Sticks and Stones (The Barn Church Series)

by Aaron D. Gansky

  “Now that that’s over, let’s clean up your face a little before they move you to your room. Okay?”

  A damp, warm cloth bathed her cheeks and throat.

  “You know, sometimes I go to The Barn Church with my aunt. When I saw the name on your chart I knew it was you, and I had to say something. I’ve heard you sing, Mrs. Matthews. I’m not sure about God and all, but many Sundays I go to church just to hear you sing. Somehow your voice coats me with peace.”

  She wanted to say thank you, but the thought ended on a wince when pain surged from her injured arm. She could barely turn her head toward that side.

  “You’re getting feeling back, aren’t you—I can see it on your face. I’ve got an icepack right here. Dr. Chang let your husband know you’re out of surgery. You have such a lovely family; I’ve seen them sitting with you on Sundays. I bet they’ll miss hearing your beautiful voice. But don’t worry. You’ll be singing again in no time.”

  ***

  Rachel Matthews, Mrs. Tate’s third period English class:

  Thursday, May 1:

  I have been told to keep a journal. To express my deepest feelings—like anyone really cares.

  I’ve also been told that even though I have to turn this in at school, my mother will never see it. Otherwise, I wouldn’t do it.

  But it’s either this, or my mother will be told how close I am to failing eighth grade English.

  So, fine. Here goes.

  I wish I wasn’t built like my mother.

  And I hate middle school. It’s all of these girls who are prettier than me. Thinner. Or cute. There must be a farm that grows petite, bouncing blondes, and ships them right to my middle school, where they all become cheerleaders.

  The boys are worse. Especially if they shave. Stupid eighth graders who think they can get away with anything if they’re halfway through puberty and on the football team.

  But at least when I’m at school I get away from my mother and all her demands and drama.

  Hopefully I can spend most of the summer in the barn with my dad. Except I’ll have more chores this summer, because my older brother is leaving. He’s joined the military.

  And next fall life will begin again. At HIGH SCHOOL.

  Maybe I’ll join the chess club; no one talks there. Or better yet, I’ll join the debate team. Then everyone will have to listen to me for a change. Between the two, I could cut my time at home by five, six hours a week, maybe more.

  No. No, wait. I know what I’ll do. I’ll try out for the High School Choir.

  I wonder what would upset my mother more, if I actually make the choir, or if I don’t?

  She won’t care. The only singing she cares about is her own.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Pain, like none Julie had ever known, woke her from a fuzzy sleep.

  Through squinted eyes—make that eye because her left one wouldn’t open—she could see she was in a hospital room. And it was quiet. Too quiet for a jackhammer to be pounding in her head.

  She flexed an ankle. Her right wrist. She could swallow, though her throat felt like someone had pulled a cheese grater through it.

  She would have moaned, but could only huff.

  “Hey, you’re awake.” Rick leaned into her partial vision. “I’ll ring for the nurse.”

  His hand fumbled near hers on the bed. He pushed a button. Both ends of the bed seemed to rise simultaneously, sandwiching her in the middle.

  Stop! was the thing to say. Right now!

  But she couldn’t open her mouth. Her arms were too heavy to lift, and she couldn’t turn her head without feeling like she was giving birth out of her left ear.

  She tried to grunt at Rick, as her one, useable eye widened in panic. She was caught in the unmerciful jaws of a torturous contraption that was about to make her face and knees meet for the first time since middle school gym class.

  Ooohhh. The growl of frustration rumbled up from her lungs, but simply dissolved before hitting her tongue. The only option was to hold up a hand, the universal sign for “stop.”

  “I know,” he said. “Hold on.”

  Rick pushed another button. Which lowered her head. The blanket stopped at her shins, so now her legs were raised, and her thighs barely covered by the thin, atrocious hospital gown. Could these things possibly be any uglier?

  “Sorry, honey,” her husband said. “I’ll get the hang of this soon.”

  Hopefully. Before he broke her in half. Or she slid backward off the bed. Because she was indeed, slowly but surely, sliding off the head of the bed as the pressure in her skull built exponentially.

