Illusions

by Jennifer Sienes

  Was it guilt or resignation? Which is worse?

  I find Taylor napping on her cage-free bed. When did that happen? It must mean she’s mobile. And the missing neck brace? I would know that if I’d had a conversation with Corey that didn’t focus on the past.

  Taylor’s curled up in a fetal position, arms hugging a stuffed animal, feet encased in purple and pink toe socks.

  “Hi.”

  My gaze flies from Taylor’s feet to her face. Did she just initiate conversation? “Hi, sweetheart.”

  “See?” She holds out a stuffed bear clothed in what appears to be a yellow hospital gown, its head wrapped in gauze.

  Walking toward her bed, I reach for her offering. She’s talking. A miracle that rivals Jesus walking on water as far as I’m concerned. “Where did you get him?” I take it in my arms while she pushes up and sits cross-legged. What I want to do is dance an end-zone jig.

  “Don’t know.”

  “Does he have a name?”

  She nods. “Grouchy Grandpa.” The kids’ nickname for Richard.

  “Did you have lunch?”

  “Crispy olives.”

  “Crispy…what?” I laugh. “I think you’re confused.”

  “How’re we doing?” Erica stands in the doorway.

  I touch the bear to Taylor’s nose before giving it back. “She’s talking.”

  “There’s no stopping her now. I was telling your wife before she left that therapy will kick into gear now.”

  Taylor tugs the bandage off the bear’s head.

  “What was on the lunch menu?”

  Erica wrinkles her nose. “Why?”

  “Because Taylor said she had crispy olives.”

  She shakes her head and laughs. “No worries. We fed her real food. Spaghetti, salad, and garlic bread.”

  “So, crispy olives comes from where?”

  “We’ll never know. But get used to it. Her brain can’t retrieve the right words yet. That’ll change. Let me know if you need anything.”

  “Fix it.” Taylor holds the bear in one hand and the bandage in the other.

  “Okay, but you have to leave it alone if I do.” Deja vu hits like a two by four between the eyes. Taylor at three, dismembering one of her dolls and making the same demand.

  How is it possible she’s not my daughter? How many times have I heard, “She has your eyes”? And what about our shared personality traits? Proof that nurture wins over nature, or faulty lab results?

  “Fix it.” Taylor slaps my hand.

  “Did you see Grandma and Grandpa?”

  “Grouchy Grandpa.” She picks at a loose piece of skin on her lip. Her nails are bitten down to the quick. Since when?

  I pull her hand away from her mouth. “You biting your nails?”

  She shrugs.

  Okay, now what? I spot a thick newspaper on the desk—Sunday edition?

  “Want to read the comics?”

  She shrugs again, focused on chewing a nail.

  I snatch up the paper and flip through it until I find the colorful comic section. Sitting next to her on the bed, I take her hand from her mouth.

  “Stop it.” She slaps my hand and goes to town on another nail. It’s like three-year-old Taylor all over again. Strong willed and defiant.

  “It’s going to bleed if you keep that up. Look.” I pull her hand away again and wave the paper under her nose. “You like Garfield, don’t you?”

  We settle at the head of the bed, our backs against the wall. I lay the paper across both our laps and point to the pictures as I read the captions.

  What was I expecting? She’d one day wake from her stupor and be her old self? Maybe if I’d spent as much time with her as Corey, I’d be better prepared. I didn’t think we’d be raising her all over again.

  Would I trade Taylor for the wife I thought I was marrying? The virgin bride? If Corey hadn’t been pregnant, Taylor wouldn’t be here now. It hits me that I can’t have it both ways.

  I move onto Born Loser and Taylor lays her head on my shoulder. Before I’ve finished the comics, she’s sound asleep.

  Slipping from the bed, I ease her into a more comfortable position and cover her with a blanket. Aside from her size, she looks much like she did as a toddler. Acts like it, too. I fold up the paper and drop it where I found it before planting a kiss on Taylor’s forehead.

  My daughter.

  Whatever Corey did, this can’t be taken from me.

