She glared at me.
“A hat?”
We settled on a scarf tied gypsy-style. I heated up her curling iron and created magic. An overstatement, but it passed muster with Taylor, so that’s all that mattered.
We’d gathered up a grumbling Michael and run out the door only five minutes late. Not bad.
Now, as we walk across the foyer, the noise level explodes for a brief moment. Someone must have exited the sanctuary.
“Taylor?”
With a protective arm around my daughter, I turn to face Alexis Andrews looking like a runway fashion model. How does she stay so thin? Hair and makeup impeccable as usual. I’d love to have seen how she handled Josh’s infancy. Baby puke on her shoulder, in her hair. Just the thought of it brings some kind of sick satisfaction.
“What are you doing here?” The question is out before I can filter it through my pastor-wife persona. My face heats and I pull my foot out of my mouth. “I mean, I thought you were no longer attending here.”
She cocks a penciled eyebrow. “I haven’t quite found my niche yet.” Her eyes travel over Taylor. “You look wonderful, Taylor.”
Taylor smiles and pats her thighs. “Yeah. My shirt matches my toys.”
A snort escapes through my nose as Alexis’s eyebrows draw together in confusion.
“Your…toys?”
“Leggings, sweetie,” I whisper to Taylor, the smile still pulling at the corners of my mouth as Michael barrels through the door.
“Can we go now?” He scowls at Alexis, so like Paul. What is the deal with this chick, as Tricia dubbed her?
“Just one moment.” Alexis rests acrylic-covered nails on Taylor’s arm. “Are you home now? I know Josh would love to see you.”
Taylor turns panic-stricken eyes on me.
“A weekend visit,” I tell Alexis. “It might be better if Josh waits until Taylor calls him. She’s a little overwhelmed right now. Let’s go home guys.”
Michael takes Taylor’s other arm, and we turn to leave when the doors open again. Paul, mouth set, charges out as if the hounds of hell are on his heels. He passes Alexis with a brief glance and encompasses us with outstretched arms.
“Are you going to take Taylor home now?” It’s a command couched in what? Concern? Anger? “I’ll be there soon, and we can drive her back down to the hospital.”
Paul in manipulation mode. He wants me out of here. I’d fight it just on principle, but Taylor would pay the price. And what’s with the show? Tender kiss on the cheek, squeeze of the shoulder? I’m not the only one with secrets lurking in my past. Or is it his past? Does Alexis have anything to do with his present?
I think back to the night at Bella Cucina. Alexis in the booth behind us. Did she hear anything? If so, she knows that Taylor isn’t Paul’s daughter. And if that’s true, it won’t be long before it’s spread all over town. It won’t matter if Taylor remembers the day of her accident or not.
What was it Benjamin Franklin said? Three can keep a secret if two of them are dead.
Chapter 22
Corey
The week has been packed with therapy “benchmarks” to assess Taylor’s readiness to come home. Seven weeks of one step forward and two steps back hasn’t changed in these last five days. So, when it comes time for Dr. Holland to do her final evaluation the day Taylor is to be released, I find it impossible to take a full breath.
“We would generally refer Taylor to another six-week occupational rehab facility,” Veronica told me earlier in the week. “But most young people in Taylor’s situation are not being returned to a healthy home life. She not only has that going for her, but you have experience in the classroom.” She smiles. “Nora’s felt a little intimidated on the days you sit in on her therapy.”
“Intimidated?” I laughed. “By me?” That’s a first. But somewhere deep inside, it felt good. Pastor Paul intimidates by virtue of his position. Not me. I’m just the housewife. I suspect it’s one of the reasons Taylor connected so early in her life with Paul. What kind of a role model was I to a young girl—unless she wanted to blend into the background?
But as I sit in the corner while Dr. Holland does her last assessment, I pray, I feel anything but intimidating. The chair bites into my butt cheeks as I perch on the edge, too keyed up to sit back and even attempt to pretend I’m relaxed. What if Taylor fails? What if they decide to keep her another week? Or worse, make her go to the other rehab facility for six weeks? Even Veronica, who recommends the facility all the time, said it wasn’t the best environment for someone like Taylor.
