“Mom asked me to come get you for dinner.”
I expect attitude, so his look of dismay throws me. “It’s my fault they’re here.” Tossing his pencil down, he pushes up from the desk.
“How’s that?”
“They called here a few days ago. I thought they knew, and I said something about Taylor’s rehab and how I couldn’t wait until Sunday when she can have visitors.” He shrugs. “Totally lame.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“Grandpa…he was mad at Mom when they came in. I don’t get it.”
“It’s complicated, Michael, but there’s a reason we live here in California instead of Indiana. Your mom…well…it’s complicated.”
He turns off his desk lamp and follows me. “Where were you last night?” There it is, the attitude I’ve grown accustomed to.
“That’s complicated too.”
“Yeah, whatever.”
We both fall silent when we enter the dining room and take our usual places at the table. Richard and Marlene are seated on one side, Corey at the end. A church casserole sits on a trivet surrounded by a few side dishes. I should ask Richard to lead us in prayer, but I’m not opening that door. Instead, I do the honors.
While Corey serves up the casserole, I scramble for something to say. Keep the focus on them, because there are no safe topics on our end. “So, where are you two staying?”
“Here, of course.” Richard takes his plate from Corey.
“They’re…um…” Corey waves the serving spoon in the direction of the hallway and a chunk of noodles plops onto the table. “They’re going to stay in Taylor’s room.”
“Taylor’s room?” I look at Corey. Is she insane? The strain in her eyes tells me it’s not her idea. “She’s just got that old double bed in there. You two would be more comfortable at a hotel.”
Marlene touches Richard’s hand. “Paul’s right, sweetheart. Besides, I’m sure they don’t need us underfoot here.”
“Underfoot?” Richard’s gray caterpillar eyebrows shoot up. “We’re family for crying out loud.” He rakes his eyes to Corey then to me. “What’s going on here, anyway? What is it you’re hiding? First the lies about Taylor’s accident, now this.”
“Richard.” Marlene’s tone is sharp.
Michael hunches over his food, no eye contact. Smart boy.
“We told you, Dad. We didn’t want to worry you.” Do they hear the strain in Corey’s voice?
Richard’s not buying it. His black and white mentality leaves no wiggle room.
I clear my throat. “We’re sorry as we can be that you were hurt by this. That’s the last thing in the world we wanted to do. Corey’s trying to do the right thing here, even if you don’t like her methods. Taylor will be just fine. I promise you that. But Corey’s under enough strain dealing with Tay’s rehab.” Would he get the point?
“We shouldn’t have come without calling first,” Marlene says. “We’re happy to stay in a hotel tonight.”
“But we’re not flying home.” Richard pounds a fist on the table. “Not until we can see our granddaughter.”
It can’t be soon enough for me.
* * *
Corey
Why is it some people can lie with every breath they take and come out on top? Not me. No. I just dig myself into a deep well of a hole. If Paul hadn’t stepped in…
But he did. Hope worms its way into my soul. Does this mean he forgives me? He must, or why else would he be so quick to jump to my defense? The lead ball that’s been growing in my stomach eases up a bit.
Hotel arrangements made, my parents leave, and I sigh in relief. Michael escapes to his room using homework as an excuse, and Paul mumbles something about work and retreats into his office. Should I follow and see if he’ll talk to me? Better to not push. Maybe when he comes to bed…
I check my emails: one from Tess prodding me to accept the team-teaching assignment, and one from Tricia. What’s the latest scoop, she wants to know? Too much to convey in an email. I’ll call her on my way to the hospital tomorrow. I finish up the dinner dishes, wipe down the counters, and refill Rambo’s water dish.
Before heading to bed, I knock on Michael’s bedroom door.
A muffled, “Yeah?”
I poke my head in. “What are you doing?” Silly question, since he’s sitting on the floor, back against the bed, book propped on his knees. The answer’s obvious.
He lets the book drop. “I’m sorry.”
“About?”
“Grandpa.” He groans. “You should’ve told me you were keeping it a secret.”
