A Reason to Stay (27 page)

But that was before she'd sat with that sweet little boy who was now alone in the world—a little guy who was as physically broken as she.

He needed her. Frankly, they needed each other.

Faith was going do everything in her power to get well. Yes, she'd learn to walk again—both physically and emotionally. If Dr. Viv thought she was recklessly dealing with her marriage, with Geary, she'd fix that. She'd do whatever it took to be well, because now everything wasn't just about her. Now she had other considerations.

Dr. Viv had pulled back the curtain and exposed her carefully staged life—a life that would no longer be viable going forward. Not if she was going to live with true purpose.

What if Dr. Viv and Geary were right? Could she really learn to walk again?

She took a deep breath and looked Dr. Viv in the eyes. “I love my husband.”

Dr. Viv nodded. “I know you do. Now, what do you say we get to work?”

A gentle smile nipped at the corners of Faith's mouth. For the first time in years, she felt her load lighten. She was going to change—she was going to heal her marriage.

And together, she and Geary were going to adopt Conner Anderson.

B
ack in her hospital room, Faith stared out the window. After weeks of storms rolling in off the Gulf, clear blue sky finally hung above the Houston skyline.

She wheeled herself closer to the bedside table. She wanted to be different. Here was the starting point.

With trembling hands she grabbed her cell phone. Holding her breath, she dialed.

Faith's chest pounded. The ringtone sounded three times with no pickup. Not wanting to leave a message, she moved to end the call when he answered.

“Faith? Faith, are you okay?”

“I'm fine,” she quickly assured him. “But I need to talk to you. I know you are likely getting ready to leave for the Guntersville tournament, but—”

“I'll be there,” he promised, his elation palpable.

She hung up, thinking about all they'd been through these past months. With their marriage on the brink of coming completely apart, her and Geary's entire world had been ripped even further by an angry shooter's bullets.

She had to wonder now why any man would stay. Especially
when she'd so often walled herself off from the intimacy she craved by pushing Geary away.

Could a relationship so tattered ever really be made whole?

Dr. Viv had said she needed to let others love and help her, that if she wanted to get emotionally well, she'd have to learn to trust Geary and let him be her hero.

At first she'd argued. Foolishly she'd allowed herself to believe she could somehow do this life without him. Even before the shooting, she'd tried to convince herself her marriage was disposable. But the truth was, Dr. Viv was right.

Mending her relationship with Geary was the only way to heal and move forward.

Less than an hour later, Geary made good on his pledge. She heard a slight rap on her door, and her skin flushed. “Come in.”

He peeked through the door. “Hey.”

Geary timidly entered the room, holding his fishing cap in his hands and bearing a look of hope that caused her heart to cave. She'd caused him so much pain. But she couldn't let those thoughts derail her now. She needed to focus on what Dr. Viv said—broken people like her were still worth loving.

It was in that frame of mind that she beckoned her husband into the room. She had nothing much to offer, only an authentic version of herself.

She'd pushed him away at every turn. Didn't deserve his forgiveness.

Still, she'd made a decision to come to him just as she was. Scarred and broken and in need of reconciliation.

She motioned him to the bed, patting the place beside her. Swallowing against the tightness in her throat, she pushed out the words that needed said. “Geary, I'm so sorry.”

His hand covered her own. His deep blue eyes gazed into hers. “You don't have to—”

“I—I never wanted to hurt you, Geary. Pushing you away was—
well, it was my way of self-protecting. At least that's what Dr. Viv tells me.”

He looked confused. “You don't have to protect yourself from me. I'm here—I always will be. If you're mad, say so. We can fight about it. We can search for solutions. What I can't deal with is being shut out.” His eyes softened. “I love you.”

“Deep down, I know that. But I—” She paused, not quite sure how to convey what she needed him to understand.

She lifted a shaking hand to her scarf, laid her fingers on the fabric, and pulled it down.

“Geary, this is the ugliest part of me—my scars. And you should know there are ones you can't see, deep wounds on the inside.”

She looked at him then, daring him to respond.

