Stepping Down (9 page)

The
throbbing in his head wasn’t overwhelming, but the pain in his right arm had to
come from the devil himself chewing into Mark’s nerves. He wanted to yell, but
the holler came out more like a moan.

“Baby?”

He
recognized Sharla’s voice. Moaned again, nearly gagging at the nasty fire
within his mouth and throat. Now he understood
how
the rich man
must have felt when he requested a measly drop of water
from Lazarus’s fingertip.

“Dad?”

Amani?
Mark wondered who else was there,
wherever they were. He wanted to open his eyes, but the simple task would take
far too much energy and incoming light might make his head pound even more.

His
lips burned, too. He faintly rolled them inward and rubbed his tongue across
them. The cracked, dry veil of dead skin registered in his brain as a bad sign.

He
heard shoes shuffle toward him on a tile floor. They stopped. Then, the bed
jarred slightly, sending a tidal wave of pain through his right arm. Agony
propelled the word, “Stop,” from his mouth.

“I’m
sorry, honey.”

 “Bless
God!”

“Amen!
He’s talking again!”

Rev.
Jackson?  Rev. Kit?

Why
were these men in their bedroom with his wife and son?

“Amani,
go get a doctor. Tell ‘em your Daddy is awake again.”

A
doctor?

Unfamiliar women’s
voices mixed in with his wife’s. They were telling Sharla that they had her
back, they were praying for her. Something about the First Ladies.

A flood of church
members who came to visit. They were too loud. Even with lowered tones, the
slightest emphasis on a word reverberated in his head.

Perhaps
because they thought he couldn’t hear, there were soft questions about a woman.
An accident. A gunshot. None of it made sense to him behind the thick curtain
of blackness in his head.

The haze of
anesthesia wore off, almost making Mark wish he could be put back under again.
His entire body ached as though he’d climbed a ten-story building and jumped
off. Twice.

Not
to mention the hunger pangs writhing through his stomach. He opened his eyes
and beheld the white ceiling tiles. They moved about two feet to the left, then
back to the right. Mark shut his eyes tight.

“You
up?”

He
tilted his head toward Sharla’s voice. He hoped that this time when his lids
parted, the room—including his wife—would be stationary. Slowly, he
let the light in again.

“Thank
God,” Sharla inhaled, cupping her mouth with both hands.

“Yes,”
Mark croaked. “Water.”

Sharla
rushed to the sink. Mark was too exhausted to follow her with his head. He
waited, his neck fixed in same position. Now, in lieu of Sharla’s face, he saw
the opposite wing of the hospital. Rows and rows of windows, behind which must
have been dozens of sick people.

And
then it occurred to Mark that
he
must be sick, too, because he was laid
up in bed looking out of one of these sick-people windows. “Sharla,” he
mustered a whisper.

She
rushed back to his side with the small cup of water in hand. Seeing her
standing there, Mark realized that he couldn’t possibly sip from the cup lying
flat on his back.

As
though she’d read his mind, Sharla asked, “You want me to raise the top of the
bed up a few inches?”

The
proposal didn’t sound like a good idea to Mark. “Get a straw.”

Sharla
laughed. “The doctors were afraid you might have sustained permanent brain
damage. I’ll be happy to tell them you’re just as sharp as ever.”

Sharla
returned with the straw and cup. She bent down and stuck the straw through the
bed railings.

Mark
took small sips. The cool trickle soothed his throat tremendously. “Thank you.”

She
withdrew the straw. “Are you in any pain?”

“My
arm.”

“Okay.
I’ll get the nurse in for meds.” She reached down, producing a white box. Mark
watched as she pressed a button, then spoke to a woman through the mechanism,
requesting pain relief.

“I’ll
be there in a second,” blared through the speaker.

A
second seemed like far too long to wait for relief. Perhaps if he knew the
reason for his suffering, it might be easier to bear. “What happened to me?”

Sharla
stared down at him. “You were in a car accident.”

Mark
squinted, trying to rack his brain for a memory. “When?”

“Three
days ago,” Sharla said.

“What’s
today?”

“Sunday.”

“Who’s
preaching?” he wanted to know.

She
rolled her neck to one side. “Mark, that’s the last thing you need to be
worried about. You could have lost your life,” she informed him in
lecture-mode. “And you
almost
lost your entire right arm.”

