A Reason to Stay (9 page)

But Faith had already determined long ago she never wanted to be like her mother.

She stared down, fingered her spoon, and let the truth spill. “He was a blue-collar worker of sorts, managed an RV dealership. My folks didn't last as long as yours. Their marriage, I mean.” Taking a deep breath, she decided to come clean. At least in part.
“Seems my father had a love for bourbon—and other women, or at least that's what my mom claimed. They were in the middle of a nasty divorce when he died in a car accident, inebriated and with a twenty-three-year-old blonde in the car. I was nine.”

In the few times Faith had ventured to tell her dark family secret, this is where the person would look at her in pity.

Geary didn't.

Instead he simply nodded and gazed across the table at her with incredible tenderness, a look that held no judgment. A look that wrapped her emotions around him even more. “That's rough,” he acknowledged. He leaned forward, placing his forearms on the table. “Any other siblings?”

“No, only Teddy Jr. Four years younger.” She just wasn't ready to tell him the rest.

“Your mom ever remarry?”

“No, she saw a few men over the years. Some got serious. But—” She hesitated. “But nothing worked out.”

Thankfully, the young woman from behind the counter approached their table, interrupting the conversation before he could make further inquiry into things she'd just as soon not talk about.

“You want some refills?” the woman asked.

Geary held his hand over his mug. “None for me, thanks.”

She shook her head. “No, thank you. It's getting pretty late.”

She was relieved when Geary picked up on her cue and glanced at his watch. “Well, hey. I know you probably need to get up early. But I'd like to show you something before I take you home.”

Minutes later, he drove them the short distance to Seawall Boulevard and into a parking lot still heavily dotted with parked cars.

She looked across at the popular tourist destination, Pleasure Pier. “Uh, I don't do Ferris wheels. Or roller coasters.”

He grinned. “No rides.” His hand slipped into hers. “C'mon, I want to show you something.”

“Where are we going?”

They crossed the street. Instead of heading for the bright lights and tangled crowds, he led her to the sandy waterfront. “Follow me.”

Her curiosity was piqued now. “Geary Marin, you're crazy. Where are we heading?”

Abruptly, he stopped and bent over. In the light cast from the line of streetlights, he untied his tennis shoes and fastened the laces together, then flung the tethered shoes around his neck. “Here, give me yours.”

“My shoes?”

“Yeah, give me your shoes.” He held out his hand, waiting for her to comply.

She scowled and did as he asked. After passing off her sandals, she ventured to ask again, “What are you up to?”

“Come with me.” He grinned and pulled her along. The tide was out, leaving a shoreline of wet sand, the cool feel against her bare feet a huge contrast to the dry sand still warm from the day's sun.

Geary ducked around the underpinnings of the pier and dodged a massive piling. Faith followed close behind, wrinkling her nose at the pungent tar aroma painted on the pylons in order to protect the wood from decaying under the salty water.

Above her head in the shadows, several birds cooed to signal that the human presence had interrupted their nighttime sanctuary. She could only hope one of them wouldn't reciprocate by dropping a surprise onto her hair.

“Okay, here.” Geary stopped, breathless, a wide grin on his face.

She frowned. “We're where? Under the pier?”

He chuckled and pointed. “Look.”

Her gaze followed his finger. It was hard to see in the dim shadows. She stepped a little to the left, allowing light to illuminate where he pointed.

One of the larger pylons had been wrapped with fencing, the kind made of thin galvanized wire welded together to make chicken
wire. On the fencing were hundreds of padlocks. The locks were of all sizes, in many colors. Some had writing on them, which were actually inscriptions—many faded by the water, but a lot of them still discernable.

She leaned closer to take it all in. “Wow. What is this?”

He folded his arms, looking pleased that she was intrigued. “There is a bridge in Paris, France, known as the Love Lock Bridge. That's not the real name, but that's what all the locals know it by, and the tourists who encounter the phenomenon in their travels. I saw it when spending a few days in Paris with some buddies on a layover from a mission trip to Romania the summer after our junior year in high school.”

She looked at him, puzzled. “I'm not sure I get it.”

“Lovers worldwide leave a token of their commitment to one another by attaching a padlock onto the fence lining the bridge, and then throwing away the key into the water below. The idea quickly caught on and these types of love lock fences started popping up all over.” He stepped closer and fingered a couple of the locks attached. “When we got back, me and my friends decided to start one here.”

She raised her eyebrows. “You did this?”