“More often than not,” she’d said, “these kids are doing something they shouldn’t be in the first place, which lands them in here. Driving under the influence of drugs or alcohol. They don’t handle the brain injury with Taylor’s sweet, smiley-faced disposition. They’re angry to start with, and the chemical imbalance of the injury doesn’t make it any better.”
It was our concern over what that environment would do to Taylor that had Paul fighting against it. It was my worry about Taylor’s memory returning while there that made me determined she’d come home.
And we won.
Taylor now paces back and forth in her room, a tub of yogurt in one hand, a spoon in the other. Dr. Holland rests her backside against the desk, clipboard in hand, taking notes after every question she fires at Taylor.
“Are you nervous about going home?”
“Uh-uh,” Taylor grunts around the spoon in her mouth. She licks it clean and continues the pacing. “Well. I guess a…little…bit. I can’t remember things. And Josh…he makes me feel weird.”
Dr. Holland makes eye contact with me before making a notation in the chart. We talked about this. The brain injury may cause difficulty with discernment. Taylor could perceive sexual advances where none exist, and it could repel her or attract her. Either way isn’t healthy. So, no Josh for a while—at least not unsupervised.
“Would you rather be admitted to another rehabilitation facility or go home?”
I don’t dare breathe for the moment it takes Taylor to answer. I asked Taylor this same question last week, and she assured me she wanted to come home. But will she remember?
“Home.” She dips her spoon in for another bite of the cherry-pink yogurt. “I don’t want…to be…with a bunch of…strange…strangers.”
“You realize you still need to attend therapy sessions twice a week.”
“There’s nothing wrong with me.”
“If that’s the case, then you should have no trouble putting your spoon where it belongs.”
Taylor looks at her spoon. “Okay.”
“Where does it go?”
“Dish thingy.” She waves it around. “You know. To be washed.”
Dr. Holland nods. “Why don’t you take it there then?”
Taylor looks around the room as if the dishwasher will appear out of thin air. She walks to the bathroom sink and deposits it.
“That’s not the dishwasher,” Dr. Holland says. “In what room do we keep the dishwasher?”
“With the fridgerator.”
“Where do we keep the refrigerator?”
Taylor walks over to her bed and places the spoon on the top of the fluorescent light fixture that tops the headboard. “There?”
Dr. Holland shakes her head. “Let me walk you to the kitchen. We’ll be right back, Mrs. Shaffer.”
When they’re out of sight, I reach into my purse for my cell phone and punch in Paul’s number.
“What’s up, Corey? Are they letting her come home?”
“I’m not sure yet. She just put her spoon on top of the light fixture. And I didn’t tell the doctor this, but when I first got here, she tried to brush her hair with a toothbrush.”
“At least she’s got the brush part down.”
Anyone listening to our conversation would never guess that we’ve fallen into the dysfunctional family category. Veronica wouldn’t be so quick to assume Taylor’s going back into a healthy home life when
it feels anything but. We’re polite. Cordial. But underneath the veneer of civility is a host of unspoken words—accusations and mistrust that, if allowed to reign, would spew out with the impact of a level 5 volcano.
“Well, give me a call when you know.”
“I wish you were here—” I bite off the rest. The resentment that he chose a staff meeting over being available for Taylor’s discharge. The resentment that he looks for any excuse not to be alone with me.
“It can’t be helped. I’ll pick up dinner tonight, so don’t worry about cooking.”
As if that makes up for it.
I disconnect without saying more. What else is there to say?
“…painted it a purple and green color.” Taylor’s voice floats down the hall before she’s visible. Is it my imagination or is she louder now?
“That sounds lovely,” the doctor says. “We’ll get you discharged lickety split, and you can sleep in your own bed tonight.”
I let out a sigh. She’s coming home after all. Thank You, God.