  Oh, God, please make him stop. Send an angel. Something.

  The curtain to her right ripped back. “Mr. Matthews, what are you doing to my patient?” The newcomer bustled to Julie’s good side, wagging her finger at Rick, and pushed the correct buttons.

  The bed continued to hum as Julie’s feet were graciously lowered, her pillow lovingly adjusted, so that she was simply propped up in bed. Heaven.

  “You’re not really well enough to put on a show for your husband.” The nurse jerked a thumb in Rick’s direction. “Or was it his idea?” Her huge, black eyes danced in her equally dark face.

  Julie glanced down with her good eye. The gown had hiked up to her waist, and her underwear was nowhere to be seen. Perfect. Now Rick and the nurse could see her fatty fatness.

  What was it Grandma used to say? Always make sure you’re wearing clean underwear when you go somewhere, because you never know when you might end up in the hospital. You wouldn’t want to be embarrassed by dirty underwear, now would you?

  How about no underwear?

  She stared at the nurse, imploring for help with her working eye. Please fix my gown.

  But it was Rick’s hand that touched her flabby stomach first. She jumped. Or she would have if she’d been able. As it was, she could only tense her bruised body—which really, really hurt.

  Her husband’s hand stilled.

  “Lift your bottom, sugar.” Kindness shone in the woman’s dark eyes. “Nurse Faye won’t let you hurt yourself. Hold on to the rail with your good arm. There you go.”

  Rick pulled the gown down to her thighs. Then he patted her knee and leaned closer to her face. He took her uninjured hand in his. “Do you remember what happened?”

  They had been riding—Rick’s idea. Tempo went nuts, kicked her in the––

  She couldn’t open her mouth to answer him.

  “I’ll be right back,” Faye said. “It’s time for some more pain medication in that IV.” She closed the curtain as she left.

  Julie’s left arm was in a cast. What day is it? She spelled slowly in sign language with her right hand, using what they’d both learned when Ben was small.

  “Saturday,” Rick said.

  The kids? she signed.

  “They came for a while yesterday, but I sent them home when we learned you’d be sleeping most of the day. Rachel’s got some big assignment she has to finish, and seeing you like this upset Ben.”

  He held her gaze as he slipped around the end of the bed and moved to her good side. Then he carefully sat on the edge of the mattress. “I don’t want to shake you.”

  Her entire body hurt so, so bad, it must have shown on her face.

  “I think the nurse is bringing something for the pain.”

  He brushed his fingers across her forehead. It was the same kind of soft stroke he would give any horse’s neck. Finally, here was the caretaker she needed, the one she had known and loved for nineteen years. The man was so gentle with horses. When he let that side of himself seep through, it simply melted her heart. Why didn’t he ever stay that way with her?

  He pulled back his hand. “How do you feel?”

  In pain! And fat. She turned away. Her entire body felt like it had been twisted into a knot, then beaten.

  Stinging tears leaked from her eyes. She had done everything right when Tempo was bitten. How, in this condition, would she be able to give
Sean a going-away party? Or finish painting the guest room before Mother arrived?

  The song. The producer! Disappointment quickened her tears. Truly, she hurt all over.

  She raised her uninjured hand. The left side of her face felt extremely swollen, hence, the unseeing eye. Cold metal bound her jaws together.

  “Your jaw is broken.”

  That’s what happened when you rode into a tree and got kicked by a horse. You got your mouth wired shut, and you ... couldn’t ... sing.

  Please, God, this can’t be happening.

  Her nose started to run. She looked back at Rick, her eye conveying a desperate message. Please wipe my face. Gently. Before snot runs into my mouth. She closed her lips over the metal as best she could—how would she possibly clean that up?

  Predictably, her husband simply sat there—waiting for what, she didn’t know—as snot ran over her protruding lips.

  Tissue she signed, and pointed to the box on a nearby shelf. Slowly, he handed them to her.

  She wiped her face, knowing that some things didn’t change. Rick moving quickly on anything was as likely as Julie’s own mother offering an apology or an encouraging word; it would never happen.

  She closed her eye and willed herself back to sleep.

