Through The Water: Fairest Series Book Two

by Myers, Shannon

  “Ariana, do you understand what I’m telling you?” Dr. McEvans moved into my line of sight.

  I traced what appeared to be an arrow on the page with my index finger before nodding. While I preferred her brusque assessment over the sugarcoated version I’d gotten from other doctors, I didn’t think it was necessary to detail my injuries every time she made her rounds.

  I knew.

  My head and chest gave not so subtle reminders every time I was forced to get out of bed. There was a cruel sense of irony in spending your entire life wanting to escape only to succeed with no memory of how you’d done it.

  Somehow mistaking my nod as a sign of confusion, she elaborated. “With your trach gone, you should find it easier to produce sounds. And now that the bone flap has been replaced, we believe that you’re medically stable enough to transfer to a rehab facility.”

  No.

  I preferred to stay right here, with the nurses I knew and trusted until I remembered everything.

  Thank you very much.

  Dr. McEvans pressed her lips together, clearly fighting a smile. “I understand with everything you’ve been through, change can be hard, but we talked about True North. It’s one of the best places for you to be. They can provide a level of rehabilitative care we can’t.”

  But the nurses here knew me and took the time to style my long hair. Each braid was different, but all managed to disguise the scar that ran down the middle of my scalp and around to my right ear. Even the slight depression in my temple area wasn’t as noticeable.

  I’d been ignored most of my life, and I wasn’t exactly comfortable with being noticed now just because my scars were finally visible. I didn’t want it to be the only thing people saw when they looked at me.

  I was not an object to be pitied.

  “Hey, I got here just as fast as I could,” Tristan panted from the doorway. “Thought y’all were gonna kick her out before I made it.”

  Dr. McEvans stood up and offered her chair to him with wide eyes. “Pastor James, I am so honored. Truly. I was just explaining again to Ariana that we’re going to be transferring her…” She paused and blinked a couple of times as if trying to recall where it was they were sending me.

  It’s True North, I mouthed.

  Now who has the brain injury?

  He crossed the room to where she stood and placed a hand on her shoulder before flashing his megawatt smile. “Belinda McEvans, the honor is all mine. I cannot thank you enough for all that you’ve done for my little girl.”

  I fought a cringe at the term of endearment, wondering why he seemed so giddy.

  “You—you know who I am?”

  His eyes sparkled with amusement as he dropped onto the newly vacated chair. “A shepherd would recognize a member of his flock anywhere. Has Don recovered from his shoulder surgery?”

  He was just laying it on thick today.

  Instead of considering that someone within the church had played detective, Dr. McEvans was clearly fighting the urge to drop to her knees in exaltation. They conversed for several minutes before she reluctantly excused herself to check on another patient, and Tristan began packing my things.

  “Like I was saying, I would have been here sooner, but the phone has been ringing off the hook this morning. First, CNN and then Fox News—everybody wants to hear how you’re doing. I told them once we got you settled in at True North, I’d be willing to fly out for interviews.”

  And there it was… proof that there was just no limit to the things he would do to remain relevant. Although, if he’d found a way to capitalize on my misfortune, maybe he wouldn’t look too hard into why I’d taken off in the first place. Even without the tightening in my gut, I knew the idea was little more than wishful thinking.

  “I’m going to reach out to Justin Thomas again and see if he’d be willing to join me. It’d be good press for his facility. You remember him, don’t you?”

  Forcing my lips into what felt like a smile, I nodded. Everyone at church knew and liked Justin. The former wide receiver for the Houston Thunder and founder of True North never missed a service. He’d even spoken one Sunday not long after his facility opened about the game that changed his life.

  Justin made a miraculous catch during the 2004 Super Bowl, leading the Thunder to a last-second victory. In his own words, the resulting brain injury cost him his career but led to him discovering his purpose.

  Initially, he’d founded True North for individuals with brain and spinal cord injuries like him. In the last five years, it had become a sort of mecca for sports injuries as well. As difficult as it was for me to admit, if I wanted my memory back, then Justin’s facility was my best chance at recovery.

  I could also use my time there to my advantage. While Tristan was busy pandering to the press, I planned on discovering exactly what I’d been running from the night of my accident.

  Once my things were packed, Tristan held court for the small crowd who’d gathered near the back of the private van he’d hired. Meanwhile, I scanned the hospital parking lot for something of interest, almost disappointed by how ordinary everything seemed.

  Where was this land of lawlessness I had always heard about?

  “Folks,” Tristan drawled. “You’ve done so much for my baby girl.”

  His southern accent was almost as strong as when he was preaching a sermon, supposedly it made him more relatable to the blue-collar demographic. Apparently, they were a widely underrepresented group within the church.

  Pastor James, he’s just like us… only with a private jet and a net worth of fifty million dollars.

  “I can’t ever thank y’all enough for taking care of her while I was trying to get back home from Haiti.” His eyes held mine as he said it as if I needed to be reminded I was the reason his trip had been cut short. Then, he blinked, and the mask slipped back into place. Blinking was one more thing Tristan believed conveyed trustworthiness.

  “Won’t you just fill the offerin’ plate this mornin’?”