* * *
Paul picks up Chinese—a celebration for Taylor’s true homecoming—and I give Taylor her first assignment. Set the table.
She’s had this chore since she was four, but she looks at the utensils bundled in her hands as if she has no clue what to do with them.
I watch from the kitchen entrance, the scents of garlic chicken, hot oil sauce, and spices I can’t name wafting from the white take-out boxes sitting on the dining room table. My stomach rumbles. Did I forget to eat lunch today? “Do you remember which side the fork goes on?”
Spreading the forks, knives, and spoons on the table, she stares at them. Maybe a better question would be, “Do you know which are the forks?”
“We’re having Chinese.” She frowns. “Where’s the chopsticks?”
Okay, maybe I’m not giving her enough credit. “Are you up for the challenge?”
She nods once, an emphatic snap of her head. Every now and then, there are nuances of her toddler self I want to hold close to me. There’s no telling when it will come to an end, when she’ll recoup her almost-adultlike self.
Word got out, most likely through Michael, that Taylor would be coming home. There are a stack of phone messages for her. Of the six, three of them are from Josh. So much for waiting for Taylor to call him. But then, who knows if Alexis bothered to pass on the message.
The front door slams, Rambo gives a welcoming yip, and Michael storms in. What now? But when he appears in the dining room, he looks like he just won the lottery, grinning from ear to ear.
“Hey, Taylor.”
She glares at him. “Do you have to be so loud?”
“Sorry.” But he seems unfazed and not at all apologetic when he homes in on me. “Where’s Dad?”
Who are you and what have you done with my surly son? “Why?”
“I gotta show him something.” He waves an official-looking sheet of paper over his head.
Paul appears, rimless glasses pushed up on his head. “What’s up?”
“This.” Michael hands him the paper, standing close enough to read it along with Paul.
“This is great, Michael.” He clamps a hand around the nape of Michael’s neck and gives it an affectionate shake. “I knew you could do it.”
“What is it?” I take the sheet Paul holds out to me.
“Progress report,” Michael says.
Scanning the grades, my grin matches Michael’s. “Sweetie, this is outstanding.” Three A’s, three B’s and a C.
“Also,” Michael says, pulling something from his pocket and slapping it into Paul’s hand, “the first payment toward my restitution.”
Paul fans out the three twenties and nods. “Good job, son.”
“So.” Michael looks from Paul to me and back again, hands jammed into his jeans’ pockets. “Can we talk about SOCAPA?”
“What?” Paul shrugs, brows drawn down in confusion.
“Summer camp.”
Oh no. I should have seen this coming.
“I don’t get it,” Paul says. “What’s this to do with that camp thing?”
“Everything.” Michael’s grin slips. “You wanted me to get my grades up, so I did. You wanted me to start paying back that money.” He nods at the money in Paul’s hand. “There it is.”
“Michael’s going to summer camp?” Taylor stands in the entrance to the kitchen, an assortment of chop sticks in her hands.
Paul slips the money into Michael’s shirt pocket. “No. Michael’s not going to summer camp.” He’s addressing Taylor, but his eyes remain on Michael. “For one thing, we can’t afford it. And if you think you can make a token effort and get whatever you want—”
“Whatever I want? Are you kidding me?”
This will go nowhere fast. “Michael, let’s talk about this—”
“No, Corey.” Paul glares at me. “We’re not going to talk about this. We’ve already discussed it.”
“That’s so not fair.” Michael’s face reddens, jaw clenching. “If it was Taylor, it’d be different.”
“Fine.” Paul turns on Michael, his face every bit as red as his son’s. “You want to talk about Taylor? Let’s do that. Taylor didn’t go out and vandalize a school for no reason. Taylor’s had stellar grades—”
“Paul, stop!”
He turns on me. “He wants to talk about Taylor.” Then back to Michael. “Everything she’s worked for was lost with one stupid car accident. Thanks to your mom, she won’t even be graduating high school this year. You want to be like Taylor?”
Heat fills my face, nails biting into the palms of my hands. How dare he.
