Authors: Michelle Larks
Faith (6 page)
Wade returned with a couple of chairs. He placed them on the wall near the end of the bed and sat down.
Reverend Wilcox asked Marcus, “Did Monet's doctor say when she'll be released?”
“Earlier she said if all continues to go well, she'll be released maybe Sunday or Monday,” he responded.
“That's good news. I will make sure we mention her at church on Sunday, and of course say a prayer for her.”
“Thank you, Reverend Wilcox,” Marcus said. He looked over at Monet, who stirred in the bed but didn't wake up.
“Doctor Washington says it's good that she's sleeping because it will help her body to mend. Did you guys have a chance to talk to her?” Marcus asked Derek and Duane.
“For a few minutes. We didn't want to tire her out, and she was pretty groggy,” Duane answered, looking away from the bed, which seemed to dominate the room.
“Well, I didn't plan on staying long. I have a few more members to visit while I'm here at the hospital.” Reverend Wilcox stood up and removed her coat from the back of the chair. “If you don't mind, Marcus, I'd like to read a scripture and say a prayer for Monet.”
“That will be fine,” Marcus responded.
Reverend Wilcox took her Bible out of her black leather tote bag and asked everyone to stand near the edge of the bed and hold hands. She opened her Bible to the book of Psalms. “I will read from Psalm 86:6 and 7. â
Give ear, Oh Lord, unto my prayer, and attend to the voice of my supplications. In the days of my trouble I will call upon thee, for thou wilt answer me.'
Father above, I thank you. For even in the midst of heartache and pain, I can and will say thank you. Thank you for sparing Sister Monet's life, and because the injuries she has suffered are temporary. Weeping may endure for a night, but joy will come for Monet and Marcus in the morning. It might not feel like it right now at this minute, but I know my sister was blessed today, Lord, by your grace and mercy. And Father, as Monet begins to heal, let her know that she is not alone, that she only has to lean on your everlasting arms.
Give ear, Oh Lord, unto my prayer, and attend to the voice of my supplications. In the days of my trouble I will call upon thee, for thou wilt answer me.'
Father above, I thank you. For even in the midst of heartache and pain, I can and will say thank you. Thank you for sparing Sister Monet's life, and because the injuries she has suffered are temporary. Weeping may endure for a night, but joy will come for Monet and Marcus in the morning. It might not feel like it right now at this minute, but I know my sister was blessed today, Lord, by your grace and mercy. And Father, as Monet begins to heal, let her know that she is not alone, that she only has to lean on your everlasting arms.
“Let not hate or revenge fester in Monet and Marcus's hearts, Father. Give them the wisdom to know that you will fix any ordeal they endure. Maybe not as soon as they would want or like, but let them know that you will fix it, that you will do it in your own time. Lord, I claim these blessings and the victory in your name. Amen.”
“Amen,” everyone echoed.
Monet stirred, and tried to sit up. She clutched her arm. “Reverend Wilcox, I didn't know you were here,” she said, pushing back her hair off her brow. “Somebody should have awakened me.” She looked at everyone in the room with swollen, accusing eyes.
“I'm sure they just wanted you to get your rest,” Reverend Wilcox said, putting her Bible back in her bag. She walked over to Monet and talked to her quietly for a few minutes. When she finished, everyone decided to leave so that Monet could rest.
“I'll be back to see you tomorrow,” Liz said. She rubbed Monet's arm. Wade did the same.
Derek and Duane asked Monet if there was anything she needed. She said no. Her brothers hugged her and told her they, too, would see her tomorrow. Everyone departed.
“I'm going to take the chairs back to the nurse's station,” Marcus told his wife. “I brought some of your nightgowns. Do you want to change into one?”
“No, I'll do that tomorrow,” she said. She lay back in the bed.
Marcus picked up the chairs and left the room. He returned a few minutes later. He sat in a chaise seat where a nurse had thoughtfully put a sheet, pillow, and light blanket for him.
“Did you eat?” Monet asked him as she moved gingerly in the bed.