He
almost wished he didn’t have the limb at that moment. He could feel every pump
of blood pulsing through the arm’s veins. There should be some kind of special
pill for this degree of pain. Surely, modern medicine could find a way to give
him some ease. If not, he might have to resort to his father’s methods: 100
proof whiskey.

A
nurse, dressed in Mickey Mouse scrubs, entered the room. “Hello there, Mr.
Carter,” she said cheerfully. “It’s nice to see you alert.”

“Mmmm,”
he moaned in the most upbeat manner possible.

She
injected a solution into the IV line. “This’ll take effect shortly. It’ll
probably make you drowsy at the same time, though. Can’t have it both ways.”

“Thank
you,” Sharla said on behalf of her husband. She stood over Mark again,
breathing deeply.

Mark
could tell there was something else on his wife’s mind. Was he dying? Were both
of his legs actually there or was the feeling only a phantom? To assure himself
that he had use of his arms, Mark attempted to raise his left hand to Sharla’s
cheek. Thankfully, his body obeyed.

“What’s
the matter, Mamasita?”

She
shook her head. “We can talk about it later. I don’t want to waste the time we
have before you drift off again. I love you, Mark. I thank God for sparing your
life.”

He
traced her chin with his forefinger. “What are you not telling me?”

Sharla
shifted her weight to one side. Her eyebrows drew close together.

“Go
ahead,” he encouraged her gently.

“There
were other…people...involved in the accident.”

“What?
How many people?”

“Two
other cars, but they weren’t too bad.”

Mark
sighed, “Bless God.”

Anxiety
seeped through Sharla’s glare. “And there was a woman. In your car.”

“
What
woman?”

“I
don’t know exactly who she is…to you. They took her to a different hospital.”

 “Is
she okay?”

“I’m
not sure. Her injuries were a lot worse than yours since it was her side that
got rammed into the concrete median.”

Median!
Mark remembered careening out of
control. And then, somehow, a large, flaming cat entered the picture. “A lion.”

Sharla
gave him duck-lips. “What?”

His
wife’s image grew fuzzy. “I saw a lion on a bookstand.”

“It’s
okay, Mark. The drugs are kicking in. Go on and get your rest before half of
New Vision comes in to visit after first service, and the other half after
second.”

He
couldn’t have kept his eyes open if he’d wanted to.

“Faster!” she
yelled. She twisted her body in the passenger’s seat, looking back at the
driver in hot pursuit. “Oh my God! He’s crazy!”

Mark
made a left out of the lot onto a sleepy street, then another left leading to
the intersection. Somehow, he imagined that they’d be safer on a busy street;
the chaser wouldn’t endanger dozens of lives, would he?

The
SUV’s back windshield shattered as another bullet zipped between him and the
woman, and lodged in the dashboard.

On
second thought, the person in that vehicle was a lunatic. A four-way light
wouldn’t save them. Mark ignored his own stop sign, barely missing a
convertible as he fishtailed onto the main street. If he could get a good
thirty yards ahead on a long stretch, the Caddy would do the rest of the work.

“He
shot me!” the woman screamed.

Quickly,
Mark glanced over at his passenger. Blood seeped through her white shirt at the
shoulder, momentarily arresting his attention from the road.

A
moment too long.

When
Mark looked up, there was a truck coming straight-on. He couldn’t fathom how
he’d gotten into that position, but the only way out was to swerve into the
median and hope for the best.

In
that instant, he felt a Presence pressing against him, bracing him for the
impact. 

“Aaaaah!”
Mark shouted.

“Baby!”
Sharla was suddenly at his side along with a host of other church members
towering over him.

 “You
alright, Pastor?” and “It’s gon’ be okay,” came from the small crowd.

Mark
could hardly get air with all these people in his space. “Sit me up.”

Sharla
took hold of the white box again. The incline came quickly, sending sharp jabs
throughout his body. Mark grimaced, holding his breath while his bones and
muscles fought against the movement. “That’s enough,” he exhaled.

Amani
pushed through the visitors and took first place at his father’s side. “Dad,
you were having another nightmare.”

Peering
up at Amani loosed another flashback. The woman, whose name he now believed
started with a B had said that Amani belonged to her. Now, comparing Amani to
the last face Mark saw before the accident. Same doe eyes, thick eyelashes,
chiseled cheekbones.

For
Amani’s sake, Mark had to know. He blurted out, “What happened to the woman who
was in the car with me?”

The
crowd around his bed thinned quickly, giving one another awkward glances. Only
Amani and Sharla were left to answer the question.

