A Reason to Stay (22 page)

“What—” She could hear her own voice grow shaky. “What are you saying?”

He climbed inside his truck. Before he closed the door he looked back at her. “I'm not sure what I'm saying—only that when it comes to us, it seems you've already decided to cut bait.”

F
aith sat stiff in her new wheelchair feeling a little light-headed—literally, in that her head was no longer encased in the protective helmet that had covered her vulnerable skull since the shooting.

A middle-aged woman with blonde hair pulled back in a French knot and tortoise-shell reading glasses parked on top of her head came from around her desk to greet her. “Faith, you may not remember meeting me earlier. I'm Dr. Vivian Henbest—Dr. Viv is what most of my patients call me.” She extended her hand and pointed to a seating area meant to replicate a cozy living room in the corner of her large office. “Let's talk over here, shall we?”

The attendant who had escorted Faith from her room upstairs guided the wheelchair and positioned her facing a traditional-styled sofa covered in ivory material. The sofa was accented with pillows in shades of blue, one in brown leather. A large rattan trunk served as a coffee table.

“Thank you,” the doctor said, dismissing the guy who had wheeled Faith down. She placed a file on top of a stack of magazines on the table and sat.

The attendant locked her wheels in place. “No problem, Dr. Viv.”

“I'm afraid I didn't get lunch, so please indulge me for a few minutes.” The doctor pulled an energy bar from her flowing jacket pocket and unwrapped it. “I'm so delighted you are at this point in such a relatively short period of time, given your injuries.” She took a bite and chewed.

“Relative to what?” Faith replied, wondering how anyone could characterize the amount of time she'd laid in that hospital bed as anything but what it was—lengthy. As far as she could tell, the horizon that stretched in front of her would be filled with nothing but the same.

The thought depressed her.

“Good point,” Dr. Viv said as she finished up the snack bar and wiped her hands on a used napkin she'd fished from the same pocket. “Like I mentioned, my face is likely not one you recognize, although I've been immersed in your care since your arrival. Along with Dr. Wimberly, your surgeon, and Dr. Craig Adamson, who is managing your rehabilitation, I am the third leg of your managing team. I'm a neuropsychologist, which is a fancy word for someone who specializes in the relationship of the nervous system and the cognitive function of the brain. My role will be to help you journey back to emotional health.”

“I need a quack?” Immediately, she wished she'd tempered her choice of words. It seemed that since her TBI—traumatic brain injury—certain thoughts could pop inside her brain and out of her mouth. No filters.

Dr. Viv didn't seem offended. “Well, some of my colleagues might challenge the term
quack
, but if it walks like a duck and talks like a duck . . .” She smiled and shrugged.

Well, at least this woman didn't take herself too seriously. Dr. Viv had a friendly face despite her severe jawline and thin lips. She wasn't exactly pretty—more studious. Faith wasn't a huge fan of the whole Soho look, but the doctor pulled it off pretty
well. And clearly, she'd done something right to attain a position of this impressive level.

Dr. Viv pulled Faith's file from off the table and opened it. She slid her glasses onto her nose and read through the contents briefly before looking up. “So, Dr. Wimberly and the team just recently replaced your skull flap. Must seem nice to go without that helmet, huh?”

Faith nodded.

“And you've been put through a battery of tests this week to assess your cognitive and motor skills.”

Again, Faith nodded. She had in fact spent the week trapped in lengthy sessions with bright-eyed people in white coats.

“Okay, Faith, listen carefully to this list:
Kentucky
,
Idaho
,
China
,
Wyoming
. Which term in this list doesn't belong? Or this one:
chair
,
book
,
fork
,
people
.”

She answered the first correctly on her initial try. Admittedly the second stumped her for several moments. Finally, her brain kicked in and the answer became apparent. “People,” she responded.

“Can you tell me why?”

“Unlike the rest in the list,
people
is plural.”

From the sofa, Dr. Viv gave her an encouraging smile. “Based on the test results, you are very fortunate. Your level of cognitive impairment is minimal.” She glanced at Faith's limp hand. “You've suffered some obvious physical consequences, but the team believes proper rehabilitation, coupled with simple reduction of swelling and brain tissue healing, will eventually restore a good level of function on that left side.”

Dr. Viv pressed her glasses back on top of her head. “The main thing to remember is that your recovery is a process and requires a lot of patience on your part. Sometimes the unseen injuries end up being the most impactful. There are very real physical components to the psychological elements of the trauma you suffered—some
the medical community understands fully, and frankly, some we do not. Brain chemicals play a huge role in our moods, our ability to cope and feel joy. Electrical activity is also a major component that the scientific community is still seeking to explain. That's where I come in. I will be the one who will assess how your TBI has injured your emotions and ability to feel.”

