Illusions

by Jennifer Sienes

  Corey’s tears disgust me, nothing more than a ploy to manipulate. A visceral need to enact violence stabs through me—a red hot knife—and I step back before the temptation to follow through is too much.

  Nothing is as it seems.

  * * *

  Corey

  After Paul storms out of the house, I lock myself away in the bedroom with Rambo. There is no end of tears—just when I think they’re spent, I remember the look of disgust on Paul’s face…the tone of his voice…the accusations…

  My throat is raw, eyes swollen to slits, and I’ve gone through a half box of tissues when Michael’s voice calls out.

  “Anyone home? Hey, Mom?”

  Locking the bedroom door, I press my face to it. “I’m in here, Michael,” I shout, my voice cracking.

  “You okay?” His voice comes from the other side of the door.

  “I think I have the flu or something. I don’t want you to catch it. You’ll have to fend for yourself for dinner, okay?”

  “Oh. Okay.” He hesitates. “Can I get you anything? Soup or tea or something like that?”

  “No. Thanks,” I manage through another onslaught of tears at his thoughtfulness.

  “Where’s Dad?”

  I swallow and muster a normal tone. “He’s working late. Lots to do to catch up.”

  We have our meeting at the hospital in the morning. Surely, he won’t miss it.

  “Well, yell if you need anything.”

  “I will.” I take two steps toward the bed and oblivion.

  “Oh, Mom?” His voice is just outside the door again.

  “Yeah.”

  “Craig says I can start at the station next weekend. It’s only minimum wage, but it’s something.”

  “That’s—” I steady my voice. “That’s great, sweetheart.”

  “You talked to Dad, right?”

  “Not yet,” I lie. “It’s…it’s been a little busy.”

  “Oh.” He sounds disappointed. “Well, I’ll be around if you need anything.”

  Diving under the covers, I pull Rambo’s warm body into my chest and bury my face in his wiry fur. He struggles against me, pulls away, and plops down by my face, his little black nose snuffling at the tears on my cheek.

  My cell phone rings, and I ignore it. But maybe it’s Paul. Does he feel bad for the way he slammed out of the house? I snake my arm over Rambo and pluck the phone from my nightstand. Tricia. How could she have known?

  “Trish?” My voice croaks.

  “Cor? Is that you?”

  “Oh, Tricia.” Snaking my arm out again, I snag a few tissues from the box on my pillow and swipe at my nose. “He knows.”

  “You told him?”

  “No.” I sniffle and wipe my eyes. “He found out from someone else. Alexis. You know, the woman you met at the hospital. He’s so…angry. Worse than angry. Livid.”

  “How did this Alexis chick know?”

  “Josh.” My nose is plugged, my voice nasally. “Taylor’s friend. Boyfriend. Whatever.”

  “He was going to have to find out sooner or later, sweetie.” Sympathy laces her words.

  “You should have seen how he looked at me. Like I’m…the dirt beneath his feet. Lower than that. The dust mites beneath the dirt beneath his feet.”

  “He’ll get over it.”

  I shake my head, but she can’t see. “I don’t think so. I’ve never seen him like this.” Tears well again, and I try to choke them back. “He was shaking, he was so mad. What am I going to do?”

  “Give him time, sweetie. He’ll come around. He loves you.”

  “Think about it, Trish. I try to imagine myself in his shoes. But it’s worse. It’s not just that I slept with someone right before I married him, but Taylor…she’s not his daughter.”

  “Yes, Corey, she is. Biology doesn’t matter.”

  “He wanted to know who he was. The guy, you know?”

  “And?”

  “Somehow it makes it worse that I don’t know. Of course, it makes it worse. What kind of a…” I wave my arm around, looking for the right word.

  “Don’t go there.”

  “It’s true.” I blow my nose, and Rambo escapes to the end of the bed.

  “Do you want to come down here for a few days, maybe give him some space?”

  “I can’t leave Taylor.”

  “No, I don’t suppose—”

  Taylor. “Oh, no.”

  “What?”