“Honey,
we don’t know who she was, so we really can’t get any information about her.”
Sharla tried to keep a calm demeanor, but embarrassment etched itself into the
lines around her mouth.

“Do
you know who she is?” Amani asked innocently.

“I’m
not sure.”

“Amani,
go sit with everyone else for a moment,” Sharla ordered their son in a hushed
tone.

He
obeyed reluctantly.

Sharla
inched in closer to Mark. With her back to the visitors, she whispered between
clinched teeth, “Who is she?”

“She
said we’d wrongfully taken Amani from her.”

Sharla
clutched her shirt. A touch of anxiety stained her voice. “What? Who…who was
she? His aunt? His…mother?”

Mark
couldn’t be sure of the details. “I don’t know, but he does look like her. Her
named starts with a B…Brittney, Brenna…Do we know somebody with that name?”

“No,”
she replied quickly. Tears welled in Sharla’s eyes and, immediately, Mark
regretted spilling the beans. His wife had always been insecure in her role as
Amani’s adoptive mother, a fact that had loomed in their family since their
first rounds of counseling when Amani became officially theirs. “Honey, it’s
okay.”

“It’s
not
okay. Wh-what were you doing with her?” She stuttered.

“She
got in my car and—”

“How
did she
get in
your car?”

Sharla’s
high pitch pierced Mark’s skull. “Can you keep it down, please?”

“No.
You had no business riding
anywhere
with another woman,” Sharla spoke
louder.

Rev.
Jackson entered Mark’s line of vision. “Pastor, I think we’re all going to head
on out now. You get some rest.”

Mark
recognized the Reverend’s effort to do damage control. “Thank you, Jackson.”

“And
don’t worry about anything at the church. We got it covered. Let’s have a word
of prayer.”

The
visitors gathered around Mark’s bed, joined hands, and bowed their heads for
prayer. Rev. Jackson added a generic strand for the “others” who had been
involved in the accident. 

They
all followed the prayer in unison, “Amen,” and scattered out with half-hearted
promises to return soon.

“Church
members are rallying around their pastor after he was involved in a serious,
suspicious
car accident,” the ten o’clock news anchor blared.

Mark
winced but sat up in bed and focused on the television, wondering who on earth
had suffered the same terrible coincidence as he.

“Members
of New Vision Community Church”—
Wait! That’s my church!
—“are
speaking out against reports that their pastor was fleeing from a known gang
leader, which led to this accident at the seven hundred block of Denbow
Street.”

The
footage of Mark’s garbled Cadillac nearly made him vomit. He couldn’t believe
he’d been in that vehicle. “My God,” he murmured to himself.

Rev.
Marshall’s wife, Esther, appeared on screen. From the background, he could tell
she was on the church’s front lawn. “Our pastor is
not
a criminal. He
does
not
run with shady types, and we do
not
appreciate the media
painting him in a bad light. He’s an upstanding man of God, and we’re all
behind him.”

Applause
erupted as the camera panned out to reveal at least thirty people standing
behind Esther.

A
lump rose in Mark’s throat.

Just
then, Sharla entered the room with a bag from Panera Bread. He could have sworn
she was ten pounds lighter.

She
took one look at Mark, then looked at the television screen. “Honey, you don’t
need to be watching the news. Let me turn—”

“No.”
Mark wrapped his hand around the white control box.

A
grainy picture of Mark appeared on the screen. “Officers continue to
investigate the accident. The pastor, seen here on the church’s website, is thirty-eight
year old Mark Carter III.” The anchor’s face returned. “A female passenger in
the pastor’s vehicle, who we understand was
not
his wife, was also
injured in the accident. That woman remains in critical condition. We’ll keep
you updated as we know more.”

“What
the heck?” Mark bristled. That “investigative report” was ridiculous! They
might as well have said he was dealing drugs and sleeping around on his wife.

Sharla
yanked the remote from Mark and switched off the TV. “I can’t stand the media.
They’ve been at the house all day trying to get a story out of me. Been trying
to get in here, too. We’ve had to just about shut your room off to visitors.”

“Let
‘em in. I need to defend myself,” Mark said. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“No.
I’ve already talked to Danny Hernandez. The best thing for you to do is keep
quiet,” she said.

“You
talked to our lawyer?”

“I’ve
talked to plenty of lawyers this week,” she informed him.

“About
what?”

