He shoveled horse manure and soiled bedding, lugged mountains of it out of the stables using a wheelbarrow. He hosed down half of the thirty-four stalls. Dropped fresh hay into each from the loft as the gentle Saturday afternoon traffic of boarder owners passed below, and shared greetings with those who lingered.
As always, when he finished the last stall he hung the pitchfork and shovel in their places, leaned the wheelbarrow against the concrete wall in the little niche beside the loft stairs. Then he took his customary stroll past the tidied stalls, enjoying the scent of fresh hay on the floors. If only cleaning up the mess between him and Julie was as simple.
He took a break, grabbed a bottled water from the tack room refrigerator. Sucked it down while he straightened the racks of saddles along the side wall, and enjoyed the warm smell of worn leather. His shoulders fell and he shook his head as exhaustion turned his blood to sludge.
Coffee. He needed coffee.
In the small kitchenette, someone had laid a lead rope on the counter in front of the automatic coffee pot. He draped the line over a peg on the wall and noted the burner still warming a half pot Sean had obviously left. He grabbed a mug from the overhead cupboard and poured, then sipped it black and hot, letting the thick brew scald all the way down.
The vet bill for Tempo sat on his desk—since the bite hadn’t been deep or into the meat, the horse would be fine in time. Rick didn’t want to look at the charges; numbers were Julie’s job. Or they had been before her accident. He flipped over the envelope, and remembered how she looked when he left her. Her skin pale against hospital sheets. Her battered face, and teeth stitched together with metal.
His stomach knotted at the way her limp body had sagged in his arms when he picked her up from the ground in the woods.
Rick drank the last drops, rinsed the cup and placed it in the drainer.
Despite their problems, despite their struggles, he was so very grateful she hadn’t died. Yes, there would be bills. Big ones from the vet, not to mention the hospital. But having to worry about paying bills was better than planning a funeral. How could he have faced the rest of his life without Julie?
He should take some positive action. Do something to help his marriage instead of standing back and watching it disintegrate. He needed to show Julie he was still following their plan, still willing to help her pursue her career, even if that career was delayed, yet again.
So he would add another desk, right here beside his in the tack room. He’d have to air out the space, install a small air conditioner in the window behind him—Julie hated the smell of old leather and new hay. They could set up her new computer. It still sat, along with new unopened programs, in the box in the guest room closet.
When Julie was well enough, she could transfer their financial information to the new system, and show him how to manage the business finances. Something he’d put off learning every time she mentioned it.
Hmm. Julie, leering over his shoulder as he pecked at the keyboard with two fingers and tried to update spread sheets and balance sheets. If their marriage survived that, it could survive anything.
But relieving her of that responsibility would get her one step closer to pursuing her dream. If she got her voice back.
No, not if. When. God wouldn’t let her voice be permanently taken this way, would he?
Rick reached for the radio and adjusted the volume as Johnny Cash sang about the line he walked. Loving a woman, being married, meant making adjustments and giving up some things, didn’t it? But did the sacrifice always have to be his dignity?
“Mr. Matthews?”
Fully expecting to find a familiar client in the doorway, Rick reached for a towel off the shelf and turned, wiping down his face and chest. “How can I help you?”
The woman who stepped toward him was so stunningly beautiful, he almost stumbled backward. The flawless skin of a child, wide chestnut-brown eyes, waist-length black hair so shiny it looked wet. And a body built for modeling swimsuits. Her filmy blouse was cinched in perfect-fit jeans, which disappeared below the knees in what he’d bet were eight-thousand dollar boots.
She gave a shy smile. “I hope you don’t mind my dropping by. I called Thursday and spoke to your daughter ... Rachel? She said Saturday afternoons are a good time to catch you here at the stables. I’m a Johnny Cash fan, myself.” She gestured to the radio, her silky hair shimmering as it swayed, then stepped closer and offered a hand. “I’m Angelina Rousseau.”
Rick raised both hands in surrender, and with thought, untied his tongue. “Ma’am, I smell, I’m filthy, and that’s a really nice blouse you’re wearing, too nice to wear in a barn.”