  “Taylor’s going to want to know. How am I supposed to tell her I don’t even know who her father is?”

  “Look, Cor.” Tricia’s voice hardens. “Paul is her father. The other was just a sperm donor.”

  “And her mom’s a sl…slu…slut,” I sob.

  “You want me to come up there for a few days? I can get my assistant to cover things here.”

  “I don’t think your being here will help. I don’t think anything will.” I swipe at the tears. “He’s going to leave me, I just know it.”

  “No, he’s not.”

  “No…I suppose not. What would that do to his image? But if he can’t forgive me—”

  “You’ve known about this for how long? Eighteen years?”

  “I didn’t know Paul wasn’t Taylor’s dad.”

  “You had to wonder.”

  “When I first found out I was pregnant, yes. But it was so long ago, and Taylor’s so much like Paul. I just kind of forgot.” Out of sight, out of mind. Ignorance is bliss. A number of clichés fit the situation. I suppose that’s what makes them clichés.

  “Well, Paul’s had all of, what, a couple hours to process? Give him time. Besides, he has a few things to answer for himself.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like what’s the deal with this Alexis chick? Didn’t you wonder why he got all weird when he saw her at the hospital? And why’s she coming to him with this information anyway?”

  A sledgehammer’s going off inside my head, it’s hard to breathe, and my eyes are raw from all the crying. I can’t think about this right now. Whatever Paul’s up to, it can’t be any worse than what I did.

  Can it?

  Chapter 15

  Corey

  Huddled outside the hospital doors, I push the sleeve of my sweater coat back to check the time. 8:55a.m. I was so sure Paul would come home in time to drive down to Sacramento with me. I waited until the last possible minute before leaving the house. Where did he spend the night? Did he wait until he knew I’d be gone? Is he at the house right now, packing up his things?

  Drawing in a deep breath, I push through the glass doors and enter the sterile halls of the rehab center. I’ll just have to handle this meeting on my own.

  “Mrs. Shaffer. You’re right on time.” Joy, the patient advocate, waves me into what appears to be a staff lunchroom, where Veronica, Nora, and Mason sit at a table. “Will your husband be joining us?”

  “Uh, no. He had an emergency to attend to.” I avoid eye contact while taking a seat. Can they tell I’m lying? Probably not. I’m getting pretty good at it.

  “Well.” Joy sits to my left and lays a folder —Taylor’s chart? — on the table in front of her. “We’re glad you’re here. Unfortunately, Dr. Holland, Taylor’s neuropsychologist, is unable to attend, but we have her notes here.”

  “Sorry I’m late.”

  Paul’s unexpected voice shoots a rocket of adrenaline through me as he takes the empty chair to my right. The only unoccupied chair in the room—lest I think it means something.

  “We were just getting started,” Joy says. “We thought…well, it doesn’t matter.”

  Now they all know I lied. Great. Heart beating in my throat, I chance a glance Paul’s way, but he’s not biting. Hands folded on the table in front of him, he bestows his pastorly smile on each person in the room.

  Except for me.

  Joy opens the folder and taps her finger on what I assume is the meeting’s agenda. “I’m sure the number one issue for the two of you is how we’re going to
be sure there won’t be a repeat of yesterday’s incident.”

  “Excuse me?” Paul leans forward. “What ‘incident’ are you referring to?”

  “I—” My voice catches, and I clear my throat. “Paul worked late last night, so I haven’t had a chance to tell him.” Lies, lies, lies. Maybe I should try to remain invisible during this meeting.

  “Oh.” Veronica shares a glance with Nora. “Well, it seems your concern about Taylor escaping the hospital had merit.”

  “What?”

  I want to cover his hand with mine but clench my fist instead. Comfort from me won’t be appreciated at the moment. “She was fine.”

  “But she got outside?”

  Nora hooks a strand of blonde hair behind her ear. “It won’t happen again.” She and Veronica go through their litany of reasons Taylor’s escape was a good thing, in retrospect.

  The tension coming off Paul is palpable. Is it because he’s worried about Taylor? Angry with me? Frustrated with what he’d see as incompetence with hospital procedure?

