“You’ve been holding out on me. You’re as good a cook as you are a baker.” He looked again at the cake. “Alan is so jealous.”
“I don’t know about that. Are you sure Alan doesn’t hate me?” She stood and gathered the remaining silverware from the table.
“Hate you? Why would Alan hate you?” Chris ran some water in her sink and turned his back to it, leaning against the counter.
“Because of how I hurt you.” Despite the assurances of Chris’s forgiveness, Rebecca had a hard time forgiving herself. Her ridiculous behavior led, in the end, to many good things—her restored faith and their reconciliation being the most important. Still, it shamed her.
“If I don’t hate you for that — and I don’t — then I can’t see how he could.” He turned and squirted dishwashing detergent into the sink, then shut off the water.
She set the utensils in the sink, shook out the damp dishrag, and laid it over the ridge between the basins. She stood motionless, watching the suds pop and struggling to overcome the embarrassment she still felt when she thought of Alan or Father John.
Chris gently held her by the arms and pulled her in front of him. Finally, he touched her, and his eyes filled with compassion. She feared she might collapse as if she were a fragile, nineteenth century damsel or do something equally embarrassing. His eyes staring into hers kept her grounded.
“Thank you,” he said, his voice soft and tender.
“For what?” It was no more than a breath. Her ability to converse had an inverse relation to his nearness.
“Dinner, dessert. This night. We needed this. We need to reconnect. Emotionally.” He traced the frame of her face with his index finger, his skin barely grazing hers. “Physically.” Her heart thudded to a dead stop. At least that’s how it felt. His lips were not more than a hair from hers when she said, “Chris.” Only one word spilled over the dam, but a reservoir of worry swelled behind it.
“Trust me,” he said against her lips before he silenced her. His kiss transported her back to Alan and Jamie’s wedding, to the first time she’d tasted his lips. He’d been assured and confident, a stark contrast to how she’d felt—uncertain and hesitant.
Every bit as sweet, this kiss held no trace of that uncertainty. For whatever reason he had withheld his touch until this moment, and it gladdened her because everything about this felt right. Emboldened, she reached for him, gripping his shoulders as if her life depended on it.
Leaving behind the dirty dishes and the untouched cake, he led her to her couch. Worry tried to creep in, but she reminded herself of his words, “Trust me.” She could. From the moment they met, he had done nothing but earn her trust.
They spent the remainder of the evening on her couch, not a word passing between them, just kissing. No urgency, no compulsion drove them to do anything more than savor every second, every sensation for its own worth. When finally Rebecca nestled her head on his chest, and he circled her in his arms, he breathed one word: “Heaven.”
She couldn’t agree more.
19
What Will Become of Me?
A month or more of Saturday nights passed with motorcycle rides, dinners, long walks, and a few movies sprinkled in between. Their relationship had developed a sense of inevitability that Rebecca delighted in. Just one thing bothered her, niggling at her conscience, irritating it like a rough tag on the inside of a shirt. While she realized she loved Chris long before their breakup, she still hadn’t told him.
If she blurted it out in the heat of the moment, it would seem insincere. If she said it in response to his declaration, it would be anti-climactic. She kept waiting for the right time until she realized there could never be a wrong time to tell the man who loves you that you love him, too. Chris had been so patient. Even now he hadn’t pressed her, asked her, or even hinted at it.
They had cut the evening short since Rebecca had to work early in the morning. Closing the door behind him, after another long goodbye, she decided she would tell him the next time they were together.
She tidied the room, put the remote control back on the shelf, and placed an empty glass in the sink. As she padded toward the bathroom in her stocking feet, she slid the elastic band from her ponytail and freed her hair.
With a flip of a switch, the bathroom light flickered to life. She slid her hand through her hair surveying herself in the mirror. Squealing brakes resounded from outside her window. Screeching tires were followed by the sickening thud of crunching metal.
