Sticks and Stones (The Barn Church Series) Page 3

  The blaring siren shocked him back to the present. He needed to get home, get the children, go to the hospital.

  He dialed Rachel’s cell and untied Dutch.

  “Rachel.”

  “Dad, did you forward the stables’ phone to my cell? Some lady called, but I guess I deleted the number. Where’s Mom? She’s supposed to take me out for pizza and—”

  “Listen, don’t call anyone. Get Ben, both of you get ready to go to the hospital. I’ll be right there.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Just do what I’m telling you. Your mother’s been hurt. We need to go to the hospital.”

  He ended the call. Vaulted onto Dutch and dug in his heels, spurring the horse to an instant gallop with commands and slapping reins. He pushed the horse faster, and faster still, all the way to the house. In minutes he loaded Rachel and Ben into his F-250 crew cab.

  He called Sean. “Sean. Where are you?”

  “With Lisa at the Downtown Diner. We’re getting a burger.”

  “Tempo was bitten by a cottonmouth and threw your mother.” Rick’s heart skipped a beat. “Hang on.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Rick handed the phone to Rachel. “Put him on speaker.” He turned onto the highway and gunned the turbo diesel. “Your mother’s being taken to the hospital in an ambulance. I’ve got Rachel and Ben. Meet us there.”

  “Is Mom gonna be okay? Is she like, paralyzed?”

  Rick swallowed hard. “No, but she’s hurt pretty bad.” There was so much blood. “Just meet us there.”

  “Got it.”

  “And call the vet. Tell him ... well, I don’t know where Tempo is, but Dutch is tied at the back of the house.”

  “I’ll drop Lisa and take care of Dutch, then meet you at the hospital.”

  Rachel ended the call and dropped the phone onto the seat between them. “Ben, quit pushing your feet or knees or whatever you’re doing, into my spine.”

  Rick glanced in the rearview mirror, caught Ben’s eye, and gestured with his head. Ben adjusted his hearing aid and slid over. “Dad?”

  “Yeah, buddy.”

  “Is that Mom’s blood on your shirt?”

  Julie’s blood. On his shirt. Under his nails. In dark handprints on his jeans.

  “Is Mom gonna be okay?”

  Rick felt a rogue tear escape. “Yeah, buddy.” He sniffed. “She’ll be all right. But we might have to take care of her for a while. Okay?”

  The seven-year-old leaned forward, reached one coltish arm over the seat, and patted Rick’s shoulder. “What about Sunday? Will she be better by Sunday, so she can sing in church for that guy?”

  Sunday. This was the most devastating thing that could happen to Julie, and it would not be an easy fix.

  “Tell you what, buddy. We’ll help her get better, and she can sing another day.”

  “Are we almost there?” Ben asked.

  “About ten more minutes, buddy.”

  He sped to town as fast as he dared without risking a ticket. Slowed to the strictly-enforced twenty-five-mile-an-hour crawl as he drove on ancient brick streets past the courthouse, the Downtown Diner, and Benson’s Hardware. He eased around the bright red water tower near the railroad tracks. Finally he made it to the blacktop of the highway, and shot down 29. Would he find Julie dead or alive when he reached the hospital?

  He followed the signs to Emergency Room Parking and held open the back door of the truck while Ben jumped down. Rachel exited the cab carrying her laptop.

  “You brought your computer?” Rick asked.

  “It’s not for games.” She rolled her eyes. “I have homework.”

  “We need to hurry. Let me carry it.”

  She looked almost embarrassed, then smiled a half-smile he knew would someday break a thousand hearts, including his own. “Okay.” She handed it over.

  His cell rang as they jogged across the parking lot. “Rick Matthews.”

  “Rick? Nathaniel Jordan.”

  Dr. Nathaniel Jordan, the OB/GYN who delivered Ben. Owner of Trident, a clever mustang, and the newest client at Matthews Stables. “Nate, can I call you back?”

  “I’m on duty. Was in the ER, talked to the paramedics when they brought in Julie. You here yet?”

  “Crossing the lot now.”

  “Don’t waste your time in ER. Go to Surgical Waiting. She’s being taken to the OR.”

  ***

  “Mrs. Matthews,” a man said. “You’re in the OR. Count backward in your mind with me. Squeeze my hand when I say the numbers.”

  Julie’s body flashed cold, then hot.

  “Ten. Good. I felt that.”

  A hand rested on her forehead. She blinked furiously, trying to focus.

  “Nine. Good. Go ahead and close your eyes for me.”

  Her brain tunneled.

  “Eight. Seven.”

  Her mind went dark ...

  She was thirteen years old, standing at the squatty oak piano in her best friend’s living room, running her fingers over the yellowed keys. Sharon entered from the kitchen and handed her a fizzing glass of Coke.