  “Let’s move on to another matter,” Joy suggests once Paul’s questions are answered. “We’d like to have a goal for Taylor’s release.” She flips through her notes. “Dr. Holland thinks Taylor might be ready in another four weeks.”

  Four weeks? “That soon?” Forget being invisible. “She’s not even talking yet.”

  “No,” Nora says. She whips a quick look at Veronica and Mason, who are both shaking their heads. “We appreciate Dr. Holland’s confidence in Taylor’s ability for recovery, but by our calculations, it’ll be closer to six weeks. And even that can’t be determined for certain until she’s talking again. It’s hard to assess what she’s retaining when she can’t communicate.”

  “Even six weeks doesn’t seem very long.” I look to Paul for confirmation, and although his eyes don’t meet mine, he nods. “And what about school? Will she be able to return when she’s released?”

  “Her rehabilitation doesn’t stop here,” Mason says. “She won’t need much in the way of physical therapy, but definitely speech therapy, and maybe occupational therapy.”

  Joy touches my arm. “There will still be a lot of work ahead for Taylor. She’ll need 24-hour supervision for a time and a chance to reintegrate back into normal living. There is a residential rehab facility in Santa Clara. They only take six patients at a time, and they set up real life scenarios.”

  “You mean like playacting?” Paul asks.

  Joy nods once. “That’s the gist of it—”

  “Why can’t we do that?” I say. “I’m sure there are things we can do at home to achieve the same end.”

  “24-hour supervision,” Joy reminds me. “And she’ll still need outpatient therapy if she stays home.”

  “I understand.” There’s no way I’m going to ship Taylor off once she’s released from here. “But if we can manage, wouldn’t it be better if she’s in a familiar, loving environment?” How loving, at this point, I’m not sure. But an absentee father is still better than a facility.

  “It’s worth discussing,” Joy says. “Now, next on the agenda.”

  I try to stay with the meeting, but my mind takes off in directions I can’t control. It takes every ounce of strength to keep the battling tears at bay. But after another fifteen minutes, I sense things are winding down.

  “Just so you understand,” Paul says as he stands and gathers his coat, “there cannot be a repeat of yesterday’s incident, as you guys called it. I don’t even want to think about all that could’ve gone wrong.”

  “But it didn’t,” I can’t help but point out. He can be as angry with me as he wants, but the therapists caring for Taylor are top-notch. Stuff happens. If anyone’s aware of that, it’s me.

  Paul flicks a quick glance my way before focusing on the team again. “I appreciate all you do for my… our daughter.” His tone is a little contrite, as if he’s aware that his anger with me is poorly focused. “I just want to be sure she’s safe.”

  Veronica nods. “We completely understand your frustration with us, pastor. We have an alternative plan in place for Taylor. It won’t happen again.”

  He gives her a brief nod before moving toward the door.

  That’s it? He’s not even going to talk to me? I throw a “Thanks” to the team and follow him out the double glass doors. “Paul.”

  His step falters, but he doesn’t stop.

  I look around to be sure we’re alone, then pick up my pace. “You can’t ignore me forever, you know,” I say to his back.

  He doesn’t bother to turn around or even slow down, but his voice floats back to me. “I can’t do this right now, Corey.”

  * * *

  Sleep didn’t come last night. I was too preoccupied with make-believe scenarios of how I would break through Paul’s cold front when given the chance. The words I’m sorry seem so…inadequate. Years ago, I attended a weekend Christian conference—one of those affairs where pastor’s wives learn to serve better alongside their husbands. Paul thought it might motivate me, make me long to be on Team Paul. One of the speakers taught on the art of asking for forgiveness. It went something like this: I’m sorry, _______, that I _________ and made you feel _________. I will do everything in my power to not ___________ again.

  Somehow, I don’t think this approach will work with Paul. I tried it out in my head—I’m sorry, Paul, that I cheated on you before we were married and made you feel, what? Bad? Sad? Angry? Deceived? I will do everything in my power to not cheat on you again.