Faith tried to adjust herself in the chair. “Yeah, I get that. But it seems to me I don't have any choice but to cope with what happened. There isn't much way to change things, now is there?”

“No,” Dr. Viv admitted. “But we can help you maneuver how you think about all the changes imposed on your life. This room will be a safe place to voice what's happening on that critical emotional level.”

Good gravy
, Faith thought. That was all she needed on top of everything else thrust upon her. She couldn't even go to the bathroom by herself, couldn't bathe or brush her teeth without assistance. Now she had to satisfy this woman's need to get inside her head (no pun intended) and try to unscramble how all that made her feel? How did she think a woman who had been anchor of
Faith on
Air
would feel about sitting here in a wheelchair with her head wrapped in a thick white bandage? Clearly, it was unadulterated and immense joy to know her limbs on the left side dangled like cooked spaghetti noodles.

“Oh, okay—yeah, that's great,” she lied. The way she figured, the more she pretended to cooperate, the sooner the highly intelligent mind doctor might move on to someone else.

If she played this game right, Dr. Viv with her little half glasses would soon bore and turn to some poor kid who'd gotten in a severe motorcycle accident without a helmet, or a wife whose husband sought to control her with a Smith & Wesson 39 held to her head.

Dr. Viv studied her for several moments. “Faith, we're going to be spending a lot of time together over the coming weeks.
I always like to start the process with a very baseline question.” She leaned forward slightly. “Are you glad you survived the shooting?”

Faith scowled. What kind of question was that? “Yes, of course. Why wouldn't I be?”

Dr. Viv leaned back and casually placed her arm on the sofa back. “That's a good question. Why would someone in your exact situation be prone to answer that question differently?”

Faith lifted her chin, knowing where the doctor was going with this. “Well, let's see. Yeah, I can see where someone could be in a dark place, mentally speaking, after having their entire life ripped out from under them.”

“What's been the hardest thing—for you?”

“It's all hard.” Faith's unstable emotions failed her again. She wanted to appear stoic. Instead her eyes filled. “Look at me. I'm broken.”

“Faith? What's the hardest thing?”

This was where she needed to say being separated from the people she loved. Or maybe the doctor would buy it if she claimed being the news instead of reporting it.

She opened her mouth, ready to spout her pretense, but something inside her caught.

Time now had a new meaning—before and after.

Her life was now filled with antiseptic and medical odors. Stiff hospital mattresses and scratchy pillowcases. Plastic chairs and chipped Formica tables filled with stupid little puzzles meant to stimulate her arm recovery.

She hated the way tears would form at the drop of a hat. How she was reduced to bathing when someone told her she could, eating when someone delivered a tray, and worse, using the toilet with someone standing outside the door in case she fell.

Her legs—she wanted to shave her legs. Tweeze her brows. Paint her nails.

She longed to make it through one night without lying awake listening to distant footsteps and beeping and crackly voices over the intercom.

She hated feeling helpless.

Her jaw set. She took a deep breath and ventured a look in the doctor's direction. “I—I guess it's the fact that I'm not even me anymore.”

T
IRR Memorial Hermann, the highly acclaimed rehabilitation and research center located on the Texas Medical Center campus in downtown Houston, was known for being the leading traumatic brain injury recovery center in the United States.

Faith had done a feature on the remarkable success stories, never anticipating that one day she'd be needing the same expert help in learning to function again.

Geary slid on her bed slippers and patted her leg. “Are you all ready for the big move?”

As if on cue a nurse appeared, clipboard in hand. “Well, looks like the big day has finally arrived. Are you all packed up?”

Geary moved the few bags against the wall and gathered them up. “Yes, she's ready,” he answered for her.

After a short transport, Geary helped her settle into what would be her new home for the next month or so. Here she'd learn to walk again and to use her left arm—at least to the extent possible as her brain continued to heal.

Dr. Wimberly had come in the night before to bid her well on the next leg of her journey. “We have every reason to believe you will have substantial improvement to mobility over the course of
the next weeks. Especially under the capable care of Dr. Adamson and the rehabilitation team.”

She couldn't help but tear up. “Thank you, Dr. Wimberly. For everything.”

He patted her good arm. “Oh, I'm still on your team. Your new home is only across the complex. I'll be dropping in to check on you on occasion.”

Unlike acute care where everything was designed to stabilize the trauma her body had experienced, the focus now would turn to helping her live with her new normal. While her injuries were not near what so many other patients suffered, she was nowhere close to being able to live successfully on her own—at least not yet.

She would continue to meet with Dr. Viv, of course. Her new rehab team would be under the direction of Dr. Craig Adamson, a brilliant man who had spearheaded cutting-edge research in traumatic brain injuries and strokes.