  “Mom said she’d love to show you how to play. She’ll be right here when she gets off the phone with your mom.”

  Julie was already taller than Sharon, everyone else in their class at school, even Sharon’s mom. But something about the woman made Julie feel safe and protected.

  She folded her hands in front of her. “But your dad and brother are gone, right? You’re the only one who’ll hear me mess up.”

  “Dad and Rick are hunting this weekend. They won’t be back until tomorrow night. And everybody messes up the first time. You should hear some of my mother’s students. Especially the boys who never practice.”

  “I can’t believe my mom is letting me spend the night and stay tomorrow. How’d your mom get her to say yes?”

  Sharon smiled. “She’s pretty good at reading people. She told your mom what a sweet girl you are, and how you volunteered to help her with a project this weekend.”

  “A project?”

  “Duh. She needs to teach someone—besides me—how to play the piano.”

  Julie’s palms started to sweat. The secret notebook filled with songs she’d written waited in her book bag, right there on the floor under the front windows. If she learned to play the piano, to read music, she could write the melodies that flowed through her head. And maybe someday if she worked really, really hard, people might want to hear her sing those songs. Then God would smile at her all the time, and she’d get to keep the peaceful feeling she always got when singing to Him in her dreams.

  Miss Grace—Sharon’s mom insisted Julie not call her Mrs. Matthews—finally arrived, wearing the sweet, welcoming smile she always had whether greeting Julie or scolding Rick. She sat on the cushioned bench, motioning for Julie to sit beside her, and showed Julie how to position her hands over the keys.

  “Here’s middle C.” She pointed, her voice patient. “It’s in the same place on every piano.”

  Julie’s heart soared with hope. “How long will it take me to learn all the keys? To be able to play anything I want?”

  “You’re a smart girl. If you work at it, learning won’t take long at all.”

  “But we don’t even have a piano.”

  Ms. Grace laughed. “You can practice here any time.”

  “My mom won’t pay you,” she blurted. Money was spent at salons, or on clothes and shoes at the new two-story mall in Birmingham. Julie’s mom planned to move there as soon as Julie finished high school, to “finally start my life after losing your father.”

  But there had to be a way. “I could work. Here. Do part of Sharon’s chores, or—”

  “Oh, sweetie.” She stroked a hand down Julie’s thick hair. “Sharon tells me you have a lovely voice. Maybe you could sing for me some time.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  In the waiting room, Rick stood statue-still by the couch where Ben slept and Rachel sat typing. A Spanish-speaking nurs
e had just left after talking with the only other family in the waiting area.

  He walked to the open doorway and peered into the hall, tapping his fingers against the doorframe as he looked in both directions, and willed someone, anyone to come and give him an update on his wife. No one came. Not even Sean, whom Rick had sent to the cafeteria for food and coffee.

  Normally, Rick was good at waiting, a trait that often frustrated his younger sister. His patience habitually outlasted stubborn horses, and on more than one occasion, guided his bickering offspring to a truce, or coaxed a timid child onto a saddle for the first time.

  He was proud to say he coached Julie through thirty-six hours of labor with Sean, a solid eighteen with Rachel. While Ben’s birth was quick—a short, if not sweet, five hours from start to finish—the pregnancy had seemed endless to Julie. Rick had used every technique at his disposal to soothe her and lift her spirits. When she finally delivered their third child, he was as relieved as his exhausted wife. Sharon had hugged him, laughed, and said, “Vasectomy anyone?”

  But tonight, now, while his wife was elsewhere in this hospital suffering from a broken arm, a broken jaw, and heaven only knew what else, his inherent tendency toward calm eluded him—like he’d scraped the bottom of the barrel during those awful minutes in the woods, while he waited with Julie for the ambulance to arrive. He had no reserve, no back-up resource from which to draw. With his parents half a world away in Germany helping his sister, Rick was on his own.

  He tightened his fists as urgent demands scuttled through his mind like spiders. He wanted to know about his wife’s condition, and he wanted to know now.

  He glanced at his watch, used his thumbnail to scrape dried blood off the face. Almost midnight.

  Sean rounded the corner with bags and a cup carrier in hand.

  “The smell of fries will wake Ben. The three of you should eat.”

  “Yes, sir.” Sean tossed Rachel a Styrofoam box. “Cheeseburger. Plain. Extra ketchup’s in the bag.”

  “Thanks.” She set aside her computer.

  “Do we know anything yet?” Sean handed him a cup.

  Rick gulped half of the large coffee. “Nope,” he said, as Ben stirred awake. “Hey, buddy.”

  Ben signed fries, a hopeful expression on his face.

