A Reason to Stay (25 page)

T
he following morning, Lawana Maxwell showed up in her room with a dining tray in hand. “I thought I'd personally see to it you had a good breakfast—just like I promised.” She slid the tray onto the bedside table and rolled it into place, then with fanfare lifted the metal cover off the plate. “Voilà! What do you think?”

The plate held an English muffin split open and toasted with hollandaise sauce drizzled over poached eggs and ham. Faith rewarded the nurse with a wide grin. “You're an angel in disguise. How did you know eggs Benedict is my favorite?”

“Anything to brighten that pretty face. You looked so glum when I walked in.” She removed the plastic wrap from on top of a stemmed glass of grapefruit juice. “All this will get better, you know.”

Faith nodded. Yes, with hard work she'd train her brain to communicate with her limbs. Even now, feeling was returning exponentially. Someday she might even learn to run, but that didn't change the fact she lived in a broken world where shooters could mow down people with bullets. She couldn't change that fathers weren't there for their daughters when they most needed them. No rehabs or churches could change the effect crazy mothers had on
their children's lives—leaving some to use meth to ease the pain and some to be too broken to love.

Lawana patted her arm. “I know that's hard to imagine now, but you just wait and see. Now eat up.” She glanced at her watch. “I'll be back in a bit to help you get cleaned up. I hear you're going to have some company this morning.”

Faith nodded. “Yeah, the news crew is coming by.”

Lawana leaned close. “Tell me, what's Mike Jarrett really like? He's so cute.”

She raised her eyebrows at her nurse.

“Oh, don't give me that look. Married women can still look at the menu. They just can't order anything to eat.” She winked and left the room, chuckling to herself.

Alone again, Faith filled her stomach. But no amount of gourmet breakfast could begin to fill the emptiness left in her gut after Geary had walked out the door.

Over a thousand times since that moment, she'd fought not to pick up the phone and call him—tell him she'd made a mistake and invite him back into her life. But each time she closed her eyes, her life spanned ahead, empty and all alone.

Her heart ached for how hurt he must feel right now, not completely understanding why she'd pushed him to move on—why she had to let him go.

What she secretly feared most had come true. Even so, she'd face the dark years ahead multiple times over before she'd allow him to fish in a bottomless lake with no fish swimming in it.

With the help of another nurse, she showered, taking care not to look at her head when she passed the mirror. She'd slept in her scarf, but in the middle of the night it slipped, and when her hand reached to straighten the fabric she dared to run her fingers over the top of her bare skin, across the rough places and the scabby indentation where the bullet had grazed her head.

She let herself recall what it was like to run her fingers through
her long auburn hair, the prickly stubble that currently grew in patches evidence she was different now.

Everything was different now.

That was especially so when Clark Ravino and the others showed up for their scheduled visit.

“Faith, it's so good to see you,” Clark said, giving her a hug. Mike Jarrett, Cathy Buster, and Cammie Watson echoed a similar chorus, a little too brightly. They were all there.

Chuck Howell cleared his throat, obviously emotional. “You look as pretty as you did that day out on that bass boat,” he said, clearly trying to buoy her up with happy talk.

Her hand went to her scarf. “Well, not exactly. But I'm blessed to be here.”

Glances were exchanged, all a silent tribute to Scott Bingham. And to Lynna Scowcroft.

After a thick silence, she tried to lighten the moment. “So if you are all here cheering me up, who's back at the station running things?”

Clark rubbed at his chin. “We left Mark Grubie behind. Not sure how wise a decision it was to leave the station manager in charge, but, well . . .”

Everyone chuckled.

Cathy moved closer. “We are so happy to see you. You don't know what it means to all of us to see you here, to know you're making such great progress and everything.”

“Yeah, that was one scary day,” Lucas Cunningham, the technical operations manager, added.

Clark threw him a look. “Well, we're as anxious as anyone for you to get out of here.” He grew earnest then and his eyes misted. “Faith, you'll always have a place at the station. I hope you know that.”

“Thank you. I'll take you up on that,” she lied, putting on her best game face. “You know me. Nothing can keep me down for long.”

They all chatted for several more minutes before Clark handed her a small box wrapped and decorated with a fancy bow.

She raised her eyebrows. “What's this?” She smiled and tried to unwrap the package. Immediately she was faced with her disability. While it was temporary, the fact was she'd get caught up in some semblance of normal and then reality would sneak up on her and snatch away the illusion.

“Here, let me help,” Mike offered.

Inside the package were an iPad and a card that read,
We have faith in our Faith.

The moment bowled her over and she fought to maintain her wild emotions. “What—what is this?” she choked out.

Clark's lips turned up in a slight smile. “Footage of the early days—of the outpouring of love and concern. We loaded the files onto this tablet and included images of some of the emails and letters that came pouring into the station in those early weeks.” He looked at the others. “We're still getting viewers writing the station wondering how you are and when you'll be back.”

Mike grinned. “It's been great for ratings.”

Cammie Watson elbowed him. “Goodness, Mike. Spoil the moment, why don't you?”

Mike winked. “Faith can take it.”

Faith leaned back against the pillows, relishing these people and the world they represented. Perhaps if she worked hard enough to regain her physical abilities, she might be able to rejoin them. Not in front of the camera, but perhaps in some capacity. She could still research. She could still write.

Clark glanced around the room. “Well, look. I think we've stayed long enough. We don't want to wear you out.”