She
motioned toward the blank screen. “You just saw it for yourself, Mark. You were
in a high-speed chase, running from a criminal. Your car had bullet holes in
it. You weren’t wearing your seatbelt, which is against the law. It’s a miracle
you didn’t fly out the window.

“Anyway,
neither the car insurance nor the health insurance companies will agree to do
anything until you’re cleared after the investigation.” Sharla put a hand on
her forehead. “I don’t know what we’re going to do. The investigation could
take weeks.”

Mark
felt as though Sharla had dumped the weight of the world on his lap. He
couldn’t imagine what it must have been like for his wife to carry the burden
alone, even if only for a few days. “Baby, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for any of
this to happen. I’ll make some phone calls. I still have contacts with
StateWay.”

“I
want to know why there was a woman in your car,” Sharla changed courses, her
hand flying to her hip.

“I
told you, she jumped in.”

“A
total stranger jumped into your car,” she added incorrect words to his.

“No.
I’ve seen her before. She’s been at the church,” he stumbled through.

“So,
you’ve talked to her?”

“A
couple of times.”

Sharla
smacked her lips. “When and where?”

Mark
knew he’d better address his wife’s real concern before she extracted any more
dubious details out of him. “Sharla, I have never cheated on you. This woman
was not a mistress, she was not an old friend, a new friend, she was not even
an acquaintance. She
did
try to come on to me, but I shut her
down—just like I’ve shut down every other women who has tried to take
your place since the day I said ‘I do.’ Please don’t turn this into something
that it’s not.”

Sharla
sighed. “Well, the media sure has.”

“Don’t
let them get into your head. Baby, come here.” Mark reached for her with his
left hand. Slowly, Sharla responded. Once she was within a few feet, he pulled
her even closer and wrapped his arm around her waist. She dropped her bags and
leaned over him, embracing his head.

Her
hair swept against his face as warm tears dribbled onto his neck. “We could
have lost you,” she cried. “I was so scared.”

He
rubbed her back. “But I’m still here.” He kissed her cheek gently. “I’m still
here, Mamasita. Let’s pray.” He led his wife in a prayer of thanksgiving, a
request for strength and peace, and a petition for the passenger woman’s
recovery.

Now
that he was aware of all the drama his wife had been dealing with while he was
laid up in the hospital, Mark was past ready to make a move. “When am I getting
out of here?”

“A
few more days,” Sharla said as she resumed her composure. “Your right arm
was…almost ripped off just below your elbow. You’ve got more surgeries ahead of
you. Physical therapy.”

“Yeah,
but we don’t have to do all that
today
. Let’s get a doctor in here so we
can get the ball rolling. And whatchu got in that bag? It smells a whole lot
better than whatever that was they brought me for lunch. Ulk!”

With
that, Mark made up his mind that he would do whatever it took to get out of
that hospital, take over the things Sharla had been handling, and clear his
name, which would mean getting in touch with the woman who’d jumped in his
car—if that possibility existed.

He
split a sandwich and soup with Sharla. She looked so much thinner; he almost
felt bad taking food from her. “Baby, you need to get yourself another batch of
this tomorrow.”

“No.
I haven’t been too hungry lately.”

“I
see.”

“Been
too worried about you. Your Momma called to check on you. She wants to know if
she should go ahead and get a plane ticket to come see you.”

“You
told her ‘no’, right?” Mark wanted to know.

“I
wasn’t sure for a while there,” Sharla said. “Until they finished all the
x-rays and tests, we didn’t know how seriously you were injured. I did call her
later and told her you were much better.”

“Thank
you,” Mark sighed. “I don’t need her coming down here with my sister and all
their superstitious cures. I’m glad she called, though.”

“What’d
you expect? She is your mother,” Sharla reminded him. “Amani’s been worried
about you, too. He’s dealing with it his own way, I guess. Staying in his room,
keeping to himself.”

“Hmmm.
I’ll get Rev. Jackson to spend some time with him,” Mark said.

“That
might be good. He thinks of him as a grandfather.”

Rev.
Jackson was about the only grandfather-ish person in Amani’s life. Sharla’s
father passed away when she was a teenager, and Mark’s father wouldn’t have
been a good influence. Suddenly, Mark wondered if Amani had any older male
relatives who could have just as easily stepped in from time to time to give
his son guidance. Maybe including them in his life, as Amani wanted, wouldn’t
be the worst thing to happen.

But
rather than run his thoughts by Sharla, Mark kept them to himself. She’d been
through enough.