  Blink. Blink.

  “God is just waitin’ to bless you if you’re willin’ to step out in faith.”

  Blink. Blink.

  Dr. McEvans made a choked sound, and I looked up just in time to watch a tear make its slow descent down her cheek. “Of course, I forgot that your foundation is based there. Just know it was our pleasure caring for her, and we’ll be praying for her recovery.”

  She didn’t look at me once as she said it.

  It only hurts if you let it…

  Tristan grinned. “Belinda, I would love to pray over you and the rest of the medical team right now. Would that be alright?”

  Soft murmurs of eager acceptance rippled through the crowd. In their minds, being prayed over by the Tristan James was probably equal to receiving a blessing directly from above.

  The nurse joined the driver up front, leaving Tristan alone in the back with me when the van doors were slammed shut. I wanted to believe it was the frigid air being blasted throughout the cabin that had the sweat-dampened hairs on my arms raised.

  It was a warning.

  An urge to flee.

  When he reached into his pocket, the breath caught in my throat.

  He’s going to kill me…

  I forced the thought away, unable to dwell on anything other than the silent way I was being assessed. Keeping my face blank, I focused on the area of skin between his eyebrows. It was a trick I’d learned from Ashlynn growing up—a way of making it appear as though I was looking him in the eyes while keeping myself safe.

  Ashlynn.

  My eyes stung, but I refused to break. Not while Tristan was on a mission to slow-blink his way into my head.

  It only hurts if you let it…

  His eyes flashed with amusement as he pulled his cell phone out. “Thought you’d like a preview of next Sunday’s message. It’ll be my first time back on stage since your accident.”

  It wasn’t a weapon—it was a phone. I released the breath I’d been holding and no
dded,

  I’d been granted a reprieve.

  This time.

  “Now, you know I usually like to start with something lighthearted and funny, but this time I’m going to lead in with the story of your accident,” he declared while reading through the notes on the phone screen.

  “There comes the point where medicine runs out and faith steps in. Now, I believe we serve a Mighty Healer, and we’re about to come into a season of miracles. It works as a segue, right?”

  When I didn’t respond, Tristan cleared his throat and continued. “We all go through things that aren’t fair, and it can leave us with bitter hearts. Maybe someone got the promotion at work you felt like you deserved, or you’ve had to watch a loved one suffer through illness. Church, I have to confess something. I’ve been bitter. When I learned the severity of my daughter’s condition, I felt despair like I hadn’t felt since losing my beloved wife, Colleen.”

  Mama.

  My vision blurred, and I shifted my attention toward the window, aimlessly watching the palm trees zip by alongside I-45. He never mentioned her—no one did. As the years passed, it began to feel as though maybe she’d only ever existed in my mind.

  “That despair left me angry, and I cried out to God. I demanded to know if he was testing me like Job. Was I meant to lose everything to prove my faith? Folks, how many of y’all have been there? How many of you have been knocked down by life, time and time again?

  “Maybe God isn’t punishing you but bringing you into the light. Maybe you got passed over for that promotion because God is opening up bigger doors. Maybe your loved one is battling an illness to strengthen your faith in miracles.”

  Like a moth to a flame, Tristan’s charisma pulled me in, and I found myself nodding along to his every word.

  He beamed at my reaction, no doubt already basking in the congregation’s shouts of praise. “Once we’ve raised our Bibles, I’ll read from Genesis 22:9. That’s the passage that came to me as I knelt in grief. You remember it, don’t you little dove?”

  My mouth went dry as his ‘message’ became crystal clear.

  “When they arrived at the place where God had told him to go, Abraham built an altar and arranged the wood on it. Then he tied his son, Isaac, and laid him on the altar on top of the wood.

  And Abraham picked up the knife to kill his son as a sacrifice. At that moment, the angel of the Lords called to him from heaven, ‘Abraham! Abraham!’

  ‘Yes,’ Abraham replied. ‘Here I am!’

  ‘Don’t lay a hand on the boy!’ the angel said. ‘Do not hurt him in any way, for now, I know that you truly fear God. You have not withheld from me, even your son, your only son.’”

  “I was so consumed with the thought of losing my little girl I didn’t see it for what it was,” he preached from memory, never once taking his eyes off mine. “Now, the world will tell you bad things happen to good people and go on about their lives. A man of God will look inward, though, and see where he’s failed. And folks, it’s not sunshine and roses when you’re trying to turn your tragedy into a testimony.”

  I wondered if anyone who heard it later would notice that, while he was discussing my injury, the focus was solely on how it had impacted him.

  Tristan shifted forward until his head was almost touching mine before lowering his voice. “I put my family above my faith. I stood up in front of my church and demanded they step out in faith while my own heart was tied up in the familiar. I’ve held on to you because it was comfortable. But if I want to come into the fullness and glory of God, I have to be willing to sacrifice what I love the most.”

  He’s going to kill me…

  Maybe not, but he had made it clear he was willing to hold a knife to my throat. The sermon was a cautionary tale meant solely for my ears—a reminder of what Tristan was ready to do to prove himself worthy.

  Was love really sacrifice?

