Oh, Lord, soften my heart. Help me be more charitable. If Keith is struggling with alcohol again, please intervene. And help me to know whether or not it’s safe to let the boys go with him.
Checking my phone for messages, I wondered how much longer I should wait before calling Bryan to cancel our date. The two of us had plans to drive up to Houston for dinner at Del Frisco’s. Afterward, I would take him to the airport so he could catch the red-eye to Chicago for a business meeting.
“Mom.” Matt sauntered toward me and pushed back long bangs that refused to do anything but hang in his face. “Since Dad’s not coming, I’m going over to Hannah’s. We have a science project due next week.”
I rinsed out the dish towel and set it on the edge of the sink to dry. “Just wait a little longer, okay?”
Matt started to protest but was interrupted when Drew leapt from the couch and let out an ear-piercing scream. “It’s Dad. He’s been shot!”
I followed Drew’s gaze to the TV and froze. A picture of Keith in his military uniform filled the screen. My stomach plummeted and an icy cold fear wrapped around my throat, restricting my breath.
My knees shaking, I walked around the kitchen counter to the TV. My hands trembled as I turned up the volume.
The screen flashed to the Happy Island convenience store where a reporter stood inside, next to the handwritten sign announcing fresh tacos and burritos served daily. “Witnesses say Army Major Keith Foster acted bravely when the gunman entered the store and turned his weapon on a crying baby and his mother. Acting with complete disregard for his own safety, Major Foster threw himself at the perpetrator and blocked the bullet. He was hit twice. Once in the shoulder and once in the leg. By the time the police arrived, Major Foster had the gunman pinned to the floor.”
I pressed a hand to my hammering heart and waited for more news, but the reporter only said Keith had been taken to Rose Island General. Without a second thought, the boys and I piled into the car and raced to the hospital.
“You’re speeding,” Matt said from the passenger seat beside me.
I glanced at the speedometer and slowed down, disturbed by how fast I’d been going.
From the back seat, Drew spoke in a small, wobbly voice, “Is Dad going to die?”
I looked at him in the rearview mirror. He had the same intense green eyes as his father. He was small for his age and still sweet without any of the teenage angst that plagued his older brother. Even at thirteen, Drew was my baby, and I wanted to protect him. “Your father is going to be fine. You know how the local news makes a big deal out of everything. The island hasn’t seen this much excitement since last year’s turtle festival.”
Drew smiled with relief. “Well, a bunch of those turtles did crawl across Seaside Boulevard and block traffic for the entire day.”
“See what I mean? By the time we get to the hospital, your dad will be walking around, bragging about the whole incident.”
Drew laughed, but Matt nervously tapped out a stilted rhythm on his ripped jeans. I reached across the console and squeezed his hand. “He’s going to be fine, honey.”
Matt pulled his hand from mine. “Yeah, I know.”
I focused on the road and prayed my prediction would be true. Although Keith and I had been officially divorced for years, hearing he’d been injured shook me to the core. After all, he was the father of my children. I cared about his well-being . . . at least for the boys’ sake.
How had this happened? Rose Island boasted one of the lowest crime rates in Texas, and I’d always felt safe here. I’d grown up riding my bike down to the beach and leaving my doors unlocked. I knew most of the residents, and while the island attracted its share of tourists, they tended to be more of the bird-watching-Bed-and-Breakfast variety, not crazed gunmen.
At the hospital, I parked the car. As we stormed into the ER, memories assaulted me—being in labor with the boys, the afternoon Drew swallowed the bolt, the Sunday morning before church when Matt broke his arm falling out of the tree . . .
That horrible night I’d lost both the baby and my marriage.
My stomach roiled, but I pushed the memories away as I often did, finding it easier to block out the past rather than confront it. Right now, I needed to focus on being strong for Matt and Drew. I needed to focus on making sure Keith was receiving the best medical care possible.
“Jillian,” a heavily accented voice called.
