“Voice rest?” Rick stood. “We’ve done that, well, she’s done that before.”
“Right. After you get your voice back, the nodules may be gone, and of no consequence. If they persist and harden to nodes—callouses—you may be forced to consider highly delicate surgery, or choose between speaking or singing.” The physician backed away. “But let’s think happy thoughts. You’ll be discharged tomorrow if the cardiac tests are normal. Follow up with me in a few weeks if you haven’t gotten your voice back and we’ll recheck those nodules, get you hooked up with a speech therapist long-term.”
“I have a few questions.” Rick skittered into the hall after Dr. Perfect.
Julie’s hand went to her throat. Nodules? The past several months had been especially stressful. Knowing Sean was going to leave. Dealing with Rachel’s teenage moods, surly attitude toward her, and surreptitious behavior. The extra vocal exercises and careful warm-ups should have prevented blisters from forming, right?
She’d been so intentional, so diligent when practicing her solo, even without her voice coach. Yes, the notes were at the top of her range, but she had managed them even though she had to push. A little.
Julie slid down beneath the sheet, bent both knees, and huddled herself as she stared out the window at a perfect, cloudless sky.
A few weeks ago, she’d dreamt she was pregnant again. Not that she didn’t love her children, but thinking of having another newborn to care for now made her almost as nauseated as her worst morning sickness episodes.
She had startled awake beside Rick, with that bottomless, Oh, no feeling you get when you’ve done something that can’t be easily undone. She had tentatively placed a hand on her stomach, expecting to feel a confirming kick, and realized it was only a dream. At the time, she almost laughed aloud with relief.
The nodules—dare she think it?—possibly her fault. From misusing her voice? From over-training?
And the cord paralysis from trauma. Also her fault? Had she been fully awake when she jerked at the tube? Did she let go when they told her to stop?
Oh, God, please, please give me back my voice.
And if He refused ... if He didn’t restore her voice, would she get to have that wonderful feeling of knowing He smiled at her, ever again?
***
Rachel Matthews, Mrs. Tate’s third period English class:
Tuesday, May 6:
Dad brought Mom home from the hospital today after picking up Ben at school. They came through the side door as if in slow motion with Ben holding her hand.
Mom looks like roadkill.
I guess some of the swelling on the left side of her face has gone down, but her eye and cheek look like a three-year-old waited until she was asleep then had some fun with purple and black Sharpies. Seeing her, I felt a little bad for some things I’ve written here.
She signed Hello to me. I motioned back and stayed at the bar pretending to study. She signed Thank you to Ben and went to the message board over the bar in the kitchen and sifted one-handed through the mail, throwing junk away.
Mom started signing to my dad, spelling P-R-O-, then hissed with frustration through her clenched teeth. She jerked open a kitchen drawer, dug like a frantic squirrel, and pulled out a notepad and pen.
Producer ???, she wrote, and held it up for Dad to see.
He started to answer, but Mom did her laser beam eye thing. With one eye. Freaky.
He opened his mouth again and she gave him her you’ve-just-done-the-stupidest-thing look.
Finally he placed his hands on the bar and faced the firing squad. “I called his office and left a message this morning.”
This morning? she signed. Not Friday? My mother doesn’t say four-letter-words. But I think she thinks them.
I knew enough to put two and two together. If Dad didn’t call the producer on Friday or Saturday, it was possible he showed up to church yesterday and—oops!—Mom wasn’t there to sing. Hopefully someone at the church told the guy what was going on, otherwise, there was no telling what the guy was thinking now.
Then my grandma walked into the kitchen. “Oh, my,” she said. “But I guess everyone looks awful when they come home from the hospital, don’t they?”
From the look on my mom’s bruised face, I don’t think Dad had told her Grandma was here.
“I let Sean use your car. Gave him cash to pick up sub-sandwiches,” Grandma said. “Cooking for six is too much work for me and I just had my nails done.”
I thought Mom was going to pop a vein. Instead she filled a glass with water, grabbed a straw, and stood at the sink with her back to all of us. I think her shoulders shook a little.