Her smile grew. “Nathaniel Jordan told me you had a way with horses. He didn’t mention that you charmed humans, too.”
Rick cleared his throat. “Nate moved his stallion, Trident, here several weeks back.” He rapped a knuckle on the stall wall to his right; Trident whinnied in response.
Rick retreated a step from his visitor. “I’m serious, ma’am. The stench over here is beyond rank. My wife was injured in an accident—uh, Thursday evening?—I’ve been wearing the same clothes and haven’t had a shower since.”
Her gaze slid over his bare chest, then locked with his as her brow furrowed. “Will she be all right?”
“Yeah,” he said. “She, umm, she’s still in the hospital.”
“Then you have your hands full right now. Can we meet again, maybe Monday? Tuesday?”
Doctor bills, his brain chanted. New client ... money. “What exactly do you need, Mrs. Rousseau? You looking to buy?”
Again that shy smile surfaced. “Please. Call me Angelina.” She tapped the wall as he had done. “Nathaniel said he couldn’t be happier with Trident’s care here.”
“He’s a fine-looking mustang. I think Nathaniel should stud him.”
“Trident didn’t wait for Nathaniel’s permission. My mare is still at the stables where Trident used to be. She caught Trident’s eye and she’s due to foal late June. I wasn’t ready to breed her yet, and certainly can’t trust the people she’s with to watch her closely. I want to move her before she’s much farther along.”
“And you want to know if I have space, if I’ll take on a horse that close to foaling.”
“Yes.” She nodded. “Exactly that.”
“Tell you what, call me in a few weeks, after I get my wife home from the hospital and things settle down here. I’ll let you know.”
“If I write you a check for three month’s rent in advance, can I just bring her at the end of the month?” She pulled a gold-plated checkbook case and a matching pen out of an expensive-looking shoulder bag.
Maybe this was God’s provision. So Julie’s medical bills wouldn’t take all of their savings. “Okay. I’ll take the check, but I still won’t shake your hand.”
Rick wrote Angelina a receipt. She left, leaving behind a whiff of vanilla and musk that probably cost more than the check amount she’d just written. He downed two more cups of coffee, speed-dialed for pizza, stabled the few horses left in the paddock, and trudged back to the house.
Ben met him at the door in a blur of movement. “Can we call Mom? I want to talk to her.”
“You know how to text using my phone?”
Ben stopped jumping. “Why can’t I call her?”
“Listen, buddy, get your brother and sister, tell them pizza’s on the way, have them come to the kitchen. I’m really tired, I need to tell all of you about Mom, and I only want to say it once.”
Ben scurried away. Sean arrived quickly. “How long until the pizza gets here?”
“Soon. And it’s two pizzas. One’s loaded.”
A grin spread like molasses across Sean’s face. “Awesome.”
“Tonight we eat like men.” Rick rubbed a tired hand over his own exhausted face and called out. “Ben? Rachel?”
Ben pulled Rachel into the room. “Come on. Dad needs to tell us something about Mom.”
Rick’s daughter sat
on the barstool beside him and threw her older brother a look of disdain. “I know that man-growl. It means I’ll be picking onions and peppers off my pizza.”
Rick stroked a hand down her thick brown hair. “No, it means I ordered a plain cheese for you and Ben, and another for Sean and myself.”
“Thanks, Daddy.” She smiled at him with her mother’s face, jerking his heart. How different was his daughter’s response to his touch, from his wife’s. If only he could freeze time, freeze her, and transplant some of her acceptance and trust, to his wife. He kissed Rachel’s cheek.
The doorbell rang, Rick paid for the pizzas. Within seconds, his children were moving to the table with drinks and napkins in hand. Sean tossed paper plates into place. They prayed and dug in.
Rick scanned their faces. “After we eat we’re cleaning bedrooms.” He paused, again looking at Rachel and seeing the Julie he’d fallen in love with so long ago. “And ... I’ll be calling Grandma to let her know about your mother.”
Sean choked on his drink. “Is that a good idea?”
