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