A Reason to Stay (16 page)

She'd easily agreed. As much as she loved the idea of exploring nature, the contours of his muscled forearms were far more intriguing, the hard ripples of his chest more entertaining.

Faith loved the way his lips nibbled at her shoulders, loved feeling the coarseness of his stubble against her neck as he found his way to her earlobe. She loved the weight of his body as he shifted, his breath ragged. The way his eyes found her own, communicating utter desire, as he abandoned himself to her—and she to him.

In those moments, she'd never felt more vulnerable.

Until now.

Geary reached out his hand and she let him pull her up to him.
His fingertips went to her cheek. “Hey, babe. Let's get you home now.”

She buried her head in his chest. “I love you,” she whispered.

Suddenly, a child screamed.

The commotion pulled their attention to the back of the lanes, where the sound had originated from behind the pins.

Dilly thrust Sam at Faith. “Oh my lands, take him!”

Frantic, her sister-in-law scrambled over a small pile of discarded rental shoes and tore down one of the lanes, with Bobby Lee and Wendell close behind.

“What in the world?” Geary left her holding his nephew and bolted that same direction.

Gabby's head popped up from behind the pins, from the darkened space where mechanical pinsetters scooped and reset everything back in place. “Gunner's stuck,” the wide-eyed little girl reported just as screams filled the air again.

Veta's hands flew to her mouth. “Oh Lord, help,” she muttered.

The entire bowling alley went into shutdown mode, including the obnoxious music piped in overhead. An Asian man's voice came over the loudspeaker. “Attention, bowlers—please stand by. We have a—well, a situation we hope to resolve very, very quickly.”

Emergency workers arrived, blowing through the bowling alley carrying black medic bags. Minutes later, they'd extricated Gunner and carried the frightened little boy out on a stretcher board.

Dilly jogged alongside. “Mommy's here, baby. Everything's going to be all right.”

The entire Marin family followed, shaken but thankful the unfortunate event had resulted in minimal injury—a broken arm. Apparently, his arm had gotten caught in the automated equipment.

A harried-looking owner also walked them outside. He wrung his hands. “If there's anything we can do . . .”

Wendell squeezed his shoulder. “Thank you, Mr. Heng. This was not the fault of your establishment. Those kids should never
have been playing back there. I'm sorry for the disruption to your business.”

Mr. Heng bobbed his head. “Ah, thank you. You will not sue then?”

Wendell extended his hand. “Absolutely not. Of course not.”

Worry slipped from the owner's face. He and Wendell shook hands, then everyone headed to their individual cars.

Faith buckled her seat belt. “Is Gunner going to be okay?”

Geary nodded. “Yeah, but he'll need a cast. It shook Dilly up pretty good, though. Bobby Lee too.”

She leaned her head against the seat back. “Well, all's well that ends well, I guess. Maybe in the future, they'll watch those kids a bit closer.”

Her husband's face closed in. “It was an accident, Faith.”

“Well, I know. I only meant—” She stopped mid-sentence and quickly doused her words so as not to let any smoldering tension flare. “I'm just glad he's going to be fine,” she offered, surprised their interaction had so easily turned fractious again. This was something new, this relational obstacle course.

“Me too,” he confessed. One of his hands went to his cheek and he started rubbing. “I've got to tell you, seeing my nephew caught in that machine scared me. His little arm was pretty mangled.”

She looked across at her husband, sensed a fracture in his normally calm exterior. Perhaps that was why he was so testy.

Those kids were unruly terrors, in her opinion. But she knew Geary adored Dilly and Bobby Lee's children. They were cute, especially little Sam, but goodness knows they needed some discipline.

Geary's hand went for the radio knob. “Do you mind?”

“No, no—go ahead.”

She reached across the seat and lightly brushed his arm, hoping the gesture might abate his tension. He responded by taking her hand and tucking it inside his.

They rode like that for several blocks, content to sit in silence
until they hit a red light. When the signal changed, Geary drove forward instead of turning on the road leading back to the church, where her car was still parked.