The room at the rehab hospital looked quite different than where Faith had spent the past weeks. While it was still very much a medical facility, much care had been given to making her surroundings as home-like as possible.

First, there were several floral bouquets covering nearly every table surface in her new room. One from the station, a bright mix of pink peonies and coral roses accented with stems of blue delphinium. Another, a massive bunch of red roses in a crystal vase, was from Oliver Hildebrand. The card read,
Best wishes for a full and speedy
recovery. You are one of the strongest women I know
.

She wished she felt the same.

Her bed was covered with a light comforter in a melon-colored print that matched the draperies. Artwork hung on the walls and lamps with pretty shades starkly contrasted with the harsh overhead lighting in acute care. The biggest thing to catch Faith's attention was the television mounted on the wall. She finally had access to the news.

As soon as possible, she begged off with Geary. “Thank you for everything you did to help me get settled.”

He placed the final nightgown in the wooden chest against the wall and slipped the drawer closed. “Happy to help, babe.”

She leaned back against her pillows and closed her eyes.

“You look tired.”

“Yes, I think my body is reminding me not to take things too fast. I'm pretty tuckered.”

He smiled at her. “You want to get some rest? I can come back in the morning if you want.”

She nodded. “Do you mind? I just need to rest up. I have my round of assessment testing this afternoon.”

“Wow, these folks don't let any grass grow under your feet.” He leaned and gave her a hug. “I like that. Sooner we get you fixed up, the faster you're back home with me.” He kissed her then, an impetuous kiss straight on the mouth. A kiss that made her heart stutter. A kiss that made her insides stir.

She pulled back, caught the fire in her husband's eyes.

Obviously, the matter was settled in Geary's mind. They were a couple again. In her own, she couldn't help but feel like a puppy rescued after being hit by a car. Anyone with half a heart would feel compelled to take her in.

Quite by accident, earlier Geary had let it slip he planned to take another leave from the circuit, even though he was currently in the lead and likely to be a real contender for the championship.

“You can't do that!” she'd protested. “Geary, promise me you won't stop now. You mustn't. Not when you are this close. Please—”

“Look, the matter is settled,” he said. “Career aspirations can wait. You need me—here with you.”

It was at that moment Faith realized that life was often written in the simple language of need—her need to feel secure and that her life had purpose, his to be needed.

While the actions of a madman had robbed her of her steady places, Geary was flailing about, still trying to hold on to his.

“Geary,” she began. She waited for his blue eyes to focus on her own. “Please hear me. I desperately need you, I do. But not in the way you might think.” She took a deep breath and jumped off the edge of what was now their marriage, hoping her words would land on firm ground and not shatter their fragile renewed relationship.

“The shooter's bullets struck me down. Please don't make me carry the weight of believing he ended your career dreams too.” She reached for his arm. “I need you to go on—to win if possible. In some way, that will be like spitting back. I need you to do this for both of us—and especially for me.”

Geary ran his fingers through his dark hair. “But I—”

“No buts. I need this.”

She wasn't sure he totally embraced the idea she conveyed. Still, his shoulders sagged with resignation.

“Fine. Have it your way, Faith. For now,” he said. “But the minute I believe you'd be better off with me here by your side, all bets are off.”

In the early aftermath of the shooting, Geary had followed the medical team's advice and allowed no visitors, not even his parents. Thankfully, he'd guarded her privacy like a bulldog—especially aware how easily photographs might find their way into the wrong hands. Extra caution had been in place, even to the point of transporting her over to the TIRR Memorial without any prior announcement in the media.

Personal tragedies, especially if connected to a celebrity, could be exploited for pure monetary purposes. This she knew well.

No doubt every station in Houston, including her own, had scoured her social media pages for photos beyond the standard
airbrushed head shots. They'd look for vacation photos, snapshots of her family—anything that would personalize the situation and build empathy for the poor woman who had been shot.

She knew that was how things were done, yet she'd never been on this side of a story. While Geary and the medical personnel couldn't create a fortress between her and the media, with careful planning, they'd made things a bit more difficult—at least in the early weeks. But Faith wasn't naïve. She couldn't stay in a protective bubble forever. Calls and emails had been flooding the hospital's public information office.

Family, friends, and co-workers were pressuring Geary for an opportunity to see her now that she'd been released from intensive care. Like it or not—it was time. She didn't feel right putting it off much longer.

With little discussion needed, she and Geary agreed Wendell and Veta would be her first visitors.

As always, they were right on time.

There was a rap on the door and Geary peeked inside. “You up for some company?”

She straightened her bedcovers. “Sure, come on in.”