Those deep blue eyes filled with tears. He reached out and touched the places where the staples had pierced her skin. She felt him slowly run his fingers along the ridges and patches of sprouting hair, tenderly taking in the bumps that marred her once perfect skull.

“You're beautiful,” he choked out. “To me, you are beautiful.”

His fingers went to her chin and he lifted her face to his own. His lips joined hers, first softly, then with far more urgency.

Suddenly, he stopped.

A flash of something Faith couldn't name crossed his face. Geary jumped up and looked around the room. With purpose, he marched over to the bureau that held her clothes. He leaned his shoulder against the side and shoved the heavy chest of drawers across the tiled floor until he'd wedged it in front of the door. “There, that should do it.”

She frowned in confusion. “What are you doing?”

Her husband pressed his finger against his lips. “Shhh . . .” Grinning, he moved to the bed, unbuttoning his shirt.

“Geary?” Suddenly, his intention dawned. “What are you thinking? We can't—”

“No more talking,” he said, sinking beside her on the bed. He scrambled to unbutton her top and then they were skin to skin.

A bolt of desire shot through her.

And over the course of the next several minutes, Faith learned there were parts of her body that still worked just fine.

T
he next weeks were grueling. She was up at dawn, then spent hours on the PT floor with a team of therapists, all working to strengthen her brain's ability to communicate with her muscles.

Geary was back out on the circuit, and while he was away, she had a lot of work to do. And good reason to do it.

“I know you are still feeling some loss of sensation in your left arm and leg, but it's important to remember these limbs have not been injured,” the therapist explained. “The only reason they are not working is that the signals coming from your brain are misfiring. We're going to do some exercises that force your brain to remember how to tell your leg to walk, your arm to pick up items. Then we'll have you getting in and out of bed on your own, walking and being able to go to the toilet unattended. You'll return to the household activities you enjoyed prior to the injury.”

Faith smiled widely. “Okay, let's do it.”

A variety of exercises were employed to accomplish regaining her function and mobility, starting with a regimen of standing from a sitting position. No matter the promises made that her therapist would hold and support her body until her legs learned to function again, slipping from the chair and shifting weight onto her legs felt a bit like jumping off a cliff with no bottom in sight.

She had music therapy, singing along with her favorite CD while the therapist held Faith's limp fingers in her own and helped her strum the strings of a guitar. Art therapy included holding a paintbrush and carefully dipping it in a small container of paint, then swathing the brush across a large piece of paper using wide strokes and then smaller circular motions, guided again by a therapist.

She walked the parallel bars and kicked a soccer ball, even if clumsily. And she stood in place and carefully shifted weight from her right leg to her left, over and over until her brain started to fire up and communicate—slowly at first, then gradually increasing.

Often Faith went to bed aching inside and out from all the effort.

But she remained steadfast. She had a goal and she toiled to attain success. Failure was not an option.

Geary left for his final round of tournaments this season. The reasonable thing to do was to wait until he was home to drop her news and tell him about her plans regarding little Conner. But something inside her wouldn't let her suspend her excitement, so she finally mustered her courage and told him over the phone.

As expected, upon hearing the entire story, her husband shared the ache she felt over all the little guy had faced and his unknown future. But the new information, her desire to adopt Conner, gave him reservation.

“Oh, Faith. I don't know,” he said when she opened up about her intentions. “I desperately want a family too. You know that. But adopting right now is a lot to take on so early in your recovery. I mean, we need to get you home first, don't you think?”

“Of course. I'm not talking about rushing out and doing something foolish. I need to be physically ready before we can take this on,” she quickly assured him. “But I've never wanted anything more. Geary, just wait until you meet him. You'll soon understand why I feel so strongly about moving forward. There's a lot at stake.”

Silence.

“Geary?” She swallowed hard, knowing this was yet another chance to be different. She didn't push. Instead, she held her arguments and waited.