Until recently, the intersection of Orchard Spring and Wood roads had stop signs only along Wood Road. Stop signs had been added to Orchard Spring Road in order to reduce accidents. It worked when people actually stopped at the new signs, but drivers accustomed to blowing through the intersection as they descended Orchard Spring Hill were known to ignore the signs out of sheer habit. The number of accidents had actually increased.
In a minute or so she’d hear the sirens. She turned on the tub faucet, and her heart lurched. Chris. He couldn’t be much farther than the intersection.
She turned the water off and didn’t bother with the light. She grabbed her cell phone and house keys, slipped on her ratty sandals, and took off out the door. Her hair, freed from its band, whipped behind her as she raced down the stairs and out toward the sidewalk. As she reached the street, she noticed cars stopped in either direction. Acrid smoke rose from two vehicles whose fluids leached out into the street. Although no precipitation had been forecast, the ground was wet, so there had been a rain shower. She ran faster and tried to see around the large, black SUV in the middle of the road. Cloud cover blocked the moonlight, but the intersection was fairly well lit.
As she neared, she spotted it—Chris’s motorcycle lying on its side.
Where was Chris?
She slowed to a jog as she scanned the area for him.
The wail of emergency vehicle sirens pierced the air, growing incrementally louder. Thunder cracked overhead, and in seconds, a deluge ensued.
Her heels slid on the wet leather soles of her sandals, and she fell. She brushed the gravel from her skinned knee with her fingertips and ignored the blood running down her leg.
Her pulse raced and tears formed in her eyes. Had Chris worn his helmet today? She never saw him ride without it, but he told her that on particularly nice days he left it at home and enjoyed the feel of the sun on his face and the wind in his hair. He had it at her apartment, didn’t he? She berated herself for not paying closer attention. It had been overcast when he arrived, and she hoped he had worn it. She couldn’t form a thought other than the prayer she repeated in a continuous loop, “Please, Lord. Let him be okay.”
A sick feeling settled in her gut. Chris had been hurt, maybe worse. Her heart pounded, and a sob burst from her lips as she quickened her pace.
Where is he? Tears and rainwater blurred her vision.
When she came on the scene, the paramedics hadn’t arrived yet, and Chris lay on his back, half on the berm, half in the street. A bearded, middle-aged man sat next to him, his lips moving.
She pushed the wet hair away from her face wanting nothing to obstruct her view of Chris. Eyes closed and motionless, he appeared unconscious. His left arm curled protectively around his midsection. His helmet lay on the ground by itself, but his face and head appeared unharmed save for some abrasions on his right cheek. Rainwater streaked the dirt and blood on his face, and she wished she could shield him from the storm.
Rebecca dropped to her knees alongside Chris, opposite the man, and her pantyhose ripped and ran up her uninjured leg. The fresh brush burns and rough gravel stung her knees. Her discomfort was nothing compared to the pain Chris must have felt when his body slid across the road.
The smell of burnt rubber, oil, and antifreeze filled her nostrils. She reached to touch Chris then withdrew her hand for fear of hurting him.
“Is he alive?”
The man looked up at her, his face blank with shock as water dripped from his nose and beard. “He’s breathing,
but I think he’s unconscious. I’ve tried talking to him, but he doesn’t respond. Do you know him?”
“He’s my boyfriend. He left my apartment five minutes ago.” Her boyfriend. Had she ever called him that before? He loved her, and he reminded her of that at every opportunity, and she hadn’t even been able to call him what he was to her.
Flickering red and blue emergency lights reflected in an oily puddle on the side of the road. In seconds, the emergency personnel descended and jostled her out of the way. An EMT removed Chris’s boot and cut away the bottom of his jeans. How hadn’t she noticed that they were soaked in blood? Another EMT worked near his head. A third prepared to transfer him to the ambulance.
The police diverted traffic around the accident, which seemed to involve Chris’s motorcycle, the bulky, black SUV, and a maroon Dodge Ram. Several people—the other drivers or witnesses?—surrounded one of the police officers.
Rebecca turned her attention back to Chris. The EMTs got in position to lift him into the ambulance.
