18

Geary 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.