I pull the desk chair out and sit, the hardwood seat a rude reminder of my age. How does he focus in this thing? “I didn’t mean to keep it a secret.” Another lie? “Okay, maybe I did. It’s just…Grandpa can be—”
“A jerk,” Michael supplies.
Mental cringe. “Respect, bud. He’s your grandfather.”
“Has he always been so, I don’t know, harsh?”
“Always.”
“How does Grandma stand it?”
Good question. “I think she knows how to handle him. After forty-some odd years, she should.”
“You think they’ll really stay until they can see Taylor?”
“Afraid so.”
He nods and picks up his book again.
“What’re you reading?”
He holds it up so I can see the cover. “To Kill a Mockingbird.”
“Great book.”
“You’ve read it?”
“Sophomore year of high school, just like you.”
He smirks. “I didn’t realize it was that old.”
“Funny.” I stand and take a swat at his head, but he ducks. “On that note, I think I’ll turn in. See you in the morning.”
A half hour later, I’m tucked into bed with Rambo by my side, trying to focus on my own book. Every noise outside the bedroom door has my heart jumping. When will Paul come in? What if he doesn’t? He wouldn’t sleep in his office, would he? But the door opens, and he slips through, closing it again. A drum corps does a solo in my chest, and it’s hard to breathe.
“Hi.” All I’ve got is a weak olive branch. Will he accept it?
He crosses the room and sits on the end of the bed to remove his shoes. “Figured you’d be asleep by now.”
Well, that’s not promising. “I…I thought we could talk.”
Big sigh. “There’s nothing to talk about. Not yet, anyway.”
“But,” I swallow down the lump in my throat, “I just thought, after tonight…”
He stands and turns to look at me. “One has nothing to do with the other.”
Tears burn my eyes. “Look, Paul, can’t we talk about this? I mean, give me a chance to explain.”
“Explain what?” He throws his hands up. “Explain how you didn’t want to marry me, so you slept with some…stranger…and then married me anyway?”
“It’s not—”
“Explain that the daughter I’ve always thought was mine, isn’t? Or that you’ve been lying to me for eighteen years?”
“It’s not like that. You’re twisting—”
“I’m twisting? Seriously, Corey?” With each word, he yanks at a button on his shirt, jaw muscles tightening. “That one lie’s made everything that followed a lie. Everything.”
“No.” Tears spill over and I swipe at them. “It’s not like that.”
“And how are you going to explain it to Taylor? Have you thought of that?” Balling up the shirt, he throws it into the corner with enough force to expel a grunt.
“Of course.”
“And Michael? You don’t think that this isn’t going to get back to him? Or maybe you think you can hide this from him like you have from all of us.”
Each word he hurls at me is another link in a chain of bondage. There is no freedom in truth.
“We can get through this, Paul.” But I’m pleading in vain. I’m dead to him.
“If you didn’t want to marry me,
then why the did you?” He snatches a pillow from the bed, then marches to the door and yanks it open. “I’m going to sleep on the couch.”
“Wait.” I scramble from the bed, tripping over the covers, and grab his arm, my nails biting into his bicep.
“I don’t even know you.” Yanking his arm from my grasp, he pins me with such a look of loathing, it forces me back, then he slams out of the room.
I drop my head on the closed door, a sob rising up my throat. “I don’t know you, either.”
Chapter 18
Corey
When I was seven or eight, I went with my brother Brian to the corner store to pick up something Mom needed for dinner. Sitting outside the store was a kid with a cardboard box and a sign that said FREE KITTENS written in big, black marker. Natural shyness forgotten, I rushed to the box to peer inside. There was one left.
“Can I hold it?” I asked.
“He’s a boy,” the kid said.
Brian grabbed my arm. “Don’t do it.”
But I was smitten. Little black fluff, blue eyes, pink nose. I kissed him on the head and inhaled kitty smells. His heartbeat against my hand, engine-revving purr rumbling against my chest. I’d never wanted anything more. How could Mom and Dad say no? And so I ignored Brian’s warning and tucked Prince, as I named him, under my jacket.