  ***

  Two hours. Julie had been awake in the hospital bed for all of two hours after drinking her pitiful lunch, and already she was willing to trade it for a nice, comfy bed of nails.

  The sheets had surely been woven from sandspurs. The plastic-covered pillow crunched when she shifted her head. That ridiculous automatic blood pressure machine thing was still wrapped around her arm, a sadistic boa constrictor on a timer. Her choices on the television? Infomercials, Saturday cartoons, and news.

  Thankfully Rick had stepped out to make some calls while Nurse Faye helped her use the bedpan. Yet another delightful experience.

  “Your husband said you’d prefer red Jell-O to orange.” Faye adjusted the sheets. “Something about you throwing-up orange juice when you were pregnant with your youngest, and that you haven’t eaten anything orange since.”

  Julie nodded.

  “Then I’ll be right back,” she said.

  Night of the Orange Vomit. An event to remember.

  Julie had been hugely pregnant with Ben and very unhappy about it. Totally hormonal. Too fat to get comfortable in bed and too emotional to sleep. She and Rick stayed up to watch late-night talk shows, and because she craved it, she drank almost a half-gallon of orange juice. Tall glasses filled to the top with ice—drinking it made her teeth hurt. But she hadn’t cared. The feel of that chilled, thick sweetness going down her throat was so-o-o good.

  Until about five minutes later when it decided to come back up.

  She barely reached the bathroom before she hurled in the direction of the commode, but missed. Rick sat with her while she puked. Her hair was longer then, and he held it back for her while she wretched over the toilet. Then he helped her return to bed and tucked her in like a sick child.

  He had cleaned the bathroom while she slept, but that was the last time she remembered him babying her. Even the numerous times she’d been up all night caring for Ben.

  Rick returned to her room, pocketing his phone as he walked around the bed to her good side. “Hey.” He started to sit, then watched her, as if debating. He leaned forward and gently kissed her forehead. “I’m so sorry you’re hurt,” he whispered. His eyes glistened as he pulled the chair closer to her bed and sat.

  Did she have to be ill or injured to warrant tenderness from him?

  “Here we go.” Faye—what a sweetie—returned with two containers of red Jell-O water. “Hear about your horse yet?”

  “Yeah.” Rick accepted the plastic cups. “The vet’s taking care of her.”

  “I know you don’t want to leave your wife, but you should at least get something to eat. The crackers and ginger ale I brought you while she slept must be wearing thin.”

  He unwrapped a straw and met Julie’s gaze. “I’m fine. Here, baby.” He rested the straw against her lips.

  She wished he would stay like this, just like this, close and gentle.

  She sipped, laboriously sucking through her bound teeth. If consuming meals through a straw continued to be this difficult, she might actually lose a few pounds.

  A loud whistling caught her attention.

  “Hear that? It’s Dr. Wyman, your oral surgeon.” Faye raised the over-the-bed table and rolled it aside. “You can hear him a mile away. I’ll get your chart.”

  Julie turned her head toward the door. A Mr. Magoo clone wearing a knee-length lab coat crossed the threshold. He strode to her bedside and happily shrilled the last few bars of Billy Joel’s “You May Be Right.”

  “Mrs. Matthews! So glad to see you’re awake.” He clapped his hands and rubbed them together like an illusionist performing a magic trick. “And sitting up and drinking.” He winked at her. “Always a good sign. Dr. Chang was supposed to have given your husband a brochure about your imminent recovery journey. Do you have any questions for me?”

  She locked her gaze on Rick. It wasn’t like she could ask the doctor anything.

  Finally Rick cleared his throat. “Well, it looks like we’ve got about six weeks of liquid diet ahead of us. Which is about the same amount of time for her arm to heal.”

  “That’s right.” Dr. Magoo nodded. His saggy jowls shook after he nudged his horn-rim glasses back into place. “You two got a blender?”

  She looked at Rick. A blender?

  Rick took a slow-as-Christmas nose-breath.

  She fought the urge to snap her fingers. Speak, honey. For heaven’s sake, answer the man.

  Her husband cleared his throat. “When will she get her voice back?”