“No, I'm not hungry. I'll get something later,” Marcus answered, as he watched his wife with an eagle eye. “Are you feeling okay? Do you want me to call the nurse?”
“No, I'm okay. If I go back to sleep, have the nurse bring you a dinner menu; that way, you can dine with me while I have my meal intravenously.”
“I will,” Marcus assured his wife.
The nurse came into the room and checked Monet's vital signs. Monet mentioned bringing in a menu for Marcus. The nurse said she'd return with one shortly.
“You didn't have to do that,” Marcus said. “I could've gotten something to eat from the vending machine. I think the cafeteria is open twenty-four hours.”
“I want you to stay with me.” Monet yawned and flinched because it was painful to open her mouth wide.
Marcus jumped up from his seat. “Are you sure that you don't want me to call the nurse? You look like you're in terrible pain.”
Monet tried to smile, and that hurt too. “I'll make it. You know I don't like to take medicine unnecessarily. If the pain becomes unbearable, I'll let the nurse know. You can dim the lights over my bed.” She knew that Marcus was feeling helpless, and figured that would give him something to do. “And adjust my bed and fix my pillows.”
Marcus did as she asked. Then he sat back down and held Monet's hand in his own. “You know I'm not going to rest until I find out who did this to you, don't you?” he said, his voice choking up.
“Oh, Marcus,” Monet shook her head sadly, “I really wish you would leave it alone. Let Wade and the guys handle the case. I'm going to need you to lean on. I felt better after talking to Liz and Reverend Wilcox. Still, every time I close my eyes the attack happens over and over.” She began sniffling.
“I know, babe, and that's why I want the guy found immediately,” Marcus growled.
“Can you just let it go for me? I don't want to have to worry about you and what you're doing. Please?” Monet begged.
Marcus nodded, although he knew he wasn't being truthful. There were some things a man had to do for his wife, and protection was high on his list. How dare someone attack his wife, and he was a policeman.
I don't think so,
Marcus thought.
I don't think so,
Marcus thought.
“Marcus Caldwell, I want you to promise me that you won't actively take a role in the investigation,” Monet said firmly. Her eyes bore holes into her husband's.
“Monet, I can't promise that. I would be less than a man if I did. I will just offer my input to the team and nothing else. Can you accept that?” He brushed a curl away from Monet's face.
She nodded her head. “I guess that will do for now. We'll talk about this later. You know Reverend Wilcox is right. Even in the midst of heartache, we can still thank the Lord that I wasn't killed. Let's take comfort from that.”
“Oh, I'm grateful, Monet, from the bottom of my heart.” Marcus put his hand over his chest.
The nurse returned to the room with a fresh ice pack for Monet to put on her face. Then she handed Marcus a menu. “I'll come back later to get it,” she said, before departing the room.
Monet held the bag to her face for a while, then put it on the table next to her bed. She lay down and drifted off to sleep. Marcus stood up and pulled the sheet up around the upper part of her body. He kissed her forehead, sat down, picked up the remote for the television, and remained by his wife's side until he, too, fell asleep.
Chapter 6
A few months after the attack, Monet was home still recuperating. The memory of the attack was fresh in her mind, and she was still somewhat fearful about returning to the scene of the crime. Marcus suggested she take a leave of absence from work, and Monet followed his advice. She would be off work for sixty days.
The police hadn't had any luck in finding Monet's attacker. Wade and Smitty vowed the case would remain active until the crime was solved. Several officers volunteered their free time to help in the search. Even though a reward was offered, the few leads the team received hadn't panned out.
Monet sat at the kitchen table, stirring a cup of decaffeinated coffee with a splash of milk. She hummed along with Mary Mary, one of Monet's favorite gospel groups, as they sang “Yesterday.” The song had become her mantra.
Suddenly she jumped up from her seat and ran to the powder room near the back of the house by the den. Her stomach had been squeamish for some time now. She suffered a bout of dry heaves and returned to the kitchen.
I'll have to remember to mention how lousy I've been feeling to Dr. Washington. It's probably just nerves,
she absently thought.