I turned to see Sonya Tuskaloski, a nurse I’d met last week when I’d transferred one of my assisted living residents to the ER. While working together, Sonya and I had bonded over the fact we were both divorced from military officers, single mothers of teenaged boys, and had a weakness for homemade baklava.
“Our dad was on the news,” Drew said. “Someone shot him!”
Sonya nodded. “I know. I was in post-op with him.”
“Is he okay?” Drew asked.
Sonya bit down on her bottom lip, causing some of her thick red lipstick to rub off on her teeth. “Let me talk to your mom. You boys wait out here.”
Both boys stared at me with don’t-leave-me-Mom expressions.
“I’ll be right back,” I promised. “Call Grandma and Grandpa, okay?”
Matt barely acknowledged my request, but Drew nodded obediently and reached for his brother’s phone. Matt swatted Drew’s hand. “I’ll do it.”
“Okay, I was just trying to help.” Drew rubbed his hand. “You didn’t have to hit me.”
Hoping they wouldn’t fight while I was gone, I left and followed Sonya down the hall through the hospital maze to the Recovery Room. I shivered, wishing I’d brought a sweater. Why was it always so cold in the hospital?
We passed through heavy double doors, then Sonya stopped and pointed to a lifeless body in the first bed. My breath hitched at the sight of Keith, vulnerable and injured. Tubes and wires crisscrossed his body and a large ice pack was secured to his shoulder. Although I knew he’d been shot and had undergone surgery, I hadn’t been prepared to see him like this.
“Jillian?” Sonya asked.
My knees knocked. Nodding, I forced one foot in front of the other to move forward. Somewhere in the attic, I had an old picture of the boys hanging from Keith’s flexed biceps as though he were a jungle gym. I really needed to frame that picture for Matt and Drew. Just because I tried to keep my distance didn’t mean the boys couldn’t remember better times.
Reaching the bed, I gripped the metal guardrail and whispered Keith’s name. When he didn’t respond, Sonya rested a hand on my back, causing everything inside me to crumble. I’d once loved Keith with all my heart. Once promised to cherish him all the days of my life. Now, everything was different between us and I felt powerless.
“After the surgery, he insisted on seeing you,” Sonya said.
“He did?”
“Yes.” She hesitated. “The two of you are still divorced, right? No recent reunion? No secret elopement you need to tell me about?”
I shook my head and kept my eyes on Keith. The steady sound of his heartbeat on the monitor was strong, but his coloring concerned me. “Is he going to be okay?”
It was an unfair question to ask of another nurse. Instead of answering, she asked a question of her own. “Did you know you’re still listed as his next of kin?”
“I am?”
“Yes. Is there someone else we should contact?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted, realizing I hadn’t a clue who to call. “He has an army buddy—Major Mac Baumguard, but I don’t know of anyone else.”
“What about siblings or his parents?”
I shook my head. “His dad isn’t in the picture, and he’s an only child. His mother passed away last year.”
A beat of silence followed. “I guess that means you’re the one. I’ll go tell the doctor you’re here.”
“Thank you.”
Sonya left, and not knowing what else to do, I took Keith’s large hand in mine and prayed. His hands were strong and calloused from
years spent lifting weights and working on his boat. I’d watched his hands push the lawnmower, fold in prayer, and hold our children as newborns.
Following his return from Iraq, I’d watched those hands clench in anger and punch a hole in the wall after a night of heavy drinking. I shuddered at the memory. Over the years, I’d read enough to know alcohol abuse and anger issues were very common in soldiers who’d endured back-to-back deployments.
These days, people attributed that kind of behavior to PTSD—post-traumatic stress disorder. Although Keith had never been officially diagnosed, he had all the symptoms. Unfortunately, that knowledge hadn’t made things easier for us, nor had it saved our marriage.
Without thinking, I pressed his hand to my cheek. “Keith,” I whispered, hearing the longing in my voice. “Can you hear me?”
Suddenly, his eyes shot open and locked on mine. Apprehension, fear, and shock flashed across his face. “Jills?”