It's so easy to presume that while your own world has ground to an absolute halt, so has everyone else's. But outside the walls of the hospital, grass still grew and got mown, freeways still clogged with drivers battling to get to work on time, and women still had their hair cut and styled—even her mother-in-law.

She liked Veta's new look.

Geary leaned across the bed and gave Faith a gentle kiss on the forehead. Wendell and Veta stood close behind him, appearing tenuous. Upon seeing her, Veta teared up and Wendell placed his hand on his wife's shoulder.

Instinctively, Faith's hands went to her bandaged head. “I—I must look a fright.”

“No, you look—well, like an angel sitting in that bed.” Veta
moved closer. “Faith, sweetheart. We were so afraid we'd lose you, honey.” Her voice choked and she turned to Wendell. “Weren't we?”

Wendell grew a little misty-eyed as well. “You have no idea how many prayers went up on your behalf.”

Veta nodded. “Oh yes. There were prayer vigils from that first night. Our church family was devastated by the news.” Her mother-in-law patted Faith's arm, the one she couldn't move. “As were we.”

The sentiments expressed were authentic. Despite her in-laws' overzealous nature, they had been good to her from day one. Annoying, but good.

The Marins were the kind of people who hung on to joy in any circumstance and never seemed to have to rummage for it. But no doubt that fateful day out at the Johnson Space Center had shaken them both.

She'd missed them, and wanted them to know. She reached out her good hand, inviting them closer.

Veta didn't need further invitation. She quickly bent and scooped Faith into her ample arms. Faith rested her cheek against her mother-in-law, taking in the way she smelled of vanilla, while Wendell grasped her good hand and squeezed.

Their affection took Faith a bit off guard. She felt a lump building in her throat.

No doubt they'd been pained to learn of the troubles in her and Geary's marriage. That a pair of laidback Columbia sports loafers simply couldn't dance with Cole Haan power pumps, and that their son and daughter-in-law had considered turning off the music.

Veta especially would believe these differences could be worked out—especially if they turned to God for help.

Then the shooting and the terrible aftermath. When everything changed.

She patted Veta's hand. “I've missed you,” she managed, not sure what to say beyond that. Veta nodded and stepped back as if she'd used up her time.

Neither was Wendell reticent when it came his turn to hug her. He folded her in his arms. “I'm so glad you came back to us. In those early hours we just didn't know—” His voice tangled with emotion and he drew back. “We're so thankful God brought you back to us.”

She couldn't help it. Her own throat constricted with the realization Geary's parents indeed loved her. Somehow she'd believed they would blame her for everything and might even be glad if she exited their family picture. She should have known better.

Suddenly, she felt exhausted. It was as if the weeks of being hooked to all those tubes had siphoned all her strength and her body now often betrayed her with fatigue. Leaning back against the pillows, she momentarily closed her eyes.

She felt them watching her.

In the past, she and Geary hadn't been able to find the magic recipe—or the will—to work things out. And now . . . well, now she was broken. Sadly, Geary deserved a wife who was whole and able to give him that family he so wanted.

Thanks to her stubborn nature and a stray bullet, she'd wasted the opportunity to give him children. Like Wendell, he would've made such a good father.

“Faith, are you okay?”

She opened her eyes to Geary. “I'm sorry. I'm just so tired tonight.” She turned to her in-laws. “They had me up today and in a wheelchair for several hours.”

Veta immediately grinned at that good news and picked up her pom-poms. “Oh, Faith. Honey, that's wonderful. You're making such significant progress.”

Wendell joined the cheerleading squad. “Geary tells us the doctors say it's likely you'll walk and have complete movement again—once your brain has had time to fully heal.” He gave her arm a reassuring pat.

Geary brushed her cheek. “Look, I guess we'd better go. Let you get rested.”

Her fingers clutched his. “No, please don't. I'm tired, but it's truly good to see all of you.” She was talking too fast but didn't care. Hours ticked slowly inside these walls. “I wanted to ask a huge favor.”

He nodded. “Anything. What do you need?”

“I want to go outside.”

Geary stepped back. “Oh, I'm not sure, Faith. That might not be such a great idea.”

“I asked Dr. Adamson this morning,” she assured him. “He said getting out briefly would do no harm.”

Geary's face was shadowed with concern. “You just got the helmet off.”

“Dr. Adamson says the earlier I get started navigating back into some semblance of normal life, the better. In fact, the chance for full recovery is increased.”

Wendell rubbed his chin. “Well then, let's get after it.”

Veta placed her hand on her son's arm. “I understand your concern, son, but I agree. If her doctors gave consent, let's move Faith outside, get her some fresh air. It'll probably do her a lot of good.”