I'll have to remember to mention how lousy I've been feeling to Dr. Washington. It's probably just nerves,
she absently thought.
Of all the rooms in the house, the kitchen was Monet's pride and joy. She and Marcus had it remodeled two years ago. The large room boasted a blond wooden table framed by six chairs that sat in a breakfast nook. She loved to cook, so the couple had installed an island, complete with copper pots and pans hanging over it. The appliances were bone colored. The kitchen was a cozy room, the heart of the house.
Monet rinsed her cup and put it inside the dishwasher. Then she went upstairs to dress for her doctor's appointment. She was grateful that she would see Dr. Washington at her office in Hyde Park instead of the hospital.
She walked inside the closet and removed a pair of stonewashed jeans and a white cable-knit sweater. Monet went into the bathroom, showered, and then dressed. She sat down at her vanity and finger combed her corkscrew, naturally curly hair. Her facial swelling had subsided, but her face still bore faint traces of black and blue marks. She put a little eye shadow on the lids above her hazel colored eyes. She grabbed her purse and started down the stairs.
Before she went inside the garage, Monet set the security alarm. The couple didn't have an alarm installed before the attack, and when Monet asked if they could get one, Marcus was more than happy to comply.
Monet's eyes zoomed around the garage before she got into her new midnight blue Toyota Solaris. After her car was recovered three weeks after it was stolen and processed by the police department for evidence, Marcus sold the car. Monet turned on the ignition and pressed the remote control to open the garage door.
Thirty minutes later, she pulled into a space in the parking garage in Hyde Park. When she got to the doctor's office, she signed the appointment sheet, took a seat, and picked up the latest copy of
O Magazine
.
O Magazine
.
After a short time, a nurse walked into the waiting area and said, “Monet Caldwell.”
Monet stood up and followed the nurse to examination room number three. The nurse took her blood pressure reading and temperature. After that, she told Monet to remove her clothing and gave her a gown to change into. After she entered notations into the computer, the nurse announced the doctor would be with her shortly, and then she left.
Monet removed her clothing and sat in the chilly, sterile room reading the magazine she'd brought into the room with her. Ten minutes later, Dr. Washington walked into the examination room.
“How are you feeling, Monet?” she asked, smiling. Her white coat looked pristine, like she'd just started her day. Her reading glasses dangled from a chain around her neck.
“Not bad,” Monet replied as she nervously folded her hands on her lap.
Dr. Washington listened to Monet's heart rate and examined her face. “The bruises are fading; that's good.” She sat at the small table in the room and keyed data into the tablet PC. “How have you been feeling from an emotional standpoint? Have the dreams abated?”
“Somewhat.” Monet averted her eyes from the doctor.
“Would you like me to prescribe medication to help you sleep?”
“No, not really. I hate taking medicine,” Monet said airily.
“We'll see how you're doing a month from now. If you aren't sleeping any better by then, I'll prescribe something for you, maybe Ambien CR, okay?”
“Yes,” Monet said. She felt cold and briskly rubbed her forearms.
“Have you given any further thought to counseling?” Dr. Washington pressed save on the keyboard and returned her attention to Monet.
“Actually, my minister suggested I do a few sessions with her, and I'm going to start that on Friday,” Monet informed the doctor.
“That's good. It probably wouldn't hurt to participate in a rape crisis group too. I can recommend a few in the area affiliated with the University of Chicago Hospital.”
“I don't know if I can talk about what happened to me with strangers. It's too personal.” Monet shook her head.
“That's exactly who you should talk about it to, other women who have been in the same predicament as you. They will understand where you're coming from. I certainly can't force you to do so, but I've conducted some of the sessions myself, and I know first-hand that they do help,” Dr. Washington told Monet kindly.
“I can't make any promises, but I'll think about it,” she said evasively.
“How are you and Marcus doing, from an intimacy standpoint?” Dr. Washington probed.
“I . . . I . . . I . . . not yet,” Monet confessed. “I feel so bad about not being able to be intimate with Marcus. I know he didn't rape me, but I freeze up when he tries to touch me.” She dropped her head and rubbed her eyes.