Grandma walked toward her, “Oh-my-baby. Maybe no one actually saw you on your way home.”
For the first time ever, something made me want to protect my mother from her mother.
“Grandma, can we get pedicures while you’re here?”
She came toward me. “Well, sure, sugar.”
Mom never looked up. She just sneaked away behind Grandma’s back. Dad spoke her name—it was the softest whisper I have ever heard. But Mom didn’t stop. She kept moving, ever so quietly out of the kitchen. Dad just stood there drumming his fingers against his thigh, then walked out the back door.
“I’m so glad you care about your appearance,” Grandma said.
I heard Mom’s bedroom door click as it closed.
***
Rick skipped supper. By the time Sean reached the stables to do the evening chores, Rick had already finished them.
“I’m not late.” Sean leaned into the tack room.
“You’re not late.”
Sean held up a small sack. “So, do you want me to hang your sandwich from the ceiling? Your desk is a wreck.” He looked around, hands on hips. “Actually this room is a wreck.”
Rick laughed. “I know, I know. That’s why I did the chores. I need your help with something else.” He grabbed the bag, inhaled the sandwich and downed half a cold root beer from the fridge, figuring Sean would eventually drink one, too.
They worked together in the dusty tack room, emptied it, slid and shoved everything onto the pitted concrete outside the stalls. Rick’s desk, the file cabinets, piles of lead ropes, and stacks of blankets. They hauled out the tiny refrigerator and hosed down the floor.
When Sean popped the top on an A&W, Rick’s eyes misted. He knew there wouldn’t be many more moments like this. Just he and his oldest son, two ... men—yes, Sean was a man now—working together, sweating, and talking while Tim McGraw crooned in the background.
They sat together on the cool concrete, leaning against Dutch’s stall.
“How does Lisa feel about you leaving for Basic Training?”
Sean belched like a bullhorn, pounding his chest with his fist. “Ah. Good one.”
“Sean.”
“Figure I’ll hold my own in the barracks.” He stood. So did Rick. “Are we doing this to keep you out of the house and away from Mom, or are we cleaning up so when Mom comes here you won’t be in trouble?”
“A little bit of both, maybe.” Smart boy. Smart man.
“We can use your truck tomorrow, move my desk from the house. I won’t need it anymore, so Mom can use it. Save you from buying a new one.” Sean leaned against Dutch’s stall and reached in to rub the horse’s thick neck. “Do you still love her?”
“Sean.”
“Dad. I need to know. I won’t give Lisa a ring now and expect her to wait to marry me in four years. She is ma-jor-ly unhappy about that.” He paused. “I love her, but sometimes I don’t like her. You know what I mean?”
“Yeah.” The words snuck past his lips. “I know what you mean.”
They continued working as sunlight faded to night. They loaded the room, arranging the space to accommodate both the second desk and Julie’s new and yet unopened computer. When Rick released Sean to return home and call Lisa, his son grinned at him and trotted away.
So Rick closed up the stables, locking g
ates and double-checking both latches on Trident’s stall. The stallion did indeed have the ability to open doors.
Rick walked home following his son’s path, stopped in the mud room, and peeled off his boots. He found Julie in their bed. Her back to the door, facing his side of the bed, her cast-covered arm braced on a pillow. She didn’t stir.
He supposed that for the kids, this would be like all the other times Julie had been on vocal rest to preserve her voice. He remembered instances when she’d used Ben’s toy xylophone to get their attention. Sliding scales meant stop or quit. Later she’d used the sign language they’d all had to learn with Ben when he was small, having surgeries, and unable to talk or hear clearly.
He sighed as he stood face first in a blistering shower. Julie was irritated with him about not calling the producer right away, or warning her about Trudey being here. But he just ... well, he didn’t know exactly why he didn’t—as Julie would say—follow through on some things. Right now she couldn’t speak. But after nineteen years of marriage, Julie didn’t have to speak for him to hear the berating that was taking place in her mind, or read the exasperation on her face. Did she really think he didn’t care about her? Or worse, that he was her enemy?