“I'll tell you what. Let's take this a step at a time. When I get home, I'll meet him. We'll talk to Dr. Viv and I'll pray about it. If it's God's will, little Conner will end up in our home. But we need to take this slow. Make sure it's the right thing for everyone involved. Agreed?”

“Really, Geary? Thank you! You'll love him too. I promise.”

“I don't doubt that. If he's stolen your heart, he must be a very special little boy.”

Her heart soared. “When will you be home?”

She could almost see him smile at the other end of the phone. “Won't be long. I'm on the road outside of Broken Arrow, Oklahoma, and I'm heading out to a tournament in Florida. It's the big one.”

“You qualified? Geary, that's wonderful.”

“Yeah, say a prayer.”

He sounded excited yet a little weary. She wanted to assure him everything was going to be all right. “Geary?”

“Uh-huh.”

“I'm so proud of you.”

They agreed he'd come to the hospital the minute he got back to Houston. She promised to watch the tournament on television and told him she was anxious to see him.

In the meantime, she'd focus on getting well and keep her attention on that adorable little boy two floors above.

With the help of Lawana Maxwell, the nurse who had lifted her spirits with eggs Benedict, she got her hands on a set of Thomas the Train coloring books and a large package of crayons. She presented them to Conner when she visited after lunch.

“Hey, buddy. I brought you something.”

He looked up at her. “For me? What is it?”

She handed him the gift. “Do you want to color together?”

He nodded. “But I'm not very good at it. My mommy used to help me stay in the lines.” His face turned sad. Faith's heart squeezed at the thought he would never again see the woman he'd loved.

“I can help you stay in the lines,” Faith offered.

He shrugged. “Oh-tay.”

Over the next hour, they sat side by side coloring a scene featuring Thomas, Gordon, and Percy—engines she'd learned all about using the same vigor utilized in prepping for a celebrity interview.

Finally, Faith got up the nerve to say what was foremost on her mind.

“Conner, if you ever feel lonely, I'll be your friend. All you have to do is have a nurse come get me and I'll come be with you.”

Little Conner clutched the red crayon and pushed it back and forth across the paper with purpose. “Fanks, but I'll be oh-tay.”

His response took Faith a bit off guard. She tried again. “I mean, you know—if you ever feel scared or sad, or just need someone to hold your hand.”

He looked up at her then. “Oh-tay. But I'm not awone. Jesus is wif me.”

Her breath stalled. “Jesus?”

“Yeah. Mommy said no matter whatever happens, Jesus is my fwiend.”

She swallowed—hard. “Your mommy was very wise. Maybe—maybe I could be your friend too.”

He finished coloring and laid the crayon down, then turned to her. “You can be my fwiend.” Without skipping a beat he picked up the box of crayons and held them out to her. “Wanna color another picture?”

She pulled the blue crayon out of the pack. “Sure. Which one?”

Back in her room, Faith pondered her time with Conner Anderson. While his deep grief over the loss of his mother was apparent, the child had an underpinning of faith she envied.

His mother had been incredibly wise to instill that understanding within her son so that he knew without any shadow of a doubt that Jesus loved him personally and would never leave his side.

If she had known that kind of faith as a child, perhaps she wouldn't be so broken now, so reluctant to give up control and let God guide her path.

Certainly the Marins had that level of faith. She'd seen it time and again—especially when they loved her even when she was bristly. Given the chance, she intended to show them she was grateful and she loved them back.

Even Bobby Lee.

And if God permitted, she'd be Conner Anderson's mother—not a replacement for the woman who had birthed him and provided such a sweet foundation, but she'd build on that and be by his side, loving him and providing for him.

Funny thing—she'd so wanted to be a widely recognized news celebrity. That goal didn't hold a candle to the desire now smoldering in her gut, her longing to be Conner's mother.

In a twist of fate, or perhaps by God's hand, her life had been spared that day while his mother had died. No longer would she live a life spent trying to find value after having lived with such shame. She now realized that was no life at all.

Conner had lived. So had she—and together they would become the family she'd always longed for. And he'd have an extended family—the Marins—people of faith who would help to foster what no doubt had been important to his mother.