“That, my dear, is why you need counseling. In most cases, women can't come to terms with the ordeal alone. They need help to work through the issue,” Dr. Washington said comfortingly.
“Marcus is patient with me, and that helps. I'm just not ready to participate in the physical act, but I don't mind him holding me. It took me a couple of weeks before I could stand for him to do that,” Monet explained candidly.
“That's good, and I consider that progress. I just want you to think about the support group, and by all means talk to you minister. It doesn't hurt to have guidance from a spiritual perspective. The quicker you talk to someone, the sooner your life will be back on track,” Dr. Washington said, as she jotted down a name and number on a pad. She tore off the paper and handed it to Monet. “This is Sheila Winston's number. She facilitates the crisis group at the University of Chicago Hospital. If you decide to try it, then give her a call. Is there anything else going on with you?” Dr. Washington looked at Monet casually. Her large dark brown eyes seemed magnified behind the glass lenses, and were filled with compassion. She thought Monet looked a little tired or rundown.
“Well, I have been feeling nauseated for the past few weeks. I'm sure it's nothing, just nerves.” Monet's voice trailed off.
“Hmmm. When was the last time you had your period?” Dr. Washington folded her hands together. She had an inkling of what was happening with Monet. She suggested Monet take the “morning after pill” following the assault, but Monet declined the offer.
“Let me think.” Monet closed and opened her eyes. “You know I'm irregular, I think about a few weeks before the attack.”
“Are you experiencing any other symptoms?” Dr. Washington probed gently.
“My breasts have been tender and odors bother me.” Monet gasped and said cautiously, “Dr. Washington, you don't think I'm pregnant, do you?”
“It won't take us long to find out. I'm going to order a pregnancy test and send you next door to the lab to take a blood test,” Dr. Washington advised. She stood up. “Why don't you get dressed, come back to the nurse's area, and Erica will give you a cup for a urine sample. While we wait for the results, you can go across the hall for the blood test. I'll write up the order now.”
“So you do think I'm pregnant?” Monet asked, in a shaky voice. “I just assumed it was nerves.”
“It could be nerves, but we can't rule that possibility out. Still that's easy enough for us to find out.” Dr. Washington looked at her watch and said, “I'll see you in my office in about twenty to thirty minutes.”
Monet nodded, feeling shell shocked. She sat on the examination table for a few minutes. When she rose, her body was shaking so badly that she could barely get dressed. She put her sweater on backward and her socks on inside out.
“Lord, could it be true? Am I really pregnant?” She laughed aloud giddily, then became somber. “Is the child Marcus's or my attacker's? God, forgive me. What am I saying? I know this baby is Marcus's. You told me Marcus and I would have a child.” Her breathing became shallow, and she felt lightheaded.
The couple had been trying to get pregnant since year three of their marriage. They had been examined what seemed like a million times by various doctors, and there wasn't a medical reason for why they couldn't conceive. Monet had wanted to try in vitro, but Marcus vetoed the idea. Years ago she had broached the subject of adoption, but Marcus didn't want to, citing that he wanted their biological child or none at all.
Monet prayed daily, a prayer she called the baby's prayer. She was both elated and apprehensive by the possibility of being with child. What if the baby wasn't Marcus's? Then she pushed those musings to the back of her mind because God had told her otherwise, and she always trusted God.
Monet dressed and berated herself for jumping the gun. Her legs were shaking as she walked to the nurse's station and got the cup from Erica. Then she went into the restroom. When she was done, she placed the cup on the side of the sink, washed her hands, and then returned it to the nurse, who gave Monet a work order for the lab. Thoughts swirled in and out of her mind as the lab technician took a vial of blood.
The technician put a bandage on Monet's arm and said, “You won't have long to wait for the results. Your doctor put a rush on the test.”
Monet tried to smile. Then she returned to the physician's waiting room.
Minutes later, Erica escorted Monet to Dr. Washington's office. As she waited for the doctor, her stomach felt like fish were darting inside of it. She looked up at the door, mentally willing Dr. Washington to hurry back and tell her what the test revealed.
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