  If so, then I was beginning to question whether or not I even knew what love was. I’d never seen Tristan put his family above anything. We were nothing more than scullery maids in his vast kingdom.

  As I sifted through the rubble of my memories, searching for details about the accident, something Tristan had said began to gnaw at my mind.

  If he’d been in Haiti, then who had I been running from?

  The click of the turn signal pulled me from my thoughts, and I looked up just as we turned into what appeared to be a residential area.

  Live oaks stretched up on either side of the street, providing a canopy of shade for homes far larger than most of the ones within our gated community. The mansion I’d grown up in still dwarfed most of these, a tribute to my father’s unfailing faith and the church’s deep pockets.

  I’d lived my entire life under the assumption the world outside our community lived in poverty. Based on the stories, I’d imagined their restless souls wandering the globe like a band of gypsies, never finding a place to put down roots.

  But this was not scarcity.

  This was abundance. These were people who were making it without the church, or God’s, help. My brows drew together, and I turned back to Tristan, only to find him intently studying the warning label affixed to the transport bed.

  When we pulled up in front of a large glass building, he released a breath that sounded suspiciously like a sigh of relief. I never imagined I’d live to see the day Tristan James was as eager to get away from me as I was him.

  Directly behind the granite True North Rehabilitation Center sign stood a statue of Justin Thomas. His arms were stretched high above his head, making his career-ending catch. I studied it as the nurses transferred me from the bed to a wheelchair, finding it odd Justin would want to commemorate the very thing that had almost cost him his life.

  I certainly couldn’t imagine commissioning a statue of me next to a wrecked convertible giving the thumbs up.

  Tristan kept his distance as we moved inside the facility where a woman stood expectantly. Her long black hair captured the lights from above, shimmering iridescently. While I was mesmerized by her hair, she was captivated by my father in a way that indicated she needed no introduction.

  Through her gushing, I determined she was the facility director for True North—my home for the next eight to twelve weeks. Then, it’d be back to prison for the remainder of therapy and possibly my life. I fought against the insistent tug of my lips, not willing to risk arousing suspicion.

  Tristan handed over a white plastic bag of my belongings but didn’t stay once I was shown to my room. He didn’t need to—I’d been given my warning back in the van. It was confusing, wondering if he planned on sacrificing me to gain media attention, or if something darker was at play.

  It only hurts if you let it…

  As a little girl, I would have done anything to please him. As an adult, I knew where that path led. I’d learned to numb myself to the pain in order to survive.

  Twelve weeks was a long time.

  More than enough opportunity to discover why I’d run away. And once I knew that, I could tackle what to do to keep Tristan’s plans of sacrifice from ever coming to fruition.

  I dumped the contents of the bag out onto the bed, slightly disappointed when nothing sparked a memory. Not that there was much to go on—just my purse, a pair of sneakers with socks stuffed inside, and my underwear. Whatever I’d been wearing the night of the accident must have been ruined.

  A quick check of the purse turned up nothing, other than the realization that my driver’s license and credit cards had been confiscated and were now probably residing in the safe back home. I blew out my cheeks and began returning the items to the bag one by one. As I pulled the sock from one of the sneakers, a necklace fell onto the bed, one I’d never seen before.

  I threaded my fingers through the delicate silver chain and lifted it up. The rectangular pendant reminded me a little of the doors on an armoire. Each side had delicately carved swirls that, upon closer inspection, resembled octopus tentacles amid waves. It was gorgeo
us, but definitely not mine. I would have remembered something like this.

  Tristan.

  My fingers tightened around the gift meant to buy my silence. I didn’t know why he’d bothered this time.

  I’d traded my voice for one night of freedom.

  * * *

  Once I was settled, the assigned tech pushed my wheelchair out into the hall for a tour of the facility, only to remember she’d left her radio behind in the room. “Wait right here.”

  I waited until she was gone before sliding my left foot from the footrest, planting it firmly on the floor. When putting weight on my toes didn’t cause pain, I did the same with my right foot. In the hospital, I hadn’t been able to manage more than a few steps before needing a break to rest.

  My entire plan hinged on pushing myself to the limit.

  Step one—learn to walk without getting dizzy or tired.

  I reached for the belt across my lap, only to find I couldn’t disengage the lock without a key. Panicked thoughts of being trapped briefly pierced through my armor of numbness before I could rein them in.

  It only hurts if you let it…

  I just needed a key. My eyes scanned the walls before landing on a cart across the hallway. It was resting in a small vase, like a long-forgotten treasure, and I eagerly wheeled over to snatch it up. After several fumbled attempts, I realized I wasn’t holding a key.

  A flower, I mouthed, cracking a smile at my own expense. In my haste, I could have sworn I had the right thing. My mind had been playing tricks on me since the accident, leaving me unable to recall familiar words and now, apparently unable to remember what a key looked like.

  “The staff is bound by HIPAA laws, as well as the NDA they signed on your arrival. You’re good,” a well-dressed man stated as he opened a door directly to the left of where I was sitting.

  I held up my hand as he approached, but instead of recognizing it as a way of asking for help, he high-fived my palm and continued on down the hall.