Joy Comes in the Morning (13 page)

“Your sister has been in a wreck.” Dad sounded like he was gasping for air. “She's at Brooklyn Hospital.”From that moment, everything seemed to spin out of control. “But—”

“The hospital found my cell number in her wallet, and they called me.”

“Oh my goodness. I'll be over to pick you up in a few minutes.” I slammed down the cordless phone, jumped into a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, grabbed my purse, and ran, without stopping, down the five flights of stairs to my car. I drove to Dad's house, crying all the way. Then I loaded him and his cane into the car, and we made our way across town to Brooklyn Hospital.

The entire time, my mind was racing, thinking back to when we were little girls, dressing alike, acting alike. Twins. We had the greatest bond as sisters, but lately it had almost drained away. The tears kept flowing until my dad handed me a tissue. I kept one hand on the wheel and used the other hand to blow my runny nose.

Taylor was always headstrong. Mom would push and she would pull. It was a regular tug of war all the time. I, of course, was the peacemaker, forever trying to patch up whatever my sister tore up. Mom always tried to scare Taylor with scriptures and warnings of hell, but she was a daredevil in every sense of the word. The more adamant Mom was about being a good girl and going to heaven, the more Taylor seemed to want to go the other way. Sometimes she'd get into it with Mom and just wait outside on the stoop for Daddy to come home, as if Daddy could rescue her from Mom's mouth. But she just kept waiting, and Daddy never came; day after day, year after year, until finally she gave up hope that he'd ever come back. By the time Daddy finally did come back, she'd already learned how to survive Mom's rantings and ravings. In fact, she'd already learned how to survive without him.

Twins. An hour ago I had given up on her, and now I wondered if things would ever be the same between us again.

After we arrived at the hospital, Daddy gave his consent for emergency surgery, and then we waited. We prayed, and then waited some more.

Sunday morning was the first day of broken dreams when my sister finally forced her swollen eyelids open. I was sure she could feel the pull of the bandaged gash above her eyebrow. Daddy and I were just happy that she was conscious again. However, when the doctor came in to examine her, she realized that she didn't have any sensation at all below the waist. No matter how hard she tried to make her legs bend and her toes wiggle, she was powerless over them. Finally, she labeled them useless stumps beneath her sheets and asked for an explanation.

“You see there has been damage to the chain of nerve cells from the brain through the spinal cord out to the muscle. This reduces the brain's ability to control muscle movements.” The doctor wrote on her chart.

“So what exactly does that mean, Doc?” Taylor looked like she was hanging on every word. Daddy and I just looked at each other. The doctor had already warned us about the severity of her injuries and about the strong probability of paralysis before we ever entered the room.

The doctor continued writing. “I'm afraid that this reduced efficiency or loss of communication prevents any willed movements, and this lack of control you're experiencing now is called paralysis.”

“Paralysis? So I'm paralyzed, permanently?” Taylor shifted her upper body slightly.

“Now that's hard to say. Strength can be restored to a paralyzed muscle with changes in muscle tone,” the doctor said.

Tears ran down Taylor's face. “Changes in muscle tone? I'm a personal trainer, and I've never heard of that.”

“Well, you wouldn't. The medical procedures are somewhat different than those you use for beauty and fitness. Nerve regeneration is one way that strength can return to—”

“Doctor, are you saying I might stay like this forever?” At the height of Taylor's disappointment, she screamed, moaned, and cursed all the doctors. No one and nothing could comfort her, nothing she, cried out, “Except death.” She rolled around in the sheets, in agony as we watched her wrestle with her own regrets and limitations.

She blinked her eyes in disbelief, and she cried until a crust of tears formed around her big, dark eyes. In fact, she wailed until the hospital staff gave her sedatives to calm her down.

I knew she thought her life was over. That much was certain.“I was young and independent. Now I have to depend on people to help me.” Taylor turned her head to the side. “I was beautiful. Now my advantage is gone. No one will want me. I'll never have a husband or kids of my own.”

