Surrendered
Page 32
Michael moves from the shadowed corner of the room, drawing Paul’s attention as he steps up to the bed beside me. The faintest whiff of cigarette smoke clings to his jacket. “Taylor told me she was heading to the church to see you.” Accusation, improperly focused, laces his tone.
“Me?” Paul’s features are pinched. “But…I…we…was I supposed to meet her? I don’t think so. I was preparing for the board meeting…” He stares past me. Is he retrieving his mental calendar.
“It doesn’t matter,” I say. Another lie. How many have I told in the last ten minutes?
Or the last eighteen years?
I clutch the silver cross hanging around my neck and pray for Taylor to live, bargain my life for hers, even knowing her survival will be the end of me.
The end of everything.
First Michael. Now this.
“It doesn’t make sense,” Paul mutters. “It’s not like her to—”
“Are you Taylor Shaffer’s parents?”
“Yes,” I say. Hope wars with dread.
The tall man striding into the room glances from me to Paul, no emotion crossing his tired features, and my heart beats like a bass drum. “I’m Doctor Nielson, Taylor’s neurosurgeon.”
“Neurosurgeon?” Paul steps toward the man in his usual take-charge manner, and I join him.
The doctor nods. “Has anyone given you an update?”
“No.” Paul’s one word overflows with impatience.
I place my hand on his forearm, and the muscles relax under my touch. “Not exactly. I was told she’d been in surgery, and there’s concern about a head trauma?”
“Yes.” The doctor flips the pages of the chart. “I’ve inserted an ICP monitor. Gauges if there’s pressure building from the injury.”
Michael slumps into the chair beside the bed, watching the interaction with the air of cool only a fifteen-year-old can feign.
Paul shifts from one foot to the other. “ICP?”
“Inter-cranial pressure,” Dr. Nielson supplies. “No internal injuries, but the impact to her head…” He looks me in the eye. “It’s serious. She’s non-responsive.”
“Non-responsive?” I shake my head. “What does that mean?”
“She’s in a coma.”
“Oh, God.”
Michael rises, hands slipping into the front pockets of his baggy jeans. “When…I mean…do you know when she’ll wake up?”
The doctor turns to him, one eyebrow hitching up. “There’s no way to know. Could be days, or weeks. But there’s been no swelling, and she’s young. Best guess? Days.”
As he leaves, I turn back to the bed and slip my hand over hers, pale and still on the bed.
“It’s okay.” Paul whispers the words against my temple, wrapping his arm around my waist. “She’ll pull out of this. She’s strong.”
“But brain injury?” I look at my beautiful daughter. Tears pool in my eyes and spill over. If she dies…if she lives…Oh, God, what have I done? I swipe trembling fingers at the tears. You have no right to cry. I fumble in my pocket for a tissue. With a feather-light touch, I dab it at the blood on Taylor’s cheek. No use, it’s now a smear.
“You heard the doctor, babe. She’s young.”
Wadding the tissue, I lick it and try again. Better, but still a trace—
“Mom?” Michael hovers on the other side of the bed, his face as white as Taylor’s. “Is she…?” He shrugs, hair spilling over one eye. “I mean, do you think she’ll…?”
“I need to call Mark.” Paul plants a kiss on my temple before stepping away. A chill invades my bones, like his presence is all that keeps death at bay. “Let him know what’s going on. Pray up our girl.”
Clenching the tissue, I hug my body and watch while Paul gives Michael’s shoulder a squeeze before leaving the room.
Michael moves around the bed and steps into his father’s place, eyes on Taylor. Again, a whiff of cigarette smoke. But now’s not the time. “She was, like, real mad when she left this afternoon.”
I wrap an arm around his shoulders. “It’ll be fine, sweetie.” But the hateful words that spewed from her lips, the contorted features—the hurt, the loss. My assurance to Michael is just another lie. They’re piling up, one on top of the other, burying me alive.
But what difference does it make now? I’m as good as dead anyway.
About the Author
Jennifer Sienes holds a bachelor’s in psychology and a master’s in education but discovered life-experience is the best teacher. She loves Jesus, romance and writing—and puts it altogether in inspirational contemporary fiction. Her daughter’s TBI and brother’s suicide inspired two of her three novels. Although fiction writing is her real love, she’s had several non-fiction pieces published in anthologies including two in Chicken Soup for the Soul. She has two grown children and one very spoiled Maltese. California born and raised, she recently took a step of faith with her real-life hero and relocated to Tennessee.
Visit her at https://www.jennifersienes.com/