“Better give him back,” Brian said. “Dad’ll never let you keep him.”
My father didn’t even look at Prince, just told me to return him. “A lesson in asking permission.”
I pleaded with him, but it did no good.
“You take that animal back where you got it.”
How could he look at Prince and not see what I did? Heart breaking, I positioned the kitty under my arm and started for the door.
“And Coraline?” He’d changed his mind. I knew he would. “Don’t come home with that cat. If the boy is no longer there, find another home for it.”
By the time I got back to the store, cursing my father under my breath, tears streaming down my cheeks, the kid was gone, along with his box and sign. Now what?
I stood outside the store for what seemed like forever and asked everyone going in, and again coming out, if they wanted a free kitten. But no one did. Prince was getting cranky, and so was I. It was getting late, the sun dropping behind the store, streetlights coming on. My stomach reminded me it was dinner time. Although it was getting cold, Prince’s fluff was damp in my sweaty hands, his mews growing more insistent by the minute.
What would Dad do if I couldn’t find a home for Prince?
Crazy Charlie, who lived at the end of Cherry Lane, had a big orange cat named Tasha. The kids at school swore that whenever she delivered a litter of kittens, he drowned them. Dad wouldn’t do something that cruel, would he?
I couldn’t take any chances.
Walking the long way home, I stopped at the first house that had lights on inside. The grass was surrounded by a white picket fence, and there were kids’ toys scattered around. A bicycle lay on its side next to a tricycle, a four-square ball, and a red bucket.
I unlatched the gate, crouched low, and ran up the walkway. After kissing Prince on the head, I whispered, “You stay. I bet nice people live here.” Then I set him on the black welcome mat, rang the doorbell, and ran as fast as I could down the brick walkway. My jacket got caught on the gate latch, but I tugged it loose and kept going.
When I got home, Dad asked if I’d returned the kitten. I said I had. But I couldn’t eat my dinner. What if no one answered the door and Prince wandered onto the street? He could get killed by a car. Or a bigger cat. Or maybe Crazy Charlie would find him and drown him, just like he did Tasha’s kittens.
By the time I was ready for bed, I was sure Prince had met some horrible fate, and it was all my fault.
“I know you wanted that kitten, Coraline,” Dad said as he kissed me goodnight. “But it’s better to learn early that we don’t always get what we want in life.”
All the worry over Prince came bursting out of me. “Oh, Daddy. I lied.”
“What?” He pulled back, his face stern. “What are you talking about?”
“No one would take Prince,” I sobbed. “I left him on a doorstep and ran.”
He shook his head and sighed. Somehow, he’d make it all better, wouldn’t he? “A harder lesson to learn than asking for permission is living with consequences. Remember this the next time you do something foolish. You’re not the only one who could get hurt.”
That lesson took root in my soul. But a deeper reality hit me when I was old enough to understand it—don’t expect grace and forgiveness in the wake of foolish mistakes.
The foolish mistakes I’d made as a child paled when compared to that fateful night I questioned my decision to marry Paul. Somehow, I forgot that first lesson. But the second? If I couldn’t be forgiven for Prince, how could I expect to be forgiven for a selfish night of oblivion?
Regardless of what Paul might say, I’ve never been good at lying. Burying my head in the sand, yes. I’ve honed that to an art form. A flock of ostriches have nothing on me. Rather than confess that sin and plead forgiveness, I’d chosen to ignore it.
So why did I marry Paul? The truth of it is too painful to face, let alone share with my husband. I ponder this on the drive down to Sacramento, Michael in the passenger seat, my parents following in their rental car. For once, I don’t resent the ear buds in my son’s ears, making conversation impossible. Today, it’s an answer to prayer.
Another answer to prayer is Paul’s absence. Church was his excuse. And I’m grateful, because I don’t have to fake it in front of my parents. Faking it is just another form of lying.