  Erica and another nurse—Holly? Polly? —stand behind the reception desk.

  I rap my knuckles on the desk. “It’s quiet around here.”

  “That it is,” Erica says. “Our patients work hard the rest of the week. It’s all they can do to handle visitors.”

  I glance around the empty room. “Doesn’t look like you’ve got many of those.”

  “It’s nice you and your wife broke up your visits today. Taylor had quite a bit of stimulation with your son and in-laws earlier.”

  “Yeah.” Might as well pretend it was intentional. “What’s with the nail biting. Is that new?”

  “Focus issues,” Polly or Holly says.

  Nail biting. Lip picking. Walking. Talking. What else have I missed?

  Pushing through the hospital door, I pull my cell phone from my pocket and thumb Corey’s number.

  “Paul?” Corey sounds hesitant.

  “Have you started dinner yet?”

  “Uh, no. Will you be home?” What’s in her voice? Sarcasm? Resentment?

  “Let’s go out. We need to talk.”

  Chapter 19

  Corey

  Wind and rain pelts the bedroom window, dreary gray light peeking through the blinds. I bury my head deeper beneath the covers, no energy to face the day after a sleepless night. I don’t have to reach across the bed to know it’s empty. Even with Paul’s cold presence last night, his absence leaves a profound ache. Will we ever move past this? Is it even possible?

  “Hey, Mom?” Michael raps on the bedroom door.

  I force enthusiasm into my tone. “Yeah, kiddo. What’s up?”

  “Can I come in?”

  “Um…yeah.” I push the covers back and sit up. Goosebumps skitter across my bare arms.

  Michael enters, his usual baggy jeans absent. Instead, he’s wearing a pair of khakis he got for Christmas and a dark blue sweater. “Oh. Thought you were already up. You feeling okay?”

  “What’s with the G.Q. look?”

  He shrugs. “Ran out of clean clothes.”

  “Remind me to forget the laundry more often.” I yawn and rub the sleep from my eyes. “What’s up?”

  “I’m leaving early for school. Make up test. I’m working at the Pit ’n’ Stop this afternoon, so I’ll be late.”

  “Khakis and grease don’t mix, you know.”

  “I’ll change before heading over.” He hitches his chin at me. “You going to see Taylor today?”

  “I’m going by school first. Mr. Hamilton wants to see me.”

  Michael smirks. “Getting called to the principal’s office, huh? What’d you do?”

  “You’re a regular Bob Hope.”

  “Who?”

  “Oh, come on!”

  “Kidding,” he sing-songs. “Anyway, I left a couple CDs on the table for Taylor. Thought she should remember what music sounds like.”

  “I’ll make sure she gets them.”

  Once he’s gone, the house is bathed in eerie silence. I hurry through my shower, then dig deep into my closet to find something presentable to wear. Before leaving the house, I throw a load of laundry into the washer and lock Rambo in the garage. White dog and a muddy backyard mix as well as khakis and grease. My stomach rumbles, but there’s no time to fix breakfast. Starbucks it is.

  I pull into the school parking lot and sit for a moment while rain drums on the roof of my car. Mr. Hamilton’s going to want an answer regarding the team-teaching assignment, but I don’t have one. My heart tells me, “Take it,” but my head isn’t on board. I haven’t
even talked to Paul about it yet, so how can I make a unilateral decision?

  With a sigh, I throw open the car door and make a dash for the office.

  “Hey, Val.” I push a strand of damp hair from my face while water drips off my raincoat.

  Val looks up from her work, lacquered dark hair, model perfect makeup. The only woman I’ve known to wear false eyelashes. “Hey, girl. Mr. Hamilton said you’d be coming in this morning. He’s down at the bus stop but’ll be up in a minute. You can wait here or go the to the staff room, if you want.”

  “I’ll wait here.” I peel off my coat and groan at my water-logged shoes. An umbrella would have been a good idea. I peruse the bulletin board tacked to the wall and the sign-in sheet for late arrivals, listening as Val answers two phone calls, until Mr. Hamilton arrives. The hint of a scent prevalent in every school I’ve ever been in takes me back to childhood. Is it old books or musty kid-bodies?

