Illusions

by Jennifer Sienes

  A young nurse takes my place in front of Taylor. “We’re going to put you down for a nap now, okay, Miss Taylor?” She wheels the chair to the far side of the bed and points to the bag I’m still holding. “Did you bring her some things from home?”

  “Oh, yes.” I place the bag on a chair in the corner next to the nightstand. “We were told to bring a few pair of sweats and socks.” Rummaging in the bag, I pull out Taylor’s stuffed dog—a childhood toy she keeps on her bed. “And Toto.”

  Nancy unzips the cage. “Toto?”

  “Her Wizard of Oz phase,” Paul says.

  Veronica touches my arm and waves her hand toward the doorway. “Why don’t we step out into the hall?” she suggests. “I’ll answer any questions you might have.”

  Nancy wraps her arms around Taylor and pulls her into a standing position. “I’ll get her changed.”

  I reach into the bag. “I put some underwear in here, too.”

  “It’ll be a while before she needs those,” she says. “She’ll be wearing diapers for some time.”

  “Diapers?”

  “Just until we get her potty trained.”

  Paul grasps my upper arm. “It’ll be fine, Corey. Let’s step out and talk to Veronica.”

  Diapers? Potty trained? How could I have been so naive about how bad this is?

  “How can you guarantee her safety?” The tone of Paul’s voice pulls me from my own stupor. “Do you know they called her Little Houdini in the ICU? And that was while she was still in a coma.”

  “You have to understand, Mr. Shaffer, that we deal with all stages of rehabilitation from both traumatic brain injury and stroke. We’re equipped to deal with whatever challenges Taylor throws our way.”

  “How can you be sure she won’t escape?”

  “We have a monitor attached to her chair. If she opens any of the three doors leading out of the hospital, an alarm will sound.”

  Paul rubs his forehead. “I don’t know.”

  “How…” My voice catches and I have to start over. “How is it possible that she’ll ever be normal again? I mean, diapers, and…and…”

  “Let’s sit.” Veronica waves her arm to indicate a group of chairs at the other end of the reception area.

  Paul takes my hand and squeezes.

  “You’ll be amazed at Taylor’s progress,” Veronica says. “It seems overwhelming right now, but day by day, the neurons in her brain will regenerate. If she were ten years older,” she shrugs, “the outcome wouldn’t be so positive.”

  Paul nods. “That’s what we were told at the hospital. But to see her this way…” He looks toward Taylor’s room as if he can see her through the wall.

  “Taylor is young, which is in her favor, but it’s still a slow process. You’ll see great improvement here, but there will be months of rehabilitation after she’s discharged.”

  “Months?” Somehow, I thought once Taylor left here, she’d be recovered. More naiveté.

  “Has anyone discussed the complications that may occur during the recovery period?”

  I shrug. “We were given a website, so I’ve done some research. But to be honest, the information was pretty subjective.”

  “That’s because each patient is different, depending on the degree of damage.”

  Paul clears his throat. “We read that there can be issues with anger and depression.”

  “Yes. Traumatic Brain Injury causes a chemical imbalance, so that’s possible. Also, once the recovery begins, it’s hard for the patient to come to terms with the loss, which also causes anger and frustration.”

  “The loss?” I glance at Paul then back to Veronica. If only she knew how much Taylor lost.

  “Yes. The more intelligent the patient, the greater the frustration. She’ll be aware of her limitations and will know that it wasn’t always this way.”

  “But that’s temporary, right?” Paul asks.

  Veronica nods slowly. “To some extent, yes. But some things aren’t temporary, such as problems with short-term memory, maybe some long-term memory, as well.”

  “Long-term memory?” Was it possible Taylor may not even remember what set this off?

  “Initially, yes. She’ll regain most of it as she recovers. Chances are she won’t ever remember the first few weeks here at the facility or even the accident itself.”

  “What about before the accident?” Guilt makes it difficult to look at Paul. My own shame as well as the selfish hope that this could all blow over without me saying a word to Paul.