“I want to go with him.” She didn’t know what protocol existed or if she had to be family, so she said it with as much determination as she could muster through her tears. She would not leave him.
“Sorry, miss. Only patients in the ambulance.”
She needed to be with Chris when he arrived at the hospital. She wrung her hands and swallowed back a fresh round of tears.
“Miss?” The bearded man who had sat with Chris touched her arm. “I can drive you.”
“Can you? Thank you so much.” It crossed her mind that she had just agreed to get in a car with a strange man, but she dismissed her worries. She’d just have to trust that this guy really was a Good Samaritan.
When she arrived at the hospital, they took Chris from her again. They had to treat him, of course, but it frustrated her nonetheless. She provided the admissions desk with all of the information she could. She hadn’t even thought about searching for any of his belongings at the scene and assumed the police would take care of that. He kept his identification and insurance cards in his wallet, which he tucked in his back pocket.
Contacting Chris’s family concerned her most. She didn’t have his parents’ phone numbers, but Chris texted Alan from her phone once when his battery died, so she had his number. Her call rolled directly to voicemail. After three attempts, she remembered they were out of the country. Before their breakup, Chris had mentioned something about them all going on a European vacation to celebrate his parents’ wedding anniversary. He said he couldn’t go because of work.
Rebecca couldn’t remember when they had left or when they’d return, and she didn’t know what to do besides leave messages. She spent an hour pacing the waiting room, praying and texting Abby when Alan finally called.
“Rebecca, what happened?” His voice was deep and raspy. What time was it where he was at?
She told him everything she could about the accident and Chris’s condition, which wasn’t much. Alan put his end on mute for a couple of minutes to talk with his family and then told her they’d be on the first flight home in the morning. “Alan, I don’t think his life’s in danger although they haven’t told me much, but if there are any decisions to make…”
“Call me, okay? We had our phones off and were checking messages periodically, but as of now the phones stay on. It’s the middle of the night here. I couldn’t sleep, so I decided to check my messages. I’m glad I did.”
“Me, too.”
“Tell him to hang in there, we love him, and we’re on our way.”
“I will.” Tears filled her eyes again, and she swallowed the lump in her throat.
“Rebecca, we’re glad you’re there with him, especially my mom. You hang in there, too. We’ll be there as soon as possible.”
It seemed like hours until they finally updated her on Chris’s condition and moved him to a private room. Abrasions covered most of the right side of his body, particularly his leg. He had been knocked unconscious, so they weren’t certain of the extent of his injuries, but it appeared he had neither broken bones nor any internal damage. They suspected a certain amount of head trauma in spite of the fact that he had been wearing a helmet, although it was unclear how it had been removed after impact. Most likely Chris had taken it off himself before he lost consciousness.
Rebecca sat in the chair and stared at Chris as if in a trance. The nurse finished adjusting the IV pole and slid the wheeled tray from the foot of the bed to the side. She closed the window blinds, blocking the glare of headlights as they passed. On her way out, the nurse gently squeezed Rebecca’s shoulder, a simple gesture that pushed her over the edge. As soon as the door closed behind the nurse, all the pent-up tears flowed in a torrent while Rebecca buried her head in the sheet covering Chris’s lower body.
After a few minutes, she lifted her head and slowed her tears enough to let her hand grope around for his. Finding it, she pulled his cool hand out of the covers and lay it on top of the sheet. His gloves had done their job in protecting his hands. She rubbed her hand over his, trying to warm it before grasping it firmly in her own.
She stared at it, remembering all the ways she’d touched and been touched by his hands. She pictured his hand in those fingerless gloves he wore when she first met him at the dairy case. Those strong hands staked their canopy in the rain. That hand had been bruised when he tried to take down a man who dared say something bad about her in his presence. Later that hand strummed the guitar. That hand gripped a hammer as he pounded nails into her dad’s porch floor. They were the same hands that so tenderly touched her face and wove themselves through her hair. She’d seen them gloved and gripping the handlebars of his motorcycle and bare, folded in prayer as they rested on the back of a pew. She loved those hands just as she loved the man they belonged to.