  “Good morning, Corey.” Mr. Hamilton is as wide as he is tall, gray fringe surrounding a bald pate, full beard and mustache to rival Santa Clause’s. “Let’s go back to my office, shall we?”

  I follow him down a narrow hallway and we enter his chaotic office. I was told that it was the staff room years ago, long before he became principal. It was a time when teachers were allowed to smoke on campus. A faint whiff of tobacco lingers, or maybe it’s just my imagination on overtime. Now it looks more like an archeological dig site, with the skeletons of small animals taking up prominent space on books shelves. His strategy to gain a psychological edge over his students? Or maybe the former science teacher in him isn’t yet laid to rest.

  “Tell me, how’s Taylor doing?” He indicates I should sit with a wave of his hand before positioning himself behind his desk.

  “She’s coming along.”

  “Will she be returning to school soon?”

  “It’s possible, although I’m not sure she’ll be able to graduate in June with her class. I’m meeting Mrs. Kendall on Wednesday.”

  He nods, bushy brows lowering over baggy eyes. “Well, some of the teachers have been holding a prayer session before school each day. Taylor’s at the top of our list.”

  I’m warmed by his words. With the separation of church and state, prayer in a public school is discouraged. “We…Paul and I…appreciate that. If you could pass that on.”

  “Will do. So, then…” He slaps an open palm on the desk. “Tess Holland tells me you’re considering the team-teaching assignment for next school year. Just wanted you to know that we’d love to have you on board. I’ve been trying to find a way to finagle you onto our staff for some time now.”

  “I…wow.” I clear my throat of the lump that rises. With Paul’s defection, every kindness is a gift. “I’m sure you understand that it’s been hectic at home. With Paul juggling his pastoral duties and me practically living at the hospital.”

  He nods. “I’m not pushing you for an answer, Corey.”

  An uncomfortable laugh slips. “Good, because I don’t have one for you. I haven’t even had a chance to discuss this with Paul yet. I’d love to say I’ll take the position, but until I know what Taylor’s needs will be…” And if my marriage will survive.

  “I understand.” He slaps his hand on the desk again. “Well, I don’t want to keep you. Just let us know if there’s anything we can do to convince you to take the position.”

  I brave the rain to reach my car, start the engine, and sit. I thought I’d have a chance to raise the topic at dinner last night, but Paul’s agenda had been set.

  Bella Cucina had been moderately busy for a Sunday night. My stomach revolted at the thought of eating the anti-pasta the waitress deposited on the table as an appetizer. Was Paul going to grill me about the past? Ask me for a divorce? No, his place in the community trumped a faithless wife.

  “What’ll you have?” He sat across from me in the red vinyl booth, head buried in the menu.

  I fingered my own menu. Aromas that were tantalizing the last time we were here only made my stomach turn. “Minestrone soup.”

  “Soup?” He looked at me then, eyes widening. “Since when do you have soup here?”

  There was no sense telling him I couldn’t stomach more. I’d just be opening myself up for some sarcastic comment on how I made my own bed, something my dad used to say, too. “I’m not very hungry.”

  The waitress materialized in a white blouse, black apron, and black slacks. I didn’t recognize her and vaguely wondered if she was new. She couldn’t have been much older than Taylor. Paul ordered for both of us and she collected our menus, leaving us with nothing to focus on but each other.

  Paul folded his hands on the table. “Good to hear Taylor talking again, isn’t it?”

  Was this a truce, then? I nodded and waited. We could have had this conversation at home. There was sure to be more.

  “Taylor,” he cleared his throat. “Is there any way those lab results could be wrong?”

  How I wish I could tell him yes. But then, it wouldn’t change the real issue here. “Would that change how you feel about me right now?”

  “At least I’d know she’s my daughter.”