  “It just depends. She may have permanently lost time before the accident.”

  Relief slows my breathing. Is it possible?

  “Of course, if there’s an emotional attachment to those memories, chances are she’ll recover them in time.”

  An emotional attachment is an understatement. How can I be so selfish as to even imagine this accident can benefit me? What kind of a mother thinks that way?

  “She may also exhibit issues with impulse control and social coping skills.”

  Paul rests his elbows on his knees. “Like what?”

  “The loss of a filter system, so to speak.” She rests her elbows on her knees and clasps her hands. “We sometimes have thoughts enter our minds—that woman’s dress looks terrible on her, or he’s overweight—but we don’t voice those out loud because we know it would be inappropriate. When someone suffers a brain injury, that system is often haywire for a while.”

  Paul offers me a weak smile. “Just when you think you have them raised.”

  Chapter 11

  Corey

  Within a week, our routine is set. I drive down to Sacramento each morning to spend the day with Taylor while Paul goes to work. Saturdays we’ll both go, and Sunday, which is visitor’s day, Michael will join us. Visitors aren’t allowed on any other day—those are workdays, and patient routines cannot be interrupted.

  The first day of week two, I arrive at the hospital just as Nora, the physical therapist, is wheeling Taylor into the gym.

  “Would you like to join us?” Her smile is engaging.

  “What’s on the agenda today? Kickboxing or weightlifting?”

  Nora laughs. “I think we’ll start with rolling the ball back and forth. You can be the third. We’ll start weightlifting next week.”

  Nora settles Taylor onto the carpeted floor while I watch, unsure what to do. “Can I help?”

  “Yeah. Why don’t you sit down here?” She indicates a spot across from Taylor before retrieving a ball resembling one the children use at school to play four-square. Nora joins us on the floor with a groan and a smile. “You ready, Taylor?”

  Taylor moves her head and tugs at the neck brace. Is it a nod of agreement or coincidence? She appears anything but ready, her legs straight out in front of her, hands fidgeting with the brace.

  “Here goes.” Nora nudges the ball to Taylor, aiming for her right side rather than allowing it to hit her feet.

  It sits at her hip and she looks at the ball then to Nora then me, as if asking for directions.

  “Take the ball and roll it to your mom.” When the spot between Taylor’s eyebrows wrinkles, Nora crawls over to her and places the ball in her hands. “It might be easier if you open your legs.” She eases Taylor’s ankles apart and places the ball in the V of her legs. “Let’s roll the ball to your mom.” She places Taylor’s hands on the ball and helps her push it to me.

  “Good job, Tay.” Amazing how such a simple act fills me with excitement. I stretch to my side to reach the ball then return it. This time, Taylor knows what to do.

  Twenty minutes later, we wheel Taylor back to her room. “It’s a slow process, isn’t it?” Even though Veronica warned me, it’s disheartening.

  Nora gives me a sympathetic smile. “You’ll be amazed how fast she’ll progress. It didn’t take her any time to catch on to the ball rolling. That will only improve. She was fortunate she didn’t sustain any physical damage in the accident. The more active she is now, the more oxygen
moves through her brain and regenerates those important neurons.”

  When we’re left alone in Taylor’s room, I sit on the bed and smooth her bangs off her forehead. “I wish I knew what you’re thinking, sweetie pie. You’ve always been such a talker, this new you is a little daunting.”

  Taylor’s eyes catch mine for a moment and hold. She opens her mouth as if she’s going to speak, and my breath catches in anticipation. But all that comes out is soft gibberish—baby talk. Her eyes are beginning to lose the catatonic glaze and, even though they’re still a little off kilter, her focus seems improved.

  “Guess what I brought?” Retrieving my purse from the dresser, I pull out a large envelope and settle next to her on the bed. I take out the 4 x 6 photos I collected the evening before and offer them to Taylor.

  She doesn’t take them but gazes up at me.

  “They’re pictures.” I shuffle through them and find one of her. “Do you know who this is?”