“I love you.” She sobbed and then reached for a tissue on the table next to his bed, wiping her nose before she dared try to continue. “I don’t know why it’s taken me so long to say it. I wasn’t sure at first. I’ve never been in love before. And then I was afraid. I might have to really think about my faith or take a stand with my dad. And all this time I’ve been a coward and wouldn’t say it. And yet you stayed with me. And now I’m afraid I won’t get the chance to tell you.”
Chris lay perfectly still on the bed. She pushed his hair back at his temple. How many times had his mother done that when he was a little boy? Her chest tightened and her stomach knotted at the thought of Chris’s family not being there. They should be here.
Loathe to admit it, Rebecca envied Chris when it came to family. His parents provided a stable, loving presence in his life, and even as an adult, their love and protection surrounded him.
Chris’s life, even his faith life, had a richness and depth she’d never experienced. Jesus remained at the center, but Jesus’ parents, especially his mother Mary and mother Church played an integral role, too. A whole communion of saints in heaven as well as brothers and sisters in Christ on earth stood side-by-side as extended family.
Her dad’s church boasted a tight-knit community, but in Chris’s parish, though they seemed less personally demonstrative — maybe less effusive and less apt to share Sunday potlucks — they seemed somehow connected. Chris attributed it to their being physically bound by the Eucharist, the sharing of Christ’s body and blood.
Her hand covered Chris’s and she rubbed her thumb over his, smoothing his skin. She felt compelled to pray, but she wasn’t sure how. Her gaze drifted from his serene face to his personal items in a plastic bag on the table next to the bed. She gently lifted her hand, stepped over to the table, and opened the bag. She carefully pulled out Chris’s rosary beads—round, smooth, wooden beads strung together and knotted with brown cord. Simple and masculine.
Rebecca had never thought to ask him how to pray on the beads, and now she wished she had. She wrapped them around Chris’s hand and let the crucifix lay on the sheet beneath his hand. Where had she seen that before? She remembered being a l
ittle girl and visiting the funeral parlor and seeing her elderly neighbor, Mrs. Kennedy, lying in the casket, her hand wrapped in pearlescent beads with a silver crucifix. She had never known Mrs. Kennedy to go to church, but looking back now, she realized she must have considered herself a Catholic.
Chris was not going to die.
Rebecca unwound the beads wrapped around Chris’s hand then pressed them into his palm, closing his fingers around them.
She knew only one prayer they shared in common—the Lord’s Prayer, so she said it, first slowly and then at a more normal pace, at least a dozen times in all. Then she sang it. From there she moved on to “Amazing Grace,” repeating all the verses she knew three times. She thought she’d had enough of her own voice until she thought of another song. One that she hadn’t sung before and one to which she didn’t know more than a few words.
Her voice sounded high and fragile, even to her own ears. “Keep circling back to me. Stay with me.”
***
He hurt. His head. His chest. Chris opened his eyes, blinking a few times as he adjusted to the light in the room. A hospital room. It took him a few seconds to process, and then he remembered the accident. How badly was he hurt? Everything looked okay from this vantage point, but his feet—he couldn’t move them. Couldn’t move his legs. Couldn’t even feel them. That couldn’t be good.
Silence filled the room. It must be night. He raised his head off the pillow, and then he saw Rebecca. Her head lay on his legs, but he couldn’t feel it. Her hair fanned out on the sheets, and he lifted his hand to stroke it, releasing the rosary beads that he’d unknowingly held. He ran his hand over her head once, twice, and then whispered her name as he did it again. She lifted her head, and her eyes appeared tired and bloodshot. She blessed him with the most beautiful, joy-filled smile in spite of the puffy, red splotches that dotted her face and the tangled, matted mess of her hair.
“You’re awake.”
He nodded. Ouch. Everything hurt.
“Thank God. How do you feel?”
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