He grinned. “Well, yeah—a long time ago. We put the fence up and a bunch of friends from high school attached the first locks. Not all of them represent romantic situations.” He pointed to one up at the top. “That one's mine. I put it there as a sign of my commitment to Christ and my desire to be a good person.”

For some reason, the notion struck her funny. She let out a slight chuckle. “You must have been pretty gung ho fresh off that mission trip.”

He laughed. “Yeah, I suppose I was.”

“What about all these other locks? I mean, there are so many of them.”

She could see Geary's deep blue eyes twinkle, even in the dusk. “I know. Pretty amazing, huh?”

He dug into his jeans pocket and pulled out a small padlock and a black Sharpie pen.

“What—what's that?”

He pulled the cap off the pen and wedged it in his teeth, then drew a heart on the face of the lock. Inside he wrote:

G + F = Forever

The gesture immediately pricked at a deep place in her heart. A bit overwhelmed by the unexpected emotion, she tried to make light of the moment. “I love it, but the inscription is a little junior high, don't you think?” Still, she couldn't help but smile widely. Especially when she thought of how he'd brought along these items with every intention of bringing her down here tonight.

He didn't respond immediately. Instead he pulled a tiny bottle of epoxy from his jeans pocket and painted over the inscription to preserve what he'd written. Then he reached high and found a vacant space on the wire fence. She watched as he attached the lock. When he'd finished, he turned and offered her the key.

“Throw it,” he said.

She gave him a puzzled look, her heart pounding.

“Throw it,” he repeated. “No matter what is ahead, you have my heart and friendship, Faith Bierman.”

With shaking fingers, she slid the miniature key from his palm.

What
are you doing?
she asked herself.

But despite her reservations, she wanted desperately to give him her heart as well. So she closed her fingers around that little piece of metal, brought her fist to her lips, and kissed it for good luck.

Faith turned and looked into those deep blue eyes. Eyes that held such tenderness and sensitivity. Geary Marin represented a stability she longed for. He was a Prince Charming in every manner.

And she deserved that. Didn't she?

Convinced she did, she took a couple of tentative steps in the direction of the water and held her breath.

Then with wild abandon, she flung her arm and let go.

D
ark. Stillness.

In the distance, voices from above the waterline invaded, breaking into her deeply immersed twilight. Light broke through in similar manner. Images slowly formed, warbled by water.

“Faith. Faith, can you hear us?”

She should move to the surface. She wanted to.

Lift
your arms. Paddle your legs.

Both remained heavily weighted in place.

She tried to lift her eyelids. They fluttered yet seemed glued shut by something unknown.

“Faith, if you hear my voice, lift your fingers.”

Her fingers. She let her muffled mind imagine an arm, her arm. The length of it. At the end, her fingers.

She scowled. Concentrated.

Why was all this so hard?

“That's it. That's the way.” The voice sounded enthused. “Now the other.”

Her mind searched for the other arm. Confused.

Her arm. Yes, the other one. She could find—wait, where?

Panic bloomed.

She needed air. Needed the surface. Needed to get out.

With all the strength she could muster, she fought to break free of the water.

She needed out.

She felt herself lift. Closer. Near the voices.

The voices clarified . . . slightly.

“That's it. There she is. I think she's joining us now.”

More commotion. More light. More voices.

She broke through the surface then. Much-needed air flooded her nostrils. Warmth covered her skin. Her muscles, still tense from the strain, could finally relax.

“Faith? Faith, you with us?”

Open your eyes.

She couldn't.

Breathe in. Breathe out . . .
Again.

The pain hit.

Crushing in its strength. Blinding in intensity.

Her eyes flew open.

Medical professionals swarmed. They checked machines. They checked her vitals, her pupils.

She groaned when the tiny penlight slashed across her line of vision.

“I think she's awake. She's awake, isn't she?” A vaguely familiar figure rifled his fingers through his dark hair.

A man with gray hair and white at the temples patted her hand. “Yes, good. I think Sleeping Beauty is back with us. At least for now.” He leaned over the bed. “Faith, look at me. I'm Dr. Wimberly. Are you in any pain?”

Faith blinked several times. The motion brought a wave of nausea. The ache in her head pounded.

She lifted her chin slowly, then lowered it again, trying to say yes.

“Okay, Faith. We'll give you something to take the edge off. But we want you nice and awake now.”

There were more of them now gathering in the room. More activity.

She tried to open her mouth. So dry.

A buxom woman with red hair, wearing a uniform tunic printed in little monkeys, swabbed her mouth with a large Q-tip-looking thing. The cotton was wet and tasted like mint.