  There is no formulaic approach to repentance. Not true repentance, anyway.

  So, I’m almost relieved that Paul didn’t give me a chance to speak to him after the meeting. He cut me off with one sentence and a wave of his hand and didn’t even bother to look at me when he walked out. I’m dead to him, and it doesn’t look promising for a resurrection.

  I lose myself in Taylor’s rehab appointments. We’ve progressed from rolling a ball to bouncing it, and she’s able to get eight of the ten shapes into the Shape-O-Ball—a record. Lunch is macaroni and cheese, which she can’t identify. Or maybe she can but doesn’t know how to verbalize it.

  What I wouldn’t give to hear her talk.

  At three o’clock, it’s time for her nap and for me to say good-bye. I dread going home. How will I explain to Michael why his dad’s not home for the second night in a row? And if, by some miracle, Paul does come home, then what?

  “Okay, sweetie.” I sit in Taylor’s cave with her and tuck a thin blanket beneath her chin. “It’s time for me to go.” I give her butterfly kisses on her cheek, and she blesses me with a nudge of her shoulder and a smile. “I love you.”

  Her arms snake around my neck and pull me down. What’s she doing? A kiss? No, a butterfly kiss. Her lashes tickle my cheek. “I love you, too, Mommy.”

  My throat closes up as the tears well and spill over. The sweetest words I’ve ever heard. I brush back the hair from her face—a face contorted with such anger a few weeks ago, it was unrecognizable.

  But I fear it will be the same again once she remembers.

  * * *

  Paul

  Open door policy or no, I lock myself away in my office. After refusing to answer the fourth call of the morning, Dorothy gets the hint and handles them herself. Not the best timing for caveman mode. Not the best timing for Taylor’s accident. Not the best timing for yet another blight on the Shaffer name—with Simpson and his crew seeking out reasons to usurp my position with the congregation.

  Computer open, notes scattered in front of me amid two different Bible versions, I make a great show of working. If someone comes in, I can at least fake it. But that’s the best I can do. I can’t wrap my head around the fact that Taylor’s not mine. Not biologically, anyway. Could it be a mistake? She’s more like me than Michael. But hey, who’s to say Michael’s mine? I cringe at the cynicism.

  A family picture sits on my desk—Taylor’s about five, tucked under my arm. Michael, sitting on Corey’s
lap, was three. It was one of those Sears promo photos. Posed, color coordinated, cheap. But it’s my family. My family. Except it’s not. Someone else impregnated Corey. Someone she doesn’t even remember. Sounds like some cheesy nighttime soap opera. Not what’s expected of a pastor’s family. Not what I expected of my family.

  Taylor’s been a daddy’s girl since she could walk. It was her idea three years ago to start the yearly blood drive at the church. Right here in my office. She came by after school to share her brainchild with me.

  “It’d be a community outreach,” she’d said.

  “Outreach?” I chuckled. “What do you know about outreach?”

  “Hey, you’re always talking about bringing more people to the church. Maybe we could give away hot dogs or something, then slip scripture into the wrapping.”

  “A cheap rendition of In-N-Out Burger.” I liked the idea. “And if we build on it…” Blood donation. Blood of Christ. Could work.

  “I’ll even be first to donate.” She bounced on her toes in her excitement. “That way, I can show everyone how easy it is. I mean, if a kid can donate blood—”

  “I love your courage, kiddo, but one problem.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You have to be seventeen.”

  “What? But that’s, like, three years away.” Her face was so crestfallen, I had to laugh.

  “Never have I seen someone so eager to face a needle. And it’s a big needle.” Not to discourage her, but maybe make her rethink the enthusiasm a bit.

  “That’s stupid. Why do I have to wait if I want to give blood? It’s my blood.”

  “You’re right. But the truth is, you probably don’t weigh enough yet, anyway. Enjoy your youth while you can.”

  “Well…” She grumbled under her breath as she picked up a paperweight from my desk and studied it. “Fine. But we could maybe sell t-shirts, too.” Her eagerness reignited. “I mean, after people donate, they find out what type they are, right?”