She looked over. “Geary, where are you going?”

“To the hospital,” he said, anxiously drumming the steering wheel with his thumb. “There's a chance—however small—Gunner might need surgery. An orthopedist can only rule the possibility out after an MRI, to see the extent of the tissue damage.”

She pulled her hand from his grip. “But I've got to go home, get dressed, and head for the station, or I'll be late for the broadcast.”

His fingers tightened on the wheel. “Can't you call in? I mean, this is pretty important.”

“Geary, I'm the weekend anchor. I can't just call in. Especially two and a half hours before broadcast.”

“All right.” Without signaling, he veered off into a CVS Pharmacy parking lot and whipped around and headed back in the opposite direction.

“Oh my goodness, are you mad at me? This is my job.” Her anger flared, still braided with her desire for him to understand.

His foot pressed the accelerator and they sped up. “I think we already had this conversation today.”

“This—is—my—job,” she repeated. “Why are you being such a jerk?”

He turned to her. “Because this is family, and family always comes first. Is this how it's going to be when we have kids? Are you going to rush off to work, no matter what their needs?”

She fisted her hands, pressing her nails into her skin so hard it hurt. “Are you going to dock your bass boat and get a real job? One with a guaranteed income and benefits, 401(k)s and bonuses, so I can stay home with our kids when they get runny noses?”

Her words hung in the air for several seconds, and she found herself wishing she could gather and stuff the truth of them back in hiding. But it was too late.

Her thoughtlessness exploded like shrapnel.

She reached for his arm. “Geary, I—”

Instinctively, he pulled away from her. She knew then that more than just her temper had blown up.

The tears came, and the guilt. She wanted desperately to move the needle back to before those dreadful words left her lips. But deep down, she realized there would be no taking back what she'd said.

Especially when she saw the hurt on her husband's face.

G
eary stood at the doorway of her hospital room, familiar . . . and hesitant.

He wore jeans and a white button-down shirt. His dark hair short with tiny curls at the neckline. In many ways, he looked very much like he had that first day at the lake. Except for his eyes. His blue eyes were hollow, puddled with worry.

“Faith?” The way he said her name invited a visceral reaction in every cell of her body, at least those she could feel. It was as if the proteins and nucleic acids within their membranes had a memory of their own. She found this strangely comforting, given the unreliability of her own mind.

“Can I come in?”

She couldn't help it—her eyes welled with tears.

He rushed to her side. “I'm here. Faith, I'm right here.”

He stroked her left arm. She couldn't feel his touch.

The bandages—the helmet. She must look awful. Despite wanting to hide from his seeing her like this, she clung to his arm with her right hand, afraid to let him go.

“I—was—shot.” Tears streamed down her face as she forced the words through her lips.

His own eyes filled. “I know, babe.” His words were ragged and
brimming with grief. He blinked several times. “But the doctors say you're going to survive. The roughest part is behind us.”

The word
us
did not pass her notice.

Her fingers dug into his flesh. “What—happened?”

Geary's forehead wrinkled. He squinted, examining her face, her words.

“Shot. What—happened?” she repeated.

He quickly nodded. “Yes, you were shot. What do you remember about that day?” His question mimicked her doctor's earlier approach.

She closed her eyes. Took a deep breath.

A few details began to form. The blue sky. Lots of people. A little boy.

Her eyes flew open in panic. Even the slight recollection punched at her gut. She inhaled, the frantic effort jagged and sharp.

His hand tightened on her arm, as if he were trying to hold on for the both of them. “Don't—don't think about any of that now. There's time for all that later.” His fingers went to her cheek. “You're going to make it through this,” he managed, his voice strangled. “And I'm going to help you.”

There was a rap at the open doorway and Dr. Wimberly walked in. “I'm glad you're both here.”

Geary stood and shook hands with the doctor, a familiarity between the two men apparent.

Her medical team had no doubt looked to Geary to make critical decisions on her behalf while she was in the coma. He was, after all, still legally her husband.