How better to have her own faith strengthened than by giving her life away to a little boy in a wheelchair who needed a mother?

Her hand went to her stomach, to the place where the shooter's bullet had scarred her flesh . . . had maybe even kept her from giving
birth in the future. She'd heard Wendell say from the pulpit—in God's design, even things meant for evil could turn to good.

The notion reminded her that the very thing that had torn her and Geary apart—his persistence to start a family—would now be the glue that would give them one purpose. She was learning she needed to hold plans loosely. Not be so stubborn. Sometimes God had other ideas.

Lawana helped her from her chair into bed. After physical therapy, she could now assist the effort by standing, as long as she had someone near to support her. “Well, look at you!” Lawana said, her hand at Faith's back. “I can't believe the progress you've made in such a short time. Especially once you put your mind to it.”

Faith could tell her she'd spent years accomplishing much through sheer determination, but this time that would not be entirely true. Sure, she'd given 100 percent effort, but she'd also sent up a couple of prayers, asking for help.

A rare approach in the life of Faith Marin.

When she was settled and alone, she reached for the television remote. The bass tournament weigh-in was being broadcast on one of the cable sports channels. Earlier, she'd texted Geary to wish him luck and tell him she'd be watching. He hadn't answered, but that was understandable. He'd been on the lake all day. Hopefully snagging a lunker that would tip those scales in his favor, landing him the trophy and a wad of cash and prizes.

The monitor flashed on the main stage with lights, music, and a brightly colored backdrop. The leaderboard showed Geary as a finalist, a fact that thrilled her.

Despite adversity, her husband had worked hard, remained focused. With everything in her, she hoped he'd be rewarded for the effort.

Within minutes, the announcer took viewers through prepared video rundowns showcasing the bass fishermen and their journeys to this spot. Geary's showcased his prior win of nearly four years
ago, then turned to a poignant story of how he'd temporarily quit the circuit to care for his cancer-ridden grandfather, followed by the tragic shooting where his wife had been gunned down and left physically impaired.

The story had a definite emotive factor she knew had been carefully designed to connect with the viewing audience. Even those who normally did not follow the championship circuit would hope for her husband to come out on top. In her profession—or former profession—she knew this was the kind of thing that garnered attention and ratings.

She also knew Geary would hate that the sympathy card had been played on his behalf.

Up on the big stage, several of the finalists weighed in, followed by projections that the weight totals might not be enough to garner the big prize win.

Finally, it was Geary's turn. He was next to last to go on stage with his bag of fish.

A pickup truck eased his boat up in front of the stage. With much fanfare, Geary waved to the cheering crowd and made his way to the live well at the back of the deck. He opened the latch and retrieved a bright yellow bag—the official weigh-in sack for the tournament. Inside were the bass Geary had pulled in that day.

Faith bit at her fingernails. He had forty-six pounds, six ounces coming into this final day. He only needed a total weight of over eighteen pounds, two ounces for the five fish in the bag to land in the lead.

The emcee's voice rang out, announcing what was at stake—one hundred thousand dollars and a pickup and boat.

The music's frenzied beat increased and the spotlights shone over the crowd like a dance club. The camera quickly panned to Wendell and Veta sitting out in the audience.

Back on stage, the yellow bag was dumped onto the scales by
the official, the tension palpable as everyone collectively held their breath until the results were announced.

“Twenty pounds, four ounces!” the emcee screamed. “We have a new lead. Geary Marin is in the lead!”

Faith willed her left arm to lift, and it did slightly. She clapped her hands together, thrilled for her husband. Truly she was over-the-top ecstatic he had such a good chance of walking away with the top award and champion designation.

The camera followed him off the stage where a woman with tight jeans and shoulder-length dark cocoa-brown hair stepped to his side and gave him a hug. They said something indiscernible, then the woman smiled as cameras flashed.

Stacy Brien.

That vixen looked as smug and dangerous as she had that day on the Marins' lawn during the crawfish feed. What was she doing at the tournament sidled up to her husband? And why was she smiling so big?