“I don’t think I have a choice.”
Rachel’s green eyes sparked with mischief. “Does Mom know you’re calling Grandma?”
“Not yet.”
***
Rachel Matthews, Mrs. Tate’s third period English class:
Saturday, May 3:
While cleaning my room tonight, I found a card my mother gave me last February. It says “My heart is happy because you’re near. Happy Valentine’s Day.”
She never sounds happy when I’m near. She has endless complaints. Sure, sometimes she tosses a “Hello, how are you?” or “How was school?” at me, but she’s never still long enough to hear my answer.
Other times she nags or criticizes me. She can be relentless.
It’s like that gross thing the jocks did in science lab last Wednesday. They dropped some lizard they found into a beaker, turned on the Bunsen burner, then gradually cranked the fire higher and hotter. The creature squirmed, trying to climb out. But they cooked it mercilessly. The poor thing was toast.
Sometimes I feel like that lizard, dying a slow, painful death. I’m a carcass—but I’m not dead—and my mom’s a vulture. I feel every jab and nick, every rip and tear as she chews me up. I get ready for bed at night, almost expecting to find fresh wounds and trickling blood.
Can a heart bleed? I mean, can a person bleed to death internally, from being stabbed by words?
I think so.
Or maybe just a soul, or personality, or whatever it’s called that means the part of you that’s very you. Maybe that’s what dies.
And that’s pretty much what happened to Jesus, wasn’t it? After they beat Him and crucified Him, and stabbed Him with a spear, there just wasn’t enough blood left to pump through His body, so He died.
CHAPTER SIX
The 7 a.m. shift change brought Julie yet another new nurse. Mimi, a short Hispanic woman, loudly introduced herself as a recent graduate from nursing school.
“Time for some blood work. Gotta find a vein.” She twisted open the blinds and turned on all the overhead lights. “You don’t have to talk, Mrs. Matthews. I know you’re mute.”
Mute. It sounded like an awful disease. She has Mute.
God, please don’t leave me like this.
If there was ever a time she needed to feel God smiling down on her, it was now.
“All done.” Mimi turned off the lights and left.
Gloomy shadows filled the room. Julie flipped channels. Every televised church service seemed to feature a soloist.
Of course. This was Sunday. She should be at church, singing.
Yes, she still fought nerves before performing, still felt the prickles of apprehension creep over her skin. But the frightening nervousness and facial tics had faded once she learned to use her voice to fight the anxiety.
Singing always calmed her. Worship always made her feel better. So when she sang in public, she simply pretended those in the audience were the angelic friends from her childhood dreams.
She turned off the television. Right now she simply could not listen to others lifting their voices in song.
She stared out the window as morning rain pelted the windows. Checked her phone and re-read the sweet text Ben sent from Rick’s phone last night. Hi, Mom. Sorry you’re hurt. Did you know Daddy killed the snake? He says when I’m big I can have a rifle, too. Love you, Mom.
No message from Sean or Rachel, but they were teenagers. Hopefully Rachel wasn’t getting away with too much during Julie’s absence. More than once Julie had caught Rachel getting Rick’s permission to do something after getting a “no” from her. Rick had addressed neither this habit, nor Rachel’s snarky attitude after being caught. If Rick wasn’t keeping Rachel in line, there was no telling what Julie would find when she finally got to go home.
Mimi returned with a wheelchair. “Time for your swallow test. Your husband called; he’s on his way. I told him where to find us.”
They arrived at a small, non-descript treatment room. A large chair in the center made the space resemble a room in a dentist’s office. With Mimi’s help Julie sat, then rested her head against the back of the chair.
“Good timing, Mr. Matthews.” Julie’s ears perked at Mimi’s voice in the hall.
“Can I stay with her?” Rick asked.
“I don’t see why not.”
Rick entered the room. “Hey.”
She touched her fingers to her brow, brought them away, Hello, then looked away, embarrassed at how awful she must look.
“You know it could be psychological.” Mimi’s voice outside caught Julie’s attention again. “We learned about that in nursing school. She probably wouldn’t be the first to have temporary vocal cord paralysis because of trauma induced stress, would she?”