My heart slammed into my chest. He hadn’t called me Jills in years, and the nickname jarred me. I lowered his hand from my face and tried to release it, but he wouldn’t let go.
“You scared us.” I didn’t know how to act with his hand in mine. Keith and I had always done our best to be agreeable in front of the boys, but we’d never been one of those couples who continued their friendship after divorce.
His eyes filled and he swallowed hard. Tightening his grip on my hand, he tugged me toward him. I leaned awkwardly over the guardrail, thinking he wanted to tell me something. Instead, he wrapped his arms around me and just held me.
A giant bolt of electricity shot through me as I rested my head on his chest. Keith hadn’t held me in years, and his touch overwhelmed me. Against my cheek, I felt the steady pulse of his heartbeat. Breathing in his scent, I forgot about everything else and simply melted into him.
“Oh, baby.” His voice was low and throaty. “What happened? I was on the plane, then . . .”
His question brought me back to reality, and I straightened so I could see his face. “What plane? You told me you drove down from Fort Hood this morning. Did you go somewhere else?”
“What?”
“We talked this afternoon, and you said you had some business on post, then you were going to check on the boat before coming by to pick up the kids.”
Keith’s body stiffened. “What are you talking about? What boat?”
“Your fishing boat.”
He showed no recognition, so I added, “The boat you live on when you come to the island to see the boys.”
He stared at me with pure terror. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
All the hair on my arms stood up straight.
“Mr. Foster?” A tall, geeky-looking man with thick glasses and the name Dr. Jacobs written on his white lab coat spoke from the foot of the bed. “The nurse said you were asking for your ex-wife, and here she is.”
“Wife,” Keith said. “Jillian is my wife, not my ex.”
I stared at him, confused. What was going on?
With complete calmness, Dr. Jacobs asked Keith if he could tell him today’s date.
Keith looked at me, and I gave a nod of encouragement. He exhaled slowly. “June seventh.”
“What about the year?”
“2008.”
I inhaled sharply.
“Are you sure about that?” Dr. Jacobs asked.
“Of course, I’m sure about that. Jillian and I just celebrated our anniversary.”
I pulled my hand away from Keith and wrapped my arms around my waist.
“What?” Keith demanded. “Did the accident cause me to forget a few days?”
I shook my head.
“A few weeks?”
When neither the doctor nor I responded, Keith said, “A year? Have I forgotten a year?”
I pressed my lips together. Memory issues were a big part of my work with the elderly, but Keith wasn’t old.
“Keith,” Dr. Jacobs began, “I don’t want to alarm you because you’ve been through a very traumatic experience, but—”
“What?”
Dr. Jacobs glanced at me before answering. “It’s 2015.”
“2015? How? I . . .” Keith ran a hand over his head and blinked several times. “I don’t understand. Did I hit my head?”
That was my question, too, but Dr. Jacobs assured us there’d been no physical damage to the brain. “This memory loss may be a temporary reaction to the shock caused by the shooting or the anesthesia. We’ll run some tests, but I don’t want you to worry about it.”
“You don’t want me to worry about it? I have no memory of the past seven years. I don’t remember owning a boat and—” He froze and pinned me with his gaze. “Jills, we’re not divorced, are we?”
I reached up to clasp the cross I used to wear around my neck, but it was no longer there, so I clenched the collar of my shirt. “We are.”
His eyes bulged. “No, that can’t be right. Tell me you’re joking.”
I let go of my shirt and wrung my hands, willing them to stop shaking. “I wouldn’t joke about something like this. Our divorce has been final for several years now.”
“But we’re still together, right?”
“No.” Tears stung my eyes, but I tried to be strong. “We’re not a couple anymore.”
He took several shallow breaths as his eyes pleaded with me to recant what I’d just said.
“I know it’s a lot to absorb,” Dr. Jacobs said, “but we’ll figure it out. I’m hoping this is temporary, but—”
“You mean my memory loss could be permanent?”
The doctor stuck a hand in his lab coat pocket. “We’ll know more by tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow? I have to wait until tomorrow before I find out if I’ve lost my mind?”