Dr. Wimberly pulled up a chair and sat. He motioned for Geary to do the same before reaching for Faith's hand. “How are you feeling?”

Before she could answer, Geary spoke up. “A few memories are coming back.”

Dr. Wimberly slowly nodded. “Ah . . .” A look passed between him and her husband. “Yes, I would expect that. I think we'll find
Faith's cognitive recovery will accelerate rapidly over the next few days.” To her, he said, “Faith, I think you are at a point where I can explain in a little more detail your injuries and our treatment plan from here. First, are you hurting?”

“No.” She pushed the single word out against the raw thickness in her throat.

Dr. Wimberly nodded. “The irritation from that tube will subside rather quickly,” he assured her. “Your recovery has been quite remarkable. Much better than we'd hoped, even.”

She learned emergency personnel had rushed her to Memorial Hermann after the shooting. Miraculously, a sniper's shot had knocked off his aim. The bullet that would have been fatal instead grazed the top of her head.

“You have a brain injury resulting from a trauma that required surgery. We performed what's called a craniectomy, where we removed the fragments of bone and relieved the intracranial pressure by not replacing the bone flap immediately. Currently, you still have minor swelling and fluid buildup, which is likely the medical impetus for the lack of feeling and impairment. We have every reason to hope that will resolve, given time.”

Geary's blue eyes turned hopeful. “Does that mean the issues with Faith's left side might improve?”

Dr. Wimberly nodded. “We hope for that resolution, yes. Of course, brain injuries are a bit finicky. There is no way to fully predict the course of recovery, or the extent.”

She nodded, trying to absorb the information. She'd been shot and had been in the hospital for weeks with Dr. Wimberly and his team of neurosurgeons fighting to keep her alive.

The knowledge was too much to fully comprehend. Exhausted, she focused her thoughts on Dr. Wimberly and made every effort to listen as he explained what was ahead.

“In terms of treatment, our next step, now that we have the swelling under control, is to secure the bone flap back in place.”

Geary cleared his throat. “And when will you do that?”

“I've scheduled the procedure for first thing in the morning.”

“Tomorrow?” The faint alarm in Geary's voice matched her own reaction.

“The risk is minimal,” the doctor quickly assured them. “The upside is we'll be able to remove the helmet at that point, and Faith will be a lot more comfortable.” He stood, talking to Geary more than her. “As soon as we're medically able, we'll move her over to TIRR Memorial, the rehab center of our medical system. I'll continue to follow her there, but another team of professionals will guide the second phase of her recovery.”

Geary stood as well and followed Dr. Wimberly to the door.

“She no doubt has a long road ahead, given the extent of her injuries. Still, your wife's prognosis could have been far more grim.” The doctor stopped and placed his hand on Geary's shoulder. “Her recovery so far has been nothing short of a miracle.”

“Believe me,” Geary said, “masses of people have been praying. Faith is alive.” His voice choked with emotion. “I'm incredibly grateful.”

Dr. Wimberly gave Geary a quick pat, then continued down the hall, leaving Geary standing with his back to her, rubbing at the base of his neck.

He returned to her bedside, swiping at his eyes with the back of his hand. He looked wrecked. The past weeks had definitely taken a toll.

In her weakened state, she still recalled the hurt between them—before. How she'd wounded his spirit.

Yet he was here.

With her good hand, she picked at the blanket. “Tell me—more.”

He'd learned of the shooting when his mother frantically called after seeing the story break on the news. He'd rushed home from Arkansas in the middle of a tournament, leaving his boat docked at Lake Ouachita and booking a charter flight out of Little Rock.

When he finally made it to the hospital, she was already in surgery. “I was afraid I'd never see you again,” he confessed, emotion clouding his expression.

Wendell and Veta organized a round-the-clock prayer vigil. Their care to rally such support was remarkable, given the disintegration of her relationship with their son.