Parking is a cinch today. Although Sunday is visitor’s day, there are few cars clogging the covered garage. The first Sunday we were here, I was relieved that there wouldn’t be the usual parking chaos, until we walked into the hospital. It was as quiet as a funeral. Where were the other patients’ families? Aside from some old man yelling, “I gotta go pee. Help me. Someone. I gotta go pee,” there was little activity. A skeletal nursing crew, no therapists, no doctors, no schedules.
I lead my parents down the long entry hall. Mom has packages, gifts for Taylor, dangling from one arm. The fire-engine red and sunflower yellow bags clash with the hospital-worn colors of faded green and industrial gray.
Michael forgets to be cool and rushes ahead to be the first in Taylor’s room, holding the camera around his neck so it doesn’t bounce.
“Good morning, Mrs. Shaffer,” a nurse greets from behind the reception desk. “We’ve been keeping a close eye on your girl today.”
“Hi, Erica. How’s she doing this morning?”
She grins. “Chatty.”
Is she kidding? “You’re not serious.”
Her eyebrows shoot up. “I’m totally serious. She demanded breakfast early.”
Anxious to get to Taylor’s room, I make quick introductions.
“When will she be released?” Dad looks at the worn green decor with the same distaste I imagine he’d view prison walls.
“We don’t know yet. They can’t assess her until she’s talking.” Which might change now. I quicken my steps.
Mom tugs on my arm, halting my progress. “Will she know us?”
I wrap an arm around her shoulders. “I don’t know, Mom. It’s just been recently that she’s recognized us.”
“Well, let’s get in there and find out,” Dad grumbles.
Taylor, her back to the door, sits in her wheelchair facing Michael, who’s made himself comfortable on her bed. The room, which appears larger since the removal of the cage over her bed, has morphed over the last couple weeks. Pictures of family and friends fill the cork board above her desk. Stuffed animals and art supplies crowd the surface.
Michael holds up his camera. “What’s this?”
Taylor’s shoulders hunch up in a shrug. “I don’t know.”
“Sure you do. I take pictures with it.”
“Cards
?”
He rolls his eyes. “It’s a camera, Tay.”
“It’s a camera, Tay,” she repeats.
“Taylor?” I take an arm of each of my seemingly reluctant parents and walk them forward. They demanded to see Taylor, now they’re hesitant?
Michael hops off the bed and spins Taylor’s chair around so she’s facing us. Her neck brace is gone.
Walking up to her, I touch her hair. “Hi, Tay.”
“Hi, Mom.” Will I ever get tired of hearing her voice?
“Do you know these people?” I point to my parents.
“Hi, Tay-Tay.” Mom drops her packages and kneels in front of Taylor, unmindful of her peach slacks. “You look beautiful.”
Taylor smiles at Mom, then looks up until her eyes latch onto Dad standing military straight. Visits with the grandparents have been few and far between, so I don’t expect much. “Grouchy Grandpa,” she says, pointing to him.
Michael’s laughter barks out from behind Taylor.
I hold my breath, unsure of Dad’s response, and catch Mom’s eyes. He’ll be offended, and rightly so. How will I explain the nickname the kids thought up years ago?
“That’s right, granddaughter.” Dad’s eyes light up with laughter. “Grouchy Grandpa.”
* * *
Paul
The rehabilitation hospital is as quiet as a church when I step into the entry hall late in the afternoon. One short text from Corey and I know she’s heading for the airport to see her parents off. I somehow managed to dodge that bullet. Even so, I can’t help the slice of guilt that cuts me. I didn’t have her back this morning. That’s not how we operate. Operated.
I can’t reconcile the two Coreys—like an internal before and after picture. Except, as I studied our wedding picture late last night—or maybe it was early this morning—it hit me. It’s not all internal. The Corey I remember from Wheaton College was…audacious. She exuded vibrancy, a passion for life that I haven’t seen since. Maybe I could have believed the drudgery of marriage was the catalyst for change—until I studied that picture. Even then, on our wedding day, something was different.
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