The only word I can use to describe this dreary room is “sterile.” Actually, the odor of disinfectant is so heavy that it’s almost nauseating. At least Troy’s bed looks comfortable. It’s huge and adjusts into a million different positions.
I can’t look at Troy—not without calling on Jesus. My husband is an extremely handsome man, but lying in this bed, he’d beat Quasimodo out in an ugly contest. Both his eyes are swollen almost shut, although you can tell when he opens them. His lips are cracked. His breathing is ragged.
As horrible as Troy looks, though, the doctors have assured me that he is out of the woods, even though he has a long way to go. It could have been worse. His left leg is broken in three places, and he has seven broken ribs. He had been driving under the influence of alcohol, and he’d swerved in front of a semitruck. The doctors say that Troy was lucky that he didn’t die or that he didn’t kill anyone. I say it was the Lord. I hope that means that He’s got plans for my husband.
He stirs slightly, and I grab hold of his hand. It feels cool and damp, and actually that’s normal. Troy’s hands always feel like he’s just been holding a handful of ice. When we were dating, I told him that his cold hands meant he was warmhearted. He disagreed but accepted the compliment all the same.
Whether or not he wants to admit it, Troy is a good-hearted person. The first time he gained consciousness, he didn’t even ask about his own injuries, he asked about the truck driver (who’d walked away without a scratch, thank God). I thought he was going to ask about his car. The custom-made Escalade had not been as fortunate as the truck driver. That truck was totaled beyond recognition. If he had been driving his little Benz, he might not be alive.
I just know that this accident is going to be a wake-up call for my husband. How can it not be? Having a near brush with death is enough to make anyone stand up and pay attention. It is past time for all of Troy’s fast ways to cease and desist.
I pray in a whisper, “Jesus, I ask You to preserve Troy’s life and make him see that he should be living for You. Cause him to use his talents to your glory and his money to build up your kingdom. Draw him to You so he can know You as Lord and Savior. Convict his heart so that he repents and turns away from his sins. Lord, restore our family to what You have called us to be. In Your precious name I pray.”
I must’ve fallen asleep in this uncomfortable hospital chair, because I open my eyes and Aria and another one of Troy’s artists named Malone are standing next to the bed. I stand up. I don’t want either one of them anywhere near my husband.
“Who let you two in?”
“The nurse at the station outside,” says Aria. “I told her that I was his daughter.”
“Well, then she’s an idiot. Anyone can see that Troy is too young to have a daughter your age.”
Malone has his hand over his mouth. I can tell by how his shoulders are shaking that he’s laughing. I don’t know what in the world is funny.
“Do you care to share your joke, young man?”
“Ma’am, I just came here to see if Troy was all right. He just signed me, and I ain’t trying to see all my dreams go up in smoke. Is he going to make it?”
The greedy little leech. All he cares about is a record deal or whatever he thinks he’s signed with Troy. I feel anger boiling in my belly. If this wasn’t a hospital room, and if I wasn’t saved, I’d be cussing this little leprechaun out right about now.
Aria answers him, “Of course, he’s going to make it.”
“Yes, he is going to make it, but not because you said it. My husband needs his rest, so the two of you have to go.”
Aria looks at me and smiles, like she knows something that I don’t know. She probably does—like exactly what drinks my husband ingested before he had his accident. Just as I get ready to shoo the two of them out of the door, Troy opens his eyes. I rush to his side, and so does Aria.
“I knew he was going to be all right,” she squeals.
“That’s what I’m talking ’bout!” says Malone. “Do that mean we still on for the tour?”
Now I’m really pissed. My husband is lying up here half-dead, and this boy is talking about a tour. Troy will be lucky to be walking without assistance before the summer, which is why he surprises me when he nods his head to Malone. Malone and Aria give each other a high five, and Troy manages a smile.
“You two get out of here.” My voice sounds like I’m hissing.