“On the fourth day, doctors adjusted your level of sedation so they could draw you out of the medically induced coma to do some testing. We were all thrilled when you responded to questions and were able to follow Dr. Wimberly's instructions to raise your fingers on your right hand—a great sign.” Geary wove his fingers through her own and squeezed.

The part of her brain that processed instructions was not fully damaged, even though a bullet had traveled the full length of the surface of her left hemisphere at a thousand feet per second. All things considered, she was phenomenally lucky. The bullet had not sliced a major vein or artery in her brain.

Had the bullet passed through the area any deeper, it is unlikely she would have survived. There would have been too much damage.

As it was, her ability to follow a command meant the centers in her brain were intact and communicating with each other, a positive sign.

No doubt, in those early hours Geary had been terrified she might not recover. And helpless at the thought there was nothing he could do to make her well.

If there was anything she'd learned being his wife—Geary Marin really wanted nothing more than to be her Prince Charming.

She didn't deserve his devotion.

In the predawn hours of the following morning, two women entered her room dressed in blue scrubs and caps. One held a clipboard and moved to the monitors near her bed, looking over the top of her reading glasses at the graphs and numbers displayed.

“Looks like you had a rough night,” she noted.

How could the nurse come to that conclusion from simply viewing data? Did those machines record what it felt like to wake in a fog, to be told life had been forever altered? Did those little flashes and beeps, the machines and bags of body fluids hanging from her bed, so easily decipher this terror?

In less than an hour she would undergo a surgical procedure where a piece of her skull stored in specialized refrigeration would be replaced with tiny plates and screws. The whole idea sounded like something out of a science fiction novel.

Yes—she'd had a very bad night.

The nurse with the clipboard left and a white-coated attendant swooped into her room, carrying a large white cover. “Here,” he said. “This will keep you warm until we get you down to the surgery unit.”

After giving Faith something to take the edge off her building anxiety, the nurse leaned across and patted her good shoulder. “Are we ready?”

She closed her eyes and nodded, suddenly feeling very alone.

“Okay, Faith. This young man is going to take you on down to surgery. We'll see you when you get back on the floor.”

She heard a loud click and the bed began to move.

Despite the slight sedation she'd been given earlier, she pushed her right hand against the white sheet tucked around her body. Her eyes searched frantically back and forth. “Wait!” she managed to say through the fog of sedation.

The white-coated attendant pushing the metal gurney paused. “What's that?” he said.

She heard pounding footsteps—growing closer.

“Faith—Faith, I'm here!”

The helmet kept her from turning her head. Geary rushed up alongside. He pulled the sheet down and grabbed her hand. “Sorry, babe. Traffic.” He tried to catch his breath. “I'm here now.”

His presence calmed her, made her feel safe somehow. Geary walked alongside the gurney, holding her hand.

Seconds later, they were outside the surgical suite. “I'm afraid this is where you have to say goodbye,” the attendant told Geary, who nodded.

Her husband brought her hand to his lips. “You're going to be all right,” he promised, almost more to convince himself than her.

Suddenly, she could barely keep her eyes open. Despite earlier reservations, she looked at him in desperation. “Don't—leave—me.”

“I won't. I promise. I won't leave you.”

Minutes later, she lifted her heavy lids to see a man in matching blue cap and scrubs. He smiled. “Faith, it's Dr. Wimberly. I'm going to take good care of you.” He nodded at the anesthesiologist, who administered something into her PIC line. Dr. Wimberly's face softened. “Time to go night-night.”

Before the thick darkness completely swept her away, she saw Geary's face in her mind. As unconsciousness closed in, her thoughts strangely sharpened.

A television guest had once explained how when a bear is caught in the wild, by instinct it will chew off its own appendage in order to be free, even if it means limping for the rest of its life.

Facing unmet expectations, she and Geary had peeled the skin off their relationship one tiny slice at a time, until they were bare and their souls exposed, their marriage crippled.

Even so, their hearts were still attached as securely as the lock still in place under that pier.

And she knew one more thing.

If she could turn the clock back, she'd change everything.