Keith’s question hung in the air as two medical assistants dressed in scrubs arrived to transfer him to a private room. Dr. Jacobs stepped aside. “I’m going to let these gentlemen take care of you, but I’ll stop by your room once you’re settled.”
“What about you, Jillian?” Keith asked.
I looked to Dr. Jacobs for direction. “If it’s okay with your doctors, I’ll bring Matt and Drew by for a visit.”
“A visit,” Keith repeated as if repulsed by the idea of visiting his children instead of being part of their lives.
One of the medical assistants unhooked the IV bag and set it on the bed beside Keith. “Are you ready, Mr. Foster?”
“Sure.” Keith refused to look at me as they wheeled him away, but then he suddenly stopped them and turned to meet my gaze. “Jillian, what about the baby?”
“The baby?” I said, confused.
He looked at my belly. “You were pregnant when I deployed. Did the baby make it? Do I have another kid?”
I swallowed past the lump in my throat and shook my head. “No, she didn’t make it.”
Chapter 3
Jillian
After Keith left, Dr. Jacobs ushered me into a small, windowless patient consultation room where he explained Keith’s injuries. Despite my medical background, the conversation left me feeling stunned and overwhelmed.
In the waiting room, I found Matt and Drew sitting with my parents and my sisters. They all jumped to their feet and bombarded me with questions.
“How is he?” Drew asked. “Can we talk to him?”
I shook my head. “The doctor said not today, but hopefully tomorrow.”
“Hopefully?” Matt spoke with the same level of disgust Keith had used when Dr. Jacobs told him not to worry about the memory loss. “What does hopefully mean?”
“It means—” My voice caught.
“Oh, sweetheart.” My mother pulled me into a hug. “Sit down and tell us what’s going on. We’ve been watching the news. Thank goodness Keith was able to subdue that man before anyone else was hurt.”
“How bad are Keith’s injuries?” my father asked.
I let out a slow breath and repeated what Dr. Jacobs had told me. Physically, Keith woul
d be fine. The damage to his shoulder and leg would heal with time and physical therapy, but there were some neurological issues.
“What do you mean?” my youngest sister Vicki asked, smoothing down her short-cropped blonde hair. Even under the unflattering lights of the hospital’s waiting room, Vicki resembled a glamorous Annette Bening with her petite figure and understated elegance.
“He’s experiencing some memory loss,” I explained.
“Brain damage?” my middle sister Bianca asked in her typical brusque manner.
Drew scooted close and placed his hand in mine. I gave it a reassuring squeeze. “It’s not brain damage.”
My mother breathed an audible sigh of relief. “Thank you, Lord.”
“So, memory loss.” My father patted Mom’s shoulder. “Is it permanent?”
“The doctor doesn’t think so, but he’s going to run some tests. Right now, he thinks it’s a type of dissociative disorder.”
“Meaning what?” Bianca asked.
I glanced at Matt and Drew, hoping they could handle this. “Well, sometimes a traumatic event, such as being shot, can cause the brain to block out certain memories. The memories still exist, but the patient can’t, or won’t, retrieve them. It’s called psychogenic amnesia. The good news is that most patients eventually recover at least some, if not all, of their memories.”
“How long does it take?” Matt asked.
“It just depends on the patient and their circumstances.” I swallowed. This was the hard part. Dr. Jacobs had confided that Keith’s memories could return in a few months, a few years, or never. He didn’t want to alarm Keith, and because I didn’t want my family to worry, I kept that information to myself.
Besides, medicine was unpredictable. From my own experience, I knew you couldn’t always foresee the outcome of one patient based on what happened with others.
“Did Keith recognize you?” my mom asked.
I nodded.
“So, he remembers you,” Bianca said. “What exactly doesn’t he remember? The shooting?”
“He doesn’t remember the shooting,” I said, feeling like I was navigating a minefield.
“What about Matt and me?” Drew asked, eagerly. “Does he remember us?”
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