Julie’s cinched jaw clenched tighter as she stared at the institutional white ceiling with her one, working eye.
Did they think she was crazy and deaf?
A physician entered, pushing a computer on a cart. He parked it beside her and attached a long, black cord to the monitor. “Mrs. Matthews, I’m Dr. Bradley, an ENT. Have you ever had this type of test before?”
Julie shook her head.
“You’re unable to make any sound?”
She nodded.
He looked at Rick. “You’re her husband?”
“Yes.”
“Okay.” He pushed some pedals on the chair. “I’m tilting you back, so just relax like you’re taking a nap. You’re not allergic to Lidocaine, are you?”
Julie shook her head again.
“Good. I’m going to spray Lidocaine in your nose to numb it a little. Be very still for me.”
His eyes were inches away from hers, his blond beard almost touching her face. He examined her nostrils, each one twice. “I can see you’ve never broken your nose.” He smiled and administered the analgesic. “This stuff works fast. See this tube?”
It looked like an earbuds cable, only a little thicker. Flexible.
“It has a fiber optic camera on the end. I’ll be inserting it into your nose and lowering it down your throat so I can take pictures of your vocal cords. We do it this way for everyone, not just patients with a broken jaw. I’ll warn you when I’m nearing your gag reflex. We’ll have to work together, okay? Here we go.”
Oh-kay. Her entire upper body convulsed at the foreign object entering her throat.
“Relax, Mrs. Matthews. Be still for me.”
Relax? Was he kidding?
Panic pushed her back against the seat as he slid the tube into her nostril. She grabbed the right armrest, holding on as she watched more and more of the black cable disappear into her. It hit something. Dr. Bradley twisted it and jiggled it a little, then she felt it crawling further inside her.
Oh ... no ... oh ...
“We’re nearing the gag reflex.”
He was staring at the monitor, and talking to her like he was giving orders over the phone. Did he not real
ize she was near freaking out?
“Almost there. Breathe for me. Pant if you have to, but only for a moment. You can’t relax if you don’t breathe.”
She tried the short breaths; they brought little relief. Her throat constricted, trying to swallow the tube.
“Okay, we’re in,” he said. “Fifteen minutes, tops.”
Seconds dragged, as if in slow motion, marked by the doctor’s tapping and clicking on the computer. She counted, trying anything to distract her mind as time stretched like a child’s slingshot being poised to fire. Still the choking sensation continued.
God, please get me through this. Please let him tell me my voice is fine.
Rick? she thought to say the word, momentarily forgetting she couldn’t speak. She wanted to reach for his hand, but he was watching the screen with Dr. Bradley.
“Say eeee.”
She couldn’t.
He gave her more sounds.
She couldn’t make those either.
“Cough.”
She tried.
He instructed her when to swallow and when to breathe. She followed directions as best she could, but the walls pressed in on her. Bright spots appeared before her one working eye, and her lungs seemed to shrink with the room. If her vocal cords truly were damaged, her entire singing career, her future, may have already ended.
“Breathe for me, Mrs. Matthews.”
She concentrated on breathing and closed her eye. A memory flashed through her mind, the way she felt the last time she sang in The Barn Church during a Sunday morning service. She’d ended the solo with a long note that faded to a quiet whisper. A holy hush settled over the crowd. No one clapped. No one moved. Pastor Crane walked to the pulpit. “Wow,” he said. “Folks, let’s just sit together in God’s presence for a while, shall we?”
Gone. Those moments might be gone. Forever.
***
Rick had never seen his wife so stressed, not even when in labor with their children. She opened her unswollen eye; Rick watched her wither, like a deflating balloon.
“Relax for a minute, Mrs. Matthews.” Dr. Bradley made a call on his phone and stepped into the hall. “You scheduled the swallow test to immediately follow my exam, didn’t you?” He paused. “Well, the speech therapist isn’t here yet and I can’t stay. I’m covering ER today. Wait. Here he comes.”
Sticks and Stones (The Barn Church Series) Page 5