The house sat quiet. He exited the bathroom, turned out the lamp on the nightstand, and readied for bed in the dark. His hand grazed the knot of tissue below his shoulder, a scar he’d had since the night of Julie’s senior prom.
He slipped beneath the sheets, facing Julie. The smell of her, the scent that had been missing those nights she was in the hospital, took his breath. He lifted a silent hand, feeling in the dark for her cheek, and brushed the hair away from her face.
He’d almost lost her. He could be facing an endless string of nights without her. Like his sister, Sharon, who’d lost her husband to a military training exercise just a few weeks ago.
Rick kissed her forehead, held his lips there, and whispered against her skin. “I do love you, Julie. I’m so glad you didn’t die.”
Embarrassment over not answering Sean’s question had him closing his eyes. He should fix that. He didn’t want Sean going to Basic Training wondering if his father still loved his mother. Rick did love her, even when her words sliced through him like a sharp blade through field hay.
“Dear God,” he prayed aloud, “my wife needs her voice back so she can be happy.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Julie’s bladder was screaming at her. It had been for the last five minutes.
She’d slept away much of the past five days—thank you, Percocet—except for early mornings and the brief moments required to drink her soup or a smoothie, while Rick held the straw. Now, if anyone heard her bumbling around in her room, someone would come to check on her before they all left for school.
Probably Ben would come first, that she could handle. Ben had the same caregiver tendencies toward her as Rick had for the horses. It was a sweet thing to see, a sweeter thing to experience, as he nightly read her a story or climbed in bed to snuggle before going to his room. The thought brought stinging tears to her eyes.
Still she didn’t want to face—with her face— her mother until absolutely necessary. She simply didn’t want to start another day hearing her mother say, “Oh, my. I guess it takes time for a face to return to normal, doesn’t it?”
Ben’s sneakers slapped on the tile as he raced down the hall. “I’ve got the grocery list, Grandma!”
Julie had written it last night, added a smiley face for Ben, and asked Rick to put it beside Ben’s backpack. There ya go, Mother. Happy Monday. You’ll have to make several stops, so you’ll have many new complaints about me.
The raising of the garage door heralded her freedom and impending relief. If she’d been able, she would have chuckled at her mother’s certain disgust over driving Julie’s nondescript, four-door sedan. She tottered gingerly to the bathroom, refusing to glance in the mirror.
She’d been told her overall pain level would lessen now, so today she’d begin weaning off the heavy painkillers. Still, normal bathroom routines proved to be slow going and difficult—lifting her nightgown, looping it over her cast, then lowering her underwear with one hand. The whole process from start to finish was exhausting. At least she was now able to move without every inch of her body hurting. She washed her hand and rinsed her mouth, eyeing her reflection.
The bruises on the left side of her face had begun to fade, the black, purple, and yellow a smeared collage. The swelling around her left eye had lessened, a slash of Irish green peeked at her. Her bark-colored hair was matted on one side, and stood straight up on the other like an electrocuted cartoon character.
Her cheeks and mouth were the worst, still swollen and distorted. She parted her gums to reveal the metal laces binding her teeth. She looked like she belonged in a cheap remake of The Bride of Frankenstein, a far cry from the young freshman girl who turned the heads of her high school upperclassmen, a group that had included Rick.
Out of habit she stepped on the scales. Eleven pounds lighter—wouldn’t Mother be proud? All Julie had to do was get kicked by a horse, break her jaw, drink her meals through a straw.
And possibly lose her ability to sing.
Julie shed her clothing and lathered a washcloth as fresh tears pricked her eyes. The sponge-bath soothed her skin but the process required looking at her body, and awakened the same uncertainty she’d had in her teens.
She hadn’t understood the transformation she underwent the summer before starting ninth grade. Chubbiness and wads of fat had seemed to smooth out, stretching into long limbs, womanly curves, and full breasts. The weight was all there, it just ... moved. Like someone reshaped her in her sleep, molding her into a woman.