“Come on, Malone. Let’s go. Get better, Troy. We’ll be waiting for you when you get out.”
The words sound almost like a threat. Well, she can wait all she wants. As a matter of fact, she can wait until her face turns blue, but there isn’t going to be any tour until Troy is fully recovered. If I have it my way, there won’t be any tour ever.
Troy closes his eyes as soon as his two cronies leave. I take my rightful place next to his side and pull out a notepad and pen. It’s therapeutic for me to write longhand. It’s like getting back to basics. Out of nowhere ideas are streaming through my brain, and I’m writing like a lunatic. Now I know why I was having trouble finishing my book. I was writing the wrong story.
Chapter 38
Yvonne
What good are lawyers anyway? They spend all those years in law school and make all that money just to tell you that there’s nothing they can do for you. Can I get a refund after they’ve consulted me right out of my natural mind? No. After they’re done talking, and emptying your wallet, there are no refunds to be had.
At least this one has some nice office furniture. The last lawyer I visited, you would’ve thought he was some type of used-car salesperson. He had hard metal chairs like the ones that come with the card tables you buy down at Wal-Mart. His suit had stains on it, and if he’d washed his hair in a week, I’d be surprised. A brother might be able to get away with that, but I don’t know of any white folk that can go around for a week without washing their hair and not look trifling.
Well, anyway, this new lawyer, recommended by the newly rich and famous Pam Lyons, is a lot more classy than that last fellow. He’s got a burgundy leather sofa and a cherrywood desk. He looks polished and professional, like a television lawyer, one of those men that come with the eleventh-hour evidence that clears the innocent but framed widow of her husband’s death.
Looks can be deceiving, though, because this primped and polished lawyer is telling me exactly the same thing Mr. Car Salesman told me. There’s nothing that can be done for me until Luke decides to come out of hiding. I can file for a divorce and have it granted, but the judge cannot rule on spousal support unless Luke responds to the divorce petition. Since Luke probably doesn’t plan on showing his old raggedy face no time soon, I’m going to have to find a means to support myself.
I get up from that soft leather chair feeling defeated. I’m not even sure if I want a divorce, but I just want to close this chapter of my life and move on. Not to another man, though. That’s the last thing on my mind. I want to find out who I am. Who I am in God, and who He wants me to be. I’ve thought for all these years that my purpose in life was to be a good wife to Luke.
And I was a good wife. I was dumb as a rock, but I was still a good wife. I’d still be standing by Luke’s side now if he hadn’t tried to take my life. All he had to do was apologize for all his cheating. All he had to say was that he’d never do it again. But I must not mean much to him, because he couldn’t even try to lie to me this time.
It seemed to take me forever to get home. I’ve never been one for driving in rush-hour traffic, and Cleveland’s mad dash from downtown is especially nerve-wracking. Especially since the route I take, I-77 to I-480, is a maze of construction barrels. Then there had the nerve to be a fender bender right at the I-480 and I-271 split. Even though it was off in the berm, nosy behind folk just ain’t have nothing else better to do than to slow down and take a look.
On my way out of the lawyer’s office I grabbed a Cuyahoga County Apartment Guide magazine. I love my home, but I just don’t feel comfor
table with Luke knowing my whereabouts. Anyway, I won’t stay here once we’re divorced. The only thing is, I don’t have much cash flow. I have the stash of leftover grocery and bill money that I usually use for the holidays. That doesn’t amount to much, about five hundred dollars tops. Surprisingly, all the bills are still being paid, and Luke hasn’t drained the money from our accounts. A long time ago he had all of our bills set up to come directly out of the checking account. I’ve been withdrawing money in small amounts for groceries and toiletries and such. So far, nothing has bounced and everything is up to date.
It’s time for me to start looking for a job. I don’t really have any marketable skills, unless organizing church committees and preparing food for the sick and shut-in can go on a résumé. I’ve always wanted to work with children, though. So maybe I’ll try to get a job at a day care.