  One side of her mouth lifts as she touches it.

  “That’s you. And this one—” I slip the last photo to the top. “This is your brother, Michael.” No response. We go through the other three, but again, no response.

  “That’s okay.” I gather them up, fighting the tears that clog my throat. “We’ll put them up on your bulletin board. You’ll remember them in time.” Using the push pins lined up along the edge of the board, I pin them up in a row, taking a moment to appreciate each one.

  I sit through another of the therapy sessions, this time with the occupational therapist, Mason. He sits on the floor with Taylor and places a Tupperware Shape-O-Ball in front of her—a toy she had when she was eighteen months old. She picks up a plastic square and attempts to force it through the octagon shape, twisting it back and forth, her chin thrust out in determination. Her accuracy rate was much better as a toddler than it is now.

  “If it doesn’t fit, Taylor, you need to try another hole.” Mason puts his hand over hers and, along with the death-gripped shape, moves it to the proper opening and guides it through.

  Taylor snatches an oblong block from the floor and tries to shove it into the circle hole. When Mason attempts to pull her hand away, Taylor’s chin thrusts out again and her eyebrows draw together—a look of determination I recognize from her terrible-two stage. She pulls away from Mason and continues to twist the shape until she has it partway in, then pounds it with her fist until it goes through.

  “I guess that’s one way to do it,” Mason says with a shake of his head. “The hard way.”

  I swallow a sigh. So much to relearn. How will she ever be the same as before her accident?

  By three o’clock, Taylor’s exhausted. The nurse tucks her into bed and smiles at me. “She’s a breath of fresh air around here.”

  I look at my daughter, her face so young and innocent, and a well of emotion swells in my chest. It’s getting harder each day to walk away from her.

  I thank the nurse as she leaves, then move to the side of the bed. “I have to go now, sweetheart, but I’ll be back tomorrow.” I bend down to kiss Taylor’s cheek, and her arms come around my neck, pulling me into a tight hug—as if my leaving is just as hard for her as it is for me. I hold her close, eyes brimming with tears of joy. This is the first contact Taylor’s initiated since the accident. And just as quick as she hugs me, she lets go.

  “I love you, baby.” I kiss her forehead and lay my hand against her cheek as she gives me a funny half smile.

  * * *

  Paul

  With the board’s decision to back me, the tension that’s been my constant companion over the last few weeks eases. I set aside my concern over Taylor for the time it takes to get through yet another counseling session with the McCartys. I’m not an advocate of divorce, but if I were…

  “You didn’t listen to a word I said.” Jenna McCarty’s voice bounces off the walls of my office. After twelve years of screaming at Craig, I’m sure she’s right—he’s not listening anymore. My suggestions for professional counseling have been met with blank stares of confusion.

  “Not true.” Craig might be talking, but he’s checked out. A mere vestige of the man Jenna married. “We’ve been over this so many times, Jenna. I don’t know what you want.”

  “Want?’ The pitch of her voice shoots through the roof. “What I want is for you to never have slept with that…that tramp.” Her spittle speckles my desk.

  Time to take charge. Be the voice of reason. Again.

  “Listen, folks.” I check my tone—strong, but compassionate. “We’re not getting anywhere. You two have gone round and round with this.” I give Jenna a pointed look. “Until forgiveness begins, there can be no healing.”

  Jenna slumps back in her chair, head down, like a rag doll. “I’ve tried.” Her voice wobbles, and I check the edge of my desk for tissues. I should buy stock. “But every time I close my eyes, I see”—she waves a dismissive hand toward Craig—“them. Together.”

  Craig grabs the edge of my desk and leans toward me. “The affair, that’s not the real issue here.”

  Jenna looks at him like he’s morphed into Satan. “Of course it’s the issue. If it hadn’t happened, we wouldn’t be here.”

  “If it hadn’t happened, I wouldn’t be here,” Craig growls at her.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  He shakes his head, defeat in the droop of his shoulders.