“I won’t…grad…graduate?” Taylor stands against the wall, tears swimming in her eyes, arms tight across her stomach.
“Mom?” Michael scowls. “What’s Mom got to do with it? It’s not her fault Taylor got in that accident.”
“That’s enough, Paul.” The words reverberate through the room, resulting in dead silence. My hands shake as I reach out for Taylor, anger thrumming through every nerve ending. I can’t look at my husband, can’t stomach his betrayal—a betrayal every bit as damaging as my own.
Wrapping an arm around Taylor, I hold her close and walk her to the table. “Everything will work out just fine with school, sweetie. I’ll make sure of it. I’m working with Mrs. Kendall, and we have some ideas.” I glance at Paul and Michael, so alike, so uncompromising and stubborn. And selfish.
With a deep breath, I will my tone to not belie the underlying violence. “Let’s eat. It is, after all, Taylor’s first night home.”
Chapter 23
Paul
The kink in my back’s a rude reminder of a sleepless night on the couch. Corey’s ticked. So much she’s not talking. Not even looking at me. How did the tables get turned? I’m the one who should be angry.
So why does guilt eat at me?
Up before the sun, I showered in the kids’ bathroom and threw on my clothes from yesterday. No way I was going to face the lioness in her den to get clean underwear. Then I snuck out of the house like a danged thief. My own house. Bought and paid for by the sweat of my father’s brow.
We should be celebrating. Taylor’s home. Michael’s grades are up. Instead, there’s a pall of darkness looming over us all. I kind of get how Job felt.
I park in front of Kent’s house and kill the engine. I called earlier to see if he could meet, and this was his idea. Modest home, well-tended yard. I recheck the address before climbing out. The scent of fresh-cut grass reminds me it’s spring as I approach the front porch.
The door flies open before I can knock. “Hey,” Kent says. “Right on time. Come on in. It’s a little crazy right now, but Cheryl’ll have the kids out the door in a jiff.”
“No problem.” I step inside to the cacophony of voices coming from somewhere beyond my vision. Boys’ voices superseded by that of a young girl.
The scents of coffee and bacon remind me that I left the house with my tail between my l
egs. No caffeine and no food.
“Let’s go to my office. It’ll be quieter there. Can I get you some coffee?”
Does my desperation show? “That’d be great.” I follow him into the kitchen and see remnants of breakfast on the kitchen table, dishes in the sink, cereal boxes on the counter.
“Milk? Sugar?”
“No, thanks.”
I wrap my hands around the full mug he gives me, while he clears off the table. “Appreciate you taking the time to meet with me.”
“Glad to do it. Here, have a seat.” He pulls out a chair for me. “Afraid this is my office. With four kids, we needed all the bedroom space we could get.”
“I don’t know how you manage four kids.” Life’s crazy enough with two. We settle at the table, and I take an appreciative sip of coffee.
A little girl with curly brown hair rushes in and stops short when she sees me. “Oh, hi.”
“Hi yourself.” She reminds me of Taylor when she was little. “What’s your name?”
“Ruthie. What’s yours?”
“Pastor Paul.” I offer my hand. “It’s nice to meet you Miss Ruthie.”
She giggles and puts her miniature hand in mine. Tight grip for such a little thing. Turning to Kent, she says, “Mom said to tell you we’re going now.” She throws her arms around his neck and gives him a loud kiss on the cheek.
“Okay. Have a good day, and learn something.”
She nods, curls bouncing. “ʼKay.” Then she rushes out the way she came in, pink pack bouncing against her back.
“My youngest,” he explains, “and only girl.”
I shake my head. “Three boys? Ever feel like a battle zone around here?”
“We have our moments.” He sips his coffee and waits like he’s got all the time in the world. The noise level escalates for a couple heartbeats, and then the house is silent except for the ticking of a clock and the hum of the refrigerator.
“I guess you’re wondering why I wanted to meet with you.”
Quirk of one eyebrow, but still he waits. Patient man. Enviable.
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