  Foolish man. Couldn’t he see the truth of it? “She’s your daughter regardless of what the lab results say. How can you think anything else? You’ve raised her and she adores you. If it hadn’t been for that test—”

  “It would have come out anyway. If she hadn’t been in that accident, she would have donated blood. Did you think you could just keep this a secret forever?”

  “How many times do I have to tell you?” I leaned forward and lowered my voice. “I. Didn’t. Know.”

  Paul mirrored my position. “You didn’t know you cheated on me?”

  I clenched my fist. Better that than slapping him, which is what I itched to do. Slap that smug look right off his face. The thought stole my breath. This was not me, tempted to enact violence on my own husband, or anyone, for that matter. “I didn’t know I was pregnant, Paul. It never entered my mind that it could be possible.”

  “And when you discovered that you were? Did it enter your mind then?” The muscles in his jaw tightened, a sure sign of his tested temper.

  “No.” But that wasn’t completely true. I’d refused to believe it. It was easier to play the ostrich card. “Not…not for long. It was too hideous to imagine.”

  “Here we are.” The waitress’s cheery disposition, juxtaposed against our agony, was jarring. It was as if the world around us had disappeared to black and white, and now the chatter, laughter and clinking of dinnerware exploded around us in full color.

  I didn’t dare lift my tear-filled eyes from my minestrone soup. The scents and steam wafting from it bathed my face in moisture. There was no way I could choke down a bite. Could Paul? Dipping my spoon in and swirling the broth, I stalled for some direction from him.

  With a weary, resigned tone, Paul said, “I don’t know how we can resolve this, Corey.”

  So, he did want a divorce.

  “I’m…I’m trying to find forgiveness. I know it’s what I’m supposed to do.” He sounded like a petulant child being forced to use good manners.

  Is this the way our life would be from now on?

  “But I need more time.”

  “And until then?” Would we live in limbo, him gone every night, me crying myself to sleep?

  “Let’s just take it one day at a time.”

  We suffered the rest of our meal in silence. It wasn’t until we stood to leave that I became aware of Alexis Andrews in the booth behind me.

  Chapter 20

  Paul

  There have been seasons in my life where I’ve put my feelings on hold. Emotionally stunted. The year my mom fought and lost her battle with breast cancer. I’d been thirteen, Justine only ten. Twenty years later when my dad killed himself. The official diagnosis was cirrhosis of the liver, but we knew it was a slow and steady choice to die.

  And now.

  It’s in these times it hurts too
much to feel. I go into my “nothing box” as Corey likes to call it—a place where I can function without thinking. I return phone calls and emails. I write inspirational messages even when I’m spiritually bankrupt. I focus on the required mundane tasks without letting on that my personal life is falling apart.

  Corey and I are merely cohabiting.

  “I went to see John and Beverly last night.” Mark tosses his legal pad on my desk and sits. “Looks like he’ll be going into rehab today.”

  Opening my iPad, I shake my head at the Post-It notes lined up along the edge—dutiful soldiers awaiting their orders. “Maybe he’ll end up in the same place as Taylor. Then I can visit them at the same time.”

  “Any word on when she’s coming home?”

  I grin. “Today.”

  Mark’s eyes pop open. “Today?”

  “Just for the night. We wanted her home for Easter. I’ll drive her back down tomorrow evening. If all goes well, possibly next weekend for good.”

  The door flies open and Becky, face flushed, rushes in. “Sorry I’m late.”

  I wave her to the empty chair next to Mark. “No problem. We haven’t started yet.”

  “Can we make it quick? I have lots to do to be ready for tomorrow.”

  “We’ll start with you, then. Are the kids ready?”

  “Yes.” The one word is infused with enthusiasm. Just what we need in our children’s ministry leader. “Or they will be by tomorrow. We have one more practice in,” she checks her watch, “about forty-five minutes.”

  Mark’s eyebrows shoot up. “How’d you get all those parents to bring their kids in today?”

  She blinks. “I asked.” Then a grin bursts forth. “And threatened. Every parent wants their child to be the best in the program. No practice, no performance.”

  He snorts. “Wish that approach worked with everyone.”

  “You just have to know how to charm them,” Becky says.