  “Jenna.” I wait until I have her attention. “I think what Craig is trying to tell you is that the affair is a symptom of something deeper. If your marriage had been healthy, he wouldn’t have slipped.”

  She’s shaking her head before I even finish. “That’s his excuse.”

  “It’s the truth,” Craig mutters. “You harp on me all the time. I can’t do anything right. I don’t bring home enough money and I work too much. You can’t have it both ways. And when I am home, you talk to me like one of the kids.” He shrugs. “I can’t win.”

  “I don’t—”

  “And the worst part is the kids. Why should they respect me if you don’t?”

  “No,” Jenna whispers, eyes welling. “That’s not true. The kids love you. Nathan thinks—”

  “Nathan talks to me like you do.” Craig shoots her a glare. “Like I’m nothing.”

  Now we’re getting somewhere.

  A rap on the door, and Dorothy pokes her head in. “I’m sorry, pastor, but there’s someone here who insists on seeing you.”

  You’ve got to be kidding. “I’m a little busy here.”

  “I told her, but,” she throws a glance behind her and lowers her voice, “she’s insistent.”

  Leaning over in my chair, I look through the crack in the door made by Dorothy’s head. Is that...? It is.

  Alexis Andrews.

  “Tell her I’m not available. If she needs to see me, she’ll have to make an appointment.” One I don’t intend to keep.

  Dorothy looks at me like I’ve sealed her doom before closing the door. I should give serious thought to raising her pay.

  “Sorry, folks. Craig, finish what you were trying to communicate.”

  I try to tuck away my irritation with Alexis, but a rock sits in my gut. Does the woman have no boundaries?

  The session continues for another thirty minutes, and for the first time, I’m optimistic.

  “We’ve made some strides here.” I stand to let them know we’re done for now. “I know I’ve suggested it before, but I think you might be better off finding a marriage counselor. I have the names of a couple great Christian therapists.”

  Craig looks at Jenna, eyebrows raised. She responds with a slight head shake, and I know I’m in for the duration. Not my forte.

  I walk the McCartys out of my office, afraid Alexis is camped out on Dorothy’s desk. But aside from Dorothy gathering up her things, the coast is clear.

  “You make that appointment for her?”

  Dorothy sighs. “She wouldn’t make one. Just said she’ll come by another time.” She
throws the strap of her purse over a shoulder and looks at me with a shake of her graying curls. “What is it with that woman?”

  I’ll take that as a rhetorical question.

  “She’s not even a congregant anymore, but she has no problem bossing people around.” She marches around her desk, indignation stiffening her spine. “Oh.” She stops and turns to me. “I called Drew Simpson like you asked. He wouldn’t make an appointment, either, but said he’ll drop by and talk to you soon. No one makes appointments anymore,” she mutters.

  “Thanks.” I’m not looking forward to that confrontation, but it has to be done.

  “I’d watch my back with that woman,” Dorothy says. “She’s trouble with a capital T.”

  That’s what I’m afraid of. Just maybe, Simpson will shed some light on that situation.

  Chapter 12

  Corey

  I’m schizophrenic. Maybe paranoid, too. There are moments I’m sure of what it is I need to do—go to Paul, tell him everything, and trust that God will catch me when I fall. But do I truly trust Him? Then in the next instant, fear makes it difficult to walk and breathe, let alone lay the whole sordid mess out for Paul’s evisceration—maybe God’s too. It makes it easier to focus on Taylor and get lost in the fantasy that her phys lab report isn’t burning a hole in a Keds shoe box up in my closet.

  I drag myself through the door at 4:45 to an exuberant Rambo. “Hey, boy, aren’t you getting enough attention around here?”

  “As if,” Michael mumbles from the corner of the family room, where he sits in front of the computer. “He’s relentless.”

  “Relentless?” I drop my purse onto the couch and grimace at the layer of dust that covers the coffee table. “What is that, a new vocab word?”

  “Very funny.”

  Stepping up behind him, I try to ruffle his hair, but he dodges my hand. Is that cigarette smoke I smell? “What are you doing?”