I pick up the phone when I see my message light flashing. It’s odd, but I don’t really get many messages. Either I’m home way too much, or nobody cares to call me.
The first message is from Sister Andrews. She is, of course, reporting what I already know—that Pam’s husband is in the hospital. I haven’t stopped praying for her and Troy since Taylor and I were at the hospital.
I let the rest of the messages play and then pick up the phone to call Lake Park East Hospital.
A sterile voice answers the telephone. “Lake Park East. How may I direct your call?”
“ICU, please.”
The woman pauses for a moment, and I hear the clicking of a keyboard in the background.
“Hold on.”
I holding for several moments at the ICU nurse’s station before Pam answers.
“Hello, Pam. This is Yvonne. How are you holding up?”
“I’m fine. Troy’s finally stabilizing.”
“Sister Brickers works in the ER. She was there when they checked Troy in. Have you seen her since you’ve been there?”
“If I have, I couldn’t tell you. I’ve just been focusing on Troy for these past four days.”
“Pam, you need a break. That baby is counting on you to get your rest.”
Pam sighs. “I know. I’ve been sleeping in the chair in Troy’s room, and my aunt is watching the girls.”
“Why don’t you let me relieve you? I don’t have anything to do during the day, and you can get some rest.”
“No, no, no. I’m fine. Troy has been in and out of consciousness, and I think it comforts him to know that I’m here.”
“Well, at least let me come and keep you company. I’m worried about you.”
Pam doesn’t respond for a moment and then says, “All right, Yvonne. Come on up. I guess I could use a diversion. Oh, by the way, how did Taylor’s presentation go? Did she say?”
“She said something about getting approved for some training budget dollars.”
“Oh, good! Praise God.”
Chapter 39
Pam
After a grueling two weeks Troy is finally on the road to recovery. Don’t tell me that God isn’t still a healing God. He’s still in somewhat of a daze, but he now fully understands what transpired and why he’s in the hospital. He’s sullen and silent, but I know that he’s coming to terms with his demons, and I’m not here to shout, “I told you so,” although my flesh wants to punish him for making me sick with worry.
Now that Troy’s condition is no longer critical, they’ve moved him to another room. At least this one has a window, and it’s a little bigger. Or maybe it just seems bigger because Troy is no longer hooked up to a dozen machines. He’s sitting up in his bed, scratching at a bandage and attempting to eat the colorless and tasteless food placed before him.
“Troy, try to eat. You don’t want to be in here longer than you have to, right?”
“Yeah, you’re right about that. I’ve already wasted too much valuable time.”
“I don’t think getting well classifies as wasting time, Troy.”
His voice is weak. “Pam, you don’t know how far behind this little stint is putting me. I’ve got tracks to complete for Aria’s debut, and I’ve got other artists waiting for music.”
“They can wait until you recover,” I said, getting angrier by the moment.
“Then there’s the tour to worry about.”
“You can’t seriously still be thinking about a tour in your condition.”
Troy sighs. “Pam, I don’t know what to do. I don’t want to let those kids down.”
“Look, Troy. A few days ago we didn’t know if you were going to live or die. Now you’re talking about going on the road in four months. You’ve lost your mind.”
“Pam . . .”
I respond angrily, but in a controlled tone. “And I guess we’re just going to ignore your little substance abuse problem, huh? We’re not even going to talk about that!”
“Pam, I had too much to drink that night. I admit that, but I’m not an alcoholic.”
“Seems to me you been having too much to drink too many nights.”
Troy silently continues to pick at his food. I’m tired of constantly reminding Troy of his reckless behavior. I’m hoping this accident causes him to recognize that he’s hurting himself and our family.
“Pam . . . you don’t understand the music industry. You have to play the game. I drink with them because it’s good for business.”
“And you smoke weed for that same reason?”
“I don’t smoke weed,” he says. “I haven’t lied to you. It’s around, I know—the kids use it.”