  “Get her voice back? Did someone take it?” He laughed, pounding on the bedrail with both hands.

  Julie wanted to scream. Maybe she could be sedated for the next several weeks. Knocked out, so she wouldn’t have to endure both the recovery and ... doctors like this one.

  Her bed continued to shake as Dr. Comic repeated his question. He laughed so hard he started coughing and had to pound his chest to stop the spasms. Julie almost expected a camera crew to step from the privacy curtains and reveal themselves as part of a ridiculous reality show.

  Dr. Wyman wiped his eyes with the backs of his hands. “I’m sorry,” he said in a high-pitched voice. “I’m sorry, I’ve been awake almost thirty-six hours straight, and I get a little punchy when I don’t sleep.” He straightened his polka-dot bowtie. “Now. Where were we?”

  Julie looked back at Rick, but he wasn’t looking at her. His head was bent, as if he was staring at the floor.

  The words “the answer isn’t there, honey” itched on the end of her tongue, but she didn’t want to try to sign that.

  He raised his head as if it took all of his strength, met her eyes with pity and despair. And Julie knew—her inability to speak wasn’t normal for someone with a broken jaw. Something was terribly wrong.

  “Dr. Wyman,” Rick said. “My wife can’t speak. She can’t make a sound.”

  The doctor’s brow furrowed all the way up his bald head as Faye returned and handed him Julie’s medical record. “What do you mean she can’t make a sound?”

  The nurse shrugged.

  “Why wasn’t I paged about this? Why wasn’t I notified?”

  Faye fisted her hands on her hips. “Many patients don’t like to talk for a couple of days after surgery because their throats are sore from the intubation.” Her eyebrows arched. “I figured the same for Mrs. Matthews since she’s been using sign language to communicate through her husband. She didn’t have to ask me for anything.”

  “Fair enough.” He nodded again, then looked at Julie. “Mrs. Matthews, I have no idea why you can’t speak. You should be able to, like a ventriloquist.” He parted his lips and clamped his teeth together to demonstrate. “Shee whud I nean? But I’m not the expert on vocal cords. Let’s call
one in, shall we?”

  Julie’s heart sputtered, an engine that had run out of gas, choking out its last burst of power as Dr. Wyman told Faye he’d consult an ear, nose, and throat specialist for a possible laryngoscopy or swallow test. Julie didn’t know what those were, but they sounded ominous enough. Tears came like a waterfall. Would she ever sing again?

  She closed her eye. God, please heal my voice.

  “Julie.” Rick put tissues in her hand, placed the box on her lap. His stubbled jaw met the uninjured side of her face.

  “I know you’re scared.” His words feathered down her neck. Her lips quivered, his tenderness making her lungs squeeze. He softly kissed her cheek—the gentle caress of a dandelion she wanted to hold forever but feared would die in her hand.

  She didn’t move. She couldn’t think, could barely breathe.

  “I know you don’t want any visitors, including Pastor Pierce and Laurie, because you don’t want anyone to see you like this.”

  He waited. Everything in her wanted to reach for him, but she was too afraid to move.

  He pulled away.

  “You go home and get some rest, Mr. Matthews. Or maybe find your favorite hat you said was lost when Mrs. Matthews was injured,” Faye said. “We’ll take care of her.”

  He pressed the TV remote into her hand. “The phone in the bedrail is turned off since you can’t answer it anyway. Your cell’s plugged into your charger on the nightstand—Sean brought it by this morning—in case you want to text me.” His boot heels rapped the hard floor as he walked away. “Afternoon, Faye. I’ll come back in the morning.”

  “Hmph,” Faye said. “I don’t know many husbands who would spend the night in a broken recliner like he did, just to be near their wife’s hospital bed while she slept. Wish I had one like that.”

  Julie kept her eyes closed, and wished she had one like that all the time, too.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Rick drove straight to the stables. Sean and Rachel had done the morning chores, fed and watered the horses, let several into the field to graze. Since his shirt smelled like rot and was ruined anyway—a two-day-old mixture of forest dirt, Julie’s blood, and his sweat—he threw it in the tack room’s garbage can and got to work.