“Let's raise her up a bit.” Dr. Wimberly motioned to the nurse, who sprang into motion.

Faith heard the grinding sound of a motor and felt her upper torso lift slightly. The room tilted out of focus for the briefest seconds, then clarified with a dull ache that pounded in her head with every heartbeat.

She swallowed against a throat that felt like the skin inside had been rubbed off with sandpaper. “Thirsty,” she mouthed.

Dr. Wimberly grinned. “That's a good sign. Let's get her a few cc's of water. Not much. She's still vulnerable to swelling.”

While several technicians examined surrounding machines, the nurse placed a straw inside her lips.

Faith sucked, letting the water flow into her parched mouth and throat. She sucked again, much harder this time. And again.

“Whoa, not too much, sweetie,” the nurse said and pulled the straw back.

Faith cleared her throat. “Where—” Her voice sounded tinny. She tried again. “Where am I?”

Dr. Wimberly gave her a broad smile. “You're at Memorial Hermann, Faith.”

“Hos—pital?” she asked, trying to take in the information. “Was I—an accident?”

The doctor nodded. “Yes. Of sorts.”

She closed her eyes, trying to recall.

An accident?

“Faith, we're going to check a few things. Just relax.”

Exhausted, she closed her eyes while the medical professionals poked and prodded.

“Faith, do you feel that?”

She let her eyes drift back open, wondering what they meant.

“How about this?”

“Ouch!”

“Okay, that's good.” Dr. Wimberly patted her right shoulder, then turned to the others in the crowded room.

While they were talking, she reached forward. The movement took great effort, but she needed to—

Dr. Wimberly turned. His eyes showed concern, then grew soft. “Faith, you have a head injury. We operated on you four days ago.” His hand stroked his neatly trimmed white goatee. “Do you remember?”

Frightened and a bit confused, she tried to shake her head. She remembered nothing.

He pulled a chair to the bed and sat. “Faith, I know you're scared. But you are going to be all right. You've been here at Memorial Hermann for four days. You have a brain injury resulting from a trauma that required surgery. Currently, you still have a lot of swelling and fluid buildup, which is likely the medical impetus for the lack of feeling and impairment. But rest assured we have every reason to hope all that will resolve, given time.”

She listened wide-eyed to the information. While she understood the words and even the meaning to some small extent, she still couldn't comprehend how she got here. Exhaustion seemed to weigh down her ability to think, and try as she might to focus, her mind seemed to have a life of its own. Despite wanting otherwise, she didn't know how to formulate the myriad of questions pummeling her intuition. There was more, she knew. Additional information not provided.

“I want—when?” Her words faltered, betraying her intentions.

The doctor pushed his chair back and stood. “You're going to be with us awhile, but I promise everyone here is committed to getting you better and back home as quickly as possible.”

He turned and walked out of view.

“Why is her skin so yellowed?”

Faith tried to place the familiar voice as the discussion continued from across the room, but her muddled brain wouldn't cooperate.

Finally, the familiar voice faltered. “So what are we looking at, Dr. Wimberly?”

“I'm not going to sugarcoat the situation. The trauma she suffered from the bullet is severe. Her long-term prognosis is hopeful. We are wise to acknowledge miracles.”

The bullet?

Even in its broken state, Faith's mind raced. Snippets of images formed.

The blue sky.

People running.

A little boy in a Thomas the Train T-shirt.

“Noooo!” The word broke through her trembling lips without forethought. Tears flooded her eyes and she flailed her right arm wildly. “No!”

Immediately, her bedside was crowded with people in white coats. The woman in the monkey fabric grasped her forearm, pinning it to the bed. “Dr. Wimberly,” she hollered with alarm.

“Okay, I entertained the possibility this might be too much too fast. Let's give her some relief.” He shouted instructions and the people around her bed went to work. Dr. Wimberly leaned over her and gently said, “Faith. It's going to be all right. You have nothing to fear. We're here to take care of you.” He nodded to the nurse who busied herself at Faith's arm. “Time to go night-night.”

Her thoughts grew fuzzy, like cream gravy poured over a lump of mashed potatoes.

Then something amazing happened.

The man she'd seen earlier stood near, worry rusting the shine in his eyes.

“Is she—?” He wedged in closer, alarm apparent. “Faith?”

Their eyes connected for the briefest of seconds before fog rolled in and she sank back into the depths of the water.

His hand brushed the side of her face. “I'm here, baby. I'm not leaving you.”

She listened to his voice while descending deeper and deeper—her mind locked on those intrepid blue eyes.