I don’t know whether Troy’s lying or not. Either way, he still hasn’t admitted to having a problem with alcohol.
“Look, Pam,” Troy continues, “I don’t need you to be my conscience. I know that I cannot handle my liquor and I almost killed myself because of it. Do you think I take that lightly?”
“I hope not.”
“But just because I intend to lay off the alcohol doesn’t mean that I’m exiting the music business. I can’t stop now.”
“Why can’t you? We have enough money! We have more money than most people will ever make in their lives!”
“That’s not good enough for me, Pam. I want to have a legacy. I want to be able to employ my entire family if need be. You just don’t have enough vision, but please don’t try to hold me back. I’m doing this for us.”
I sigh wearily. “Troy, don’t worry about that right now. Get some rest.”
I get up and walk out of the room. Partly because I need some fresh air and partly because Troy can’t follow me. As I walk down the narrow hospital corridor, I notice the wall artwork. It’s not the least bit calming. I need to be looking at some tranquil meadows or serene beaches. Instead I see huge modern contraptions that, in my opinion, don’t even qualify as art.
But what do I know about art or artists? It’s funny, I’m married to an artist, and I don’t truly grasp how important all this mess is to him. It seems like an obsession. I guess that technically, me being a writer and all, I’m an artist too. But my passion doesn’t get in the way of common sense!
How can Troy not see how this is hurting our family? Our daughters hardly ever see him, and when they do, he’s preoccupied with something. They don’t even expect to spend any time with him anymore. Neither do I.
I drift into the main waiting area and go over to the soft drink machine. Of course, all the lights are on for every one of my selections. I plop down on one of the worn-out couches and crack open the Mr. PiBB. After one sip I’m convinced that this tastes nothing like Dr Pepper, and anyone who would compare the two is an idiot.
I’m glad that Yvonne came and sat with me yesterday. Anytime she shares her problems with me, it immediately puts my stuff in perspective. Her prayers are soothing as well.
She mentioned something about finding herself an apartment. That’s the smartest thing I’ve heard her say since all of this mess came out. I know she needs money, but she’ll never ask. I’ll have to remind myself to write her a check.
I finish o
ff the too-sweet beverage and pull my notepad and pen out of my purse. Again, the words flow from the pen to the page, as if I’m not even writing. My emotions are guiding my words onto the page. I’m already half finished with the novel, and I haven’t touched a word processor or a computer. Writing in longhand seems to be unlocking some hidden talent and ability.
My story is about a man like my husband. He has a successful music career with all the money and trappings, but he doesn’t have God in his life. In my story, though, I get to choose his path, and it’s not left up to pride and ambition. In my version of Troy’s life he accepts Christ and uses his talents to create songs that praise God.
It could happen. This novel may even be prophetic. All I know is that I can’t stop writing and I can’t help believing. Troy must not know who he’s dealing with. He’s got a wife that was spoon-fed on faith since birth. And I am not ashamed.
Chapter 40
Yvonne
I woke up this morning feeling brand-new. It’s the first time in weeks that I’ve been able to get out of bed without something hurting. Could that mean that it’s finally time for me to start taking my life back? I think that’s it.
If I don’t find a job soon, I’m going to be up in Pastor’s office asking for money to pay my utility bills. I always talked about folk for begging from the church. How judgmental of me! It would probably be a fair turn of events for the begging to be coming from me. Luke still hasn’t taken any money out of our accounts, but he hasn’t made any deposits either. Pam gave me a check for two thousand dollars. I didn’t want to accept it, but she insisted, and I sure need it.
I’ve spent the entire day packing my necessities. A sister in the church offered to rent me her finished third floor for only one hundred fifty a month. I know the Lord is able, because I didn’t even tell anyone that I was looking. I must admit that it’s a little bit humiliating, though. Luke and I own a two-hundred-and-fifty-thousand-dollar home, and I’m about to move into somebody’s attic. I just try not to think about it because the whole idea is depressing.
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