Thankfully Rick’s sister, Sharon, had remained Julie’s friend, despite the jealous competition among the neighborhood girls. Julie had spent almost every day at Sharon’s house, listening to music in her room. Playing the piano and singing, or even swimming in the pool if no one was around. She’d felt stupid in her long t-shirt over a bikini, but she hadn’t agreed with Mother that flaunting her assets was a good idea.
One particularly hot afternoon, Julie had let Sharon talk her into going swimming, even though Rick and one of his classmates, a boy named Tony Stafford, were already there.
Tony kept looking at her, watching her as if she were naked. Julie even heard him ask Rick about her in between cannonballs.
“How old is she?”
“She’s like my kid sister. Thirteen, no, fourteen.”
“She doesn’t look fourteen. She’s got a body like that model chick at school.”
“You mean Charlotte?”
“Man, I’d love to get my hands on both of them.”
Rick half-slapped, half-pushed Tony backward into the pool.
Tony surfaced sputtering, and flicked his long bangs from his face. “Dude! I was joking.”
Rick glanced in Julie’s direction, then glared at Tony. “Cool it, okay?”
Julie swam to the shallow end and whispered to Sharon. “Can we go back to your room now?”
She followed her friend up the pool steps and across the patio. Suddenly, there was Tony, blocking her path to the table, which held her towel, the towel she needed so she could dry off and go inside. He smiled widely, licking his lips, and looking at her as though he were touching her with his eyes.
“Three words. Wet. T-shirt. Contest.”
Rick threw a Frisbee, beaning Tony in the head.
“Dude! What?”
“I said cool it.”
Rick boosted himself out of the water, grabbed his own towel from a nearby chair, and wrapped it around her dripping frame. “Here. My apologies for Mr. Stupid. He simply can’t control himself when he’s near a pretty girl.”
Her eyes had locked on Rick’s, and her heart had flipped. It was the first time anyone had called her pretty.
Now, Julie rinsed the cloth and looked at her body. The stretch marks. Her sagging breasts. The belly that
—courtesy of her lovely liquid diet—was smaller than it had been two weeks ago, but still heavily dimpled with cellulite.
A noiseless sob jolted her body. She pressed a wobbly hand to her mouth and tried to hum.
No sound came out.
Hoping for any sign of progress, she tried again, peeling back her lips and sucking air through her cinched teeth, trying to fill her lungs. She used her abdominals to force the air up and through her larynx.
Nothing.
Tears gushed, making her blind. She threw the cloth to the floor and stood alone, naked and weeping in silence.
***
The house was too quiet, Rick realized, peering into the refrigerator. Usually he heard Julie’s voice as she talked on the phone, her beloved Andrea Bocelli or the younger Josh Groban providing background music. Sometimes it was Celine Dion who sang to him while he grabbed a late-morning snack.
Today there was nothing. No sound. No movement. He had never thought he could miss the snap of her words whipping through their home. “Rick! I can’t find the receipt for whatever.”
But there was no peace in this silence. The air didn’t rest like it had the last few days when Julie slept. Instead, the stillness pulsed with pain.
A knee-weakening vision of his wife—limp, bloody, helpless after her accident—skirted through his mind, paralyzing him. What if he hadn’t found her when he had?
He slammed the refrigerator door and rounded the breakfast bar. The family room was vacant. Both the couch and her favorite chair. The piano bench, as well. Calling her wouldn’t help, she couldn’t answer. He hurried down the hall to their bedroom, hoping he was over-reacting and making a fool of himself.
The room-darkening blinds demanded he turn on a light. So he walked to the closest nightstand and switched on a lamp.
Their unmade bed was empty.
He quickly scanned the floor and the open closet behind him. The hummingbird whine of their bathroom’s exhaust fan beckoned him. He found the door closed but not locked.
He tapped. “Julie? You okay?”
Sticks and Stones (The Barn Church Series) Page 7