“That's not necessarily true,” I said.

“Isn't it? I'll never be a fitness instructor or personal trainer again.” Taylor looked into my eyes. “My life is over.”

I shook my head in utter disbelief. “Don't say that.”

“Why not? It's true.” Yes, it was a day of broken dreams.

She looked up at the white hospital room ceiling and cried. “Lord, why can't I feel my legs? Will I ever walk again?”

A nurse walked by the room and peeked in at her. “Good morning, Ms. Carter,” she said.

“Yeah, it's morning, but I don't know what's so good about it,” Taylor snapped.

The nurse then closed the door quietly and went about her business. Taylor, on the other hand, could go nowhere, so she slipped back down underneath her cover, letting the feelings of hopelessness become her soul mate.

“God is here for you, Taylor,” I said.

“You know I don't want to hear it. Why should I cry out to a God who has never answered me before, a God who never answered me when my mother was dying? Why should I believe He'll answer me now?”

“God is a problem solver.” I stayed close to her bedside.

“And I have a big problem, all because of some worthless brother I met late one night as I got funky on the dance floor.” Tears ran down Taylor's face, and she wiped them with the back of her arm.

“Taylor I—”

“You're probably satisfied now, right?”

“No, of course not. Why would you say something like that?”

“Because you were always warning me about the devil's lifestyle, telling me that one day it would catch up with me, but I never expected it to happen this soon. Do you have to be right all the time? I mean, ever since we were kids you were always the right one, the good one.”

She was right. I had always tried to be the good one, but still I always seemed to come up short. “Come on now, don't say that. God loves you just like He loves me.”

Taylor covered her face with her sheet, trying to block out my words.

Ever since she had the accident a week ago, I spent my free time at the hospital, trying to make Taylor comfortable, trying to make myself feel less guilty. Hadn't I just told the Lord I had given up on my sister the night of her accident? Here I was giving up on praying for her, and there she was needing me and my prayers more than she ever had.

Mr. Harding had been nice enough to give me a week off, with pay, to spend with my sister. The problem was she made it clear that she didn't want to spend time with me. I could've understood why if she'd read my mind a few days ago, but I was sincere about wanting to help her now. Still she claimed she didn't want any help from anyone, so all I could do was wait.

She lay in her hospital bed under cold, sterile sheets, shivering and staring at the empty walls. She whimpered about how her life took such a terrible turn for the worse, and she began to break off her fingernails one by one. Then she ran her fingers through the tangled roots of her hair. She no longer had her braids in, and some of her ends were split. A touch up would've done wonders for her, but she wasn't even interested. My sister, former diva extraordinaire, didn't care about her appearance anymore. She didn't care about anything.

At the end of the week, while I was visiting, Taylor was assigned a physical therapist. He was a tall, chocolate skinned brother with a low haircut and a squared jaw. He smelled as if he were wearing some kind of expensive, musky odor cologne, but I didn't recognize the particular brand. That was Taylor's forte, not mine. She was the one who made it her business to recognize men's colognes and after shave lotions. Men used to be her hobby.

“Hi, I'm Keith Bryant.” He extended his hand.

“Yeah,” Taylor said.

“Hi, I'm Alex Carter, and this is my sister, Taylor.” I shook his hand.

“Well, I can certainly see that you two are sisters.” Keith smiled. “It is good to meet you both.”

“Don't be telling him my name. I don't know him, and I don't want to know him.” Taylor turned her face away from him.

“I'm here to help you.” Keith began examining her chart.

“Really? How can you help me?” Taylor still wouldn't face him.

“I can work to relieve the pain and restore functional mobility.” Keith bent his muscular arm back and forth to illustrate his point.

“Didn't they tell you I'm paralyzed?” Taylor's voice was low.

Keith sat down on a stool. “I know that, but I've had much success as—”

“Look, I don't care about you or your success, and I know you don't care about me. You don't even know me,” Taylor spat out.