She reached for him. “No—don't go yet.”

Before he had a chance to change his mind, her PT therapist showed up, ready to take her downstairs. Her co-workers were forced into saying their goodbyes.

“Take care, Faith,” Mike said.

“We're all keeping you in our thoughts and prayers,” Cathy assured her.

When they were gone, she turned to the therapist. “What do I have to do to get out of here as quickly as possible?”

That night after dinner, Faith settled in and took the iPad from her bedside table, clicked it on. First she googled Geary and checked his tournament standings. While remaining steady, his rank had taken a hit when he'd skipped tournaments in the early weeks while remaining by her bedside, confirming her decision had been the right one.

He needed to focus, to get back to his life without being dragged down by an invalid wife.

Next, she googled her brother—just to make sure there was no report of an arrest, or worse, his death.

Finding nothing, she let herself move on to the files Clark had loaded. The first was Mike Jarrett on camera.

“Breaking news: We're getting word that a shooting has taken place at the Johnson Space Center. The spokesman for the Harris County Sheriff's Department has reported several victims, including Senator Libby Heekin Rohny and several of her staff members. Senator Rohny had called a news conference and was announcing budget cuts. A dozen or more individuals have been injured, many critically. In addition to Senator Rohny, it's reported that there are multiple fatalities.”

Mike's face paled and his voice cracked as he pushed through his obvious emotion.

“KIAM-TV crew members were on-site covering the story, and we've learned in just the past few minutes that at least one, and possibly more, of our news staff has been shot.”

Faith's own eyes filled as she listened and thought about the
terror of that morning, of Scott Bingham and Lynna Scowcroft, the senator and her staff.

She took a deep breath to steady herself in an attempt to block an onset of mental flashbacks that might take her under again. In the end, her thirst to understand all that had happened that day overrode her stilted ability to cope, and she elected to keep watching.

One clip showed photos of the victims, including her own. A voice-over report informed the listening audience that the critically injured were being transported to local hospitals, including Memorial Hermann Trauma Center.

Another clip showed makeshift memorials at the entrance to JSC and crowds gathered with candles outside the hospital. One woman held a big sign that read
God Bless You, Faith Marin.

Churches across the metro area gathered in special prayer services. The mayor and the governor both gave statements assuring constituents that there had been a lone shooter and he was now dead, taken out by a sniper shot to stop his terrorizing rampage. The very shot that had saved her own life.

In another film clip, a list of the victims' names scrolled with their ages. Her gut wrenched as she noted the age of the youngest—four years old.

An image formed in her mind. One of a little blond-haired boy in a Thomas the Train T-shirt with a KIAM-TV Junior Anchor sticker secured in place.

As if in real time, Faith's mind played back the boy's mother smiling, then seconds later the young woman folded over top of her son, pleading with the shooter.

Trembling, she squeezed her eyes shut against the horrific memory and buried her face in her good hand, letting the iPad rest in her lap with that list still on the screen.

She sat like that for several minutes, shaking, tears flowing down her cheeks. She shook her head, trying to cleanse the evil acts of that madman from her conscious.

By morning, despite an extraordinary effort to the contrary, she was still struggling to maintain composure and not fall to tears when she met with Dr. Viv for her session.

“You've taken a step back, it seems.” Dr. Viv pushed her glasses up into her hair and poured two cups of coffee from a table on the other side of her desk. “I'd hoped seeing your friends from the news station would lift your spirits.”

Faith stared off through the window where the sun was still shining brightly despite the darkness of her mood. “Another memory returned.”

Dr. Viv handed her a mug filled with the steaming coffee. “Oh? Let's talk about that.”

Numbness flowed through her veins. “Talk? What good does all this talking do? No amount of discussion will change anything. That little boy will still be dead.”

Dr. Viv sat on the sofa. “What little boy, Faith?”

She tried to focus on the warmth of the steaming mug instead of the coldness she felt inside. She would eventually learn to walk and use her arm again as her brain healed. At least that was what all the medical professionals predicted. But the scars would remain—both on the outside and on the inside. And the world would still be broken.

Did she even want to remain in a world where everything was so terribly, horribly broken? What was the purpose?

“Faith? Let's talk about what you remember about the little boy.”

“Huh?” She looked back at Dr. Viv. “Oh yeah. The boy.” She took a sip of the coffee. “Well, the station left me some film footage of the early hours after the shooting.”

Dr. Viv frowned. “I see. I wish they would have cleared that with me first.” She set her mug on a nearby table and leaned over her knees. “Faith, it's really important that you recognize that in addition to the physical limitations you currently are working through, your brain mechanism itself has also suffered an injury
that needs healing. That is why you meet with me. That is why we talk through some of these things. Otherwise, your mind may cause erratic thinking—thoughts that could be harmful. Do you understand?”

She nodded slowly. “Yes, I do.” Somehow she'd been spared in the shooting. Yet here she was considering that she wished she wasn't here. That reasoning seemed so disrespectful of those who'd lost their lives that day—a callous dismissal of that little boy's life.

Determined to do better, she focused on Dr. Viv—on her kindness and offer of help. “There was a little boy there that morning. The victim list said he was four. I saw him that morning. He was wearing a Thomas the Train T-shirt and I bent and placed a sticker on his chest.” Faith's eyes welled with tears. “He was so cute. Blond and had chubby little cheeks. He didn't deserve to die,” she choked out. “His frantic mother tried to save him. She couldn't.”