“Well, I'd like to change that if you'll give me half a chance.” Keith squeezed his eyebrows together.

“I don't have time for games. I'm never gonna walk again, and that's the bottom line. Now just go away and leave me alone.” Taylor pulled the covers up over her head.

Keith looked at me with regret in his eyes.“I'm sorry you feel this way. I'll leave now, Ms. Carter, but I'll be back.”

“Whatever,” Taylor said.

“I'm so sorry for her behavior. I–” I started.

“No, I understand. No apology necessary.” Keith smiled and walked out the door.

I knew that if Taylor had met him before her accident, they probably would have gone out together. Back then she could've had any man she wanted. Now she didn't want any man.

After about an hour, Keith returned.

“Oh, you again.” Taylor turned her face away from him.

“Yes, it's me again.” Keith walked over to the window and opened the blinds, revealing a sunlight she wasn't ready to face.

“Don't you ever give up?” Taylor was clearly annoyed.

“Nope.” Keith seemed to pay her attitude no attention.

“Great.” Taylor sighed.“This is my job, Miss. It's not personal. I'm not here to harass you.” Keith looked at me, and I hunched my shoulders.

“That ain't what I say. Go on do your stinkin' job then.” Taylor was determined to give everyone a hard time. That part hadn't changed.

“Thanks.” Keith sat down in the nearest chair. “Now, may I call you Taylor, or do you prefer Ms. Carter?”

“Who cares?” Taylor yelled out.

“Good to meet you then, Taylor.” Keith went on with his routine.

Taylor didn't answer.

“As I said before, my name is Keith, Keith Anderson, and I've been a physical therapist here for the past ten years.” Keith spoke slowly and clearly so that we could understand every word. I appreciated that, because whenever I was nervous, I tended to miss things.

“Ten years? You don't look old enough to have ten years as a professional under your belt,” I said.

“Well, that's flattering, but I assure you, I've been working in the field that long.” Keith showed me his pearly white teeth.

“You must've seen a lot of awful stuff, huh?” Taylor couldn't seem to resist asking.

“I have, and nothing shocks me.” Keith took up her chart and started reading it.

“That's what you say.” Taylor sucked her teeth.

“I love challenges,” Keith informed her.

“Is that what you think this is, a challenge? This ain't no game. This is my life you know, and it's over.” Taylor was obviously losing patience.

“Please, Taylor, I didn't mean to upset you. My job is to either prevent or limit any permanent disability resulting from your injury.” Keith came close to Taylor and lifted the sheet just a little.

“Prevent or limit? I'm paralyzed from the waist down. There is no coming back from that. I'm an aerobics instructor and personal trainer who needs to walk and move and dance. Like I said before, my life is over.” Taylor couldn't hold back the tears any longer, and neither could I.

“An aerobics instructor. That explains what good shape you're in.” Keith never looked up from the chart.

“You call this good?” Taylor sniffled, and then blew her nose.

“I mean your weight and body fat content. All of that will help you in your recovery.” Keith seemed confident and unmoved by our display of emotions.

“Recovery?” Taylor rolled her eyes. “I already told you there ain't no coming back from this.”

“Let's see now, your surgery was successful, and the doctor said—” Keith put her chart down.

“I don't care what the doctor said. I don't trust doctors anyway,” Taylor said.

“Really?” Keith seemed to be intrigued by her attitude.

“I'm sorry–” I started.

“Doctors told me my mom's cancer was in remission. They told me she'd live, but she didn't. So you see, it's hopeless, no matter what they say. And no matter what you say.” Taylor dried her eyes with a tissue.

“I'm sorry about your mother. But there is no reason you can't recover.” Keith stood firm.

“Don't be sorry. They already told me I ain't gonna ever walk again,” Taylor said.

“Doctors don't know everything.” I added my opinion, hoping it would somehow make a difference, but doubting it.