  Rick nodded and pointed to his own ear. “Hearing aid.” Ben sat up and adjusted the device. “And use your words, buddy.”

  A knock on the doorway drew Rick’s attention. “Mr. Matthews?”

  He straightened, setting aside his coffee. “I’m Rick Matthews.”

  “Dr. Chang.” The stocky Asian man in scrubs shook Rick’s hand and motioned for Rick to follow him into the hall. “Sorry about your wait; I was paged to the Pediatric ER. It seems tonight’s the night for broken bones. I’m the orthopedic surgeon who repaired your wife’s arm.”

  “How is she?”

  “She’s going to be fine. She should be moving to the recovery room momentarily.”

  Julie would be fine. The surgery was over, and she would be fine.

  Rick felt the tremors begin in his own fingers—a steady, uncontrollable vibration as relief shook its way up his forearms. He shoved his hands in his jeans pockets and faced the doctor.

  “She’ll have a cast for a while, of course,” the physician continued. “But the break should heal in about six weeks. Dr. Wyman, an oral surgeon, repaired her jaw before I worked on her arm. He had another emergency procedure immediately following your wife’s. He asked me to give you this pamphlet about what she should expect after that kind of jaw trauma. He’ll visit her tomorrow during his rounds.”

  Rick accepted the literature, stuffed it in his shirt pocket. “So, that’s it? All that blood from a broken jaw? She didn’t have any internal injuries?”

  “No, Mr. Matthews. No other injuries. No evidence of concussion or head trauma, which is really good news.”

  Rick glanced back at his children and stepped closer to the doctor. “Will she still be able to sing? It’s really important to her.”

  The physician’s brow furrowed. “I don’t see why not, after a full recovery of course. You can confirm with Dr. Wyman tomorrow. She’ll be in Recovery for a while. A nurse will let you know when she’s moved to the trauma unit. She’ll be there for a day or so.”

  “When can I see her? Talk to her?”

  “You can talk to her all you want after she leaves Recovery, but she’ll most likely be sleeping until tomorrow.”

  Ben approached and wrapped his thin arms around Rick’s waist. “Dad, can I have some of your fries?”

  Rick returned the embrace, clearing his throat. “Sure, buddy.” Ben skipped back to the couch as Rick offered a thankful nod to the doctor. “Appreciate you taking care of her.”

  Dr. Chang flashed a pasted smile. “I’ll stop by tomorrow.” He turned and left.

  Rick sagged against a wall. Violent nausea churned through his gut as he remembered the pitiful whimpers from his wife’s disfigured face. He knuckled a tear from his own cheek.

  God, You know, in spite of everything, I love her. I thought I was going to lose her.

  And he would lose Julie if she lost her ability to sing. The light that shone in those beautiful green eyes on Sunday mornings would be snuffed out. The peaceful smile—which illuminated her as she stood with microphone in hand, face raised to heaven, her brilliant voice echoing off The Barn Church ceiling—would be replaced with ... emptiness.

  “Hey, Dad?”

  “Be right there, Sean.”

  He reached into his back pocket for a handkerchief and felt the trip brochure. He would take Julie on a trip. He would help her recuperate, then take her anywhere she wanted to go. They’d be happy, as long as he had her, and as long as she could sing.

  Rick returned to his children. “Your mother’s out of surgery. She has a broken jaw and a broken arm, but she’s going to be okay.”

  “Can we see her?” Ben asked around a mouthful of French fries.

  “No, buddy. She’ll be sleeping for a while. Sean, take your brother and sister home. I’ll spend the night here or in Mom’s room if they’ll let me. Call my cell after you get up in the morning.”

  Rachel yanked her laptop’s power cord out of the socket she’d plugged into when they first arrived in the waiting room. “So ... what? Mom’s okay, and now you’re sending us home with Sean in charge? It’s like one o’clock in the morning. Do I have to go to school tomorrow?”

  Rick sat beside his daughter and helped her pack her computer. He put his arm around her and looked at her. She was practically a duplicate of Julie at age fourteen. How long did he have before some love-struck young man put his arm around her?

  “Yes, Sean is in charge. And no, you don’t have to go to school tomorrow.”

  His reward was one of those heart-breaker smiles. “Thanks, Daddy.”

  ***

  Charlotte Church was singing.

  Julie knew it was Charlotte Church. That soothing tone. The perfect vibrato. The lovely, clear sound like a sky so blue it might have been painted on glass.

  Just like Julie herself had dreamed of singing since she was a little girl. From her soul. Full and flowing. Certain that God was listening, and pleased, and ...

  Why would Charlotte Church be singing to her, in her sleep?

  There was clanging—metal against metal. It echoed.

  “We need a bed in Recovery,” a male voice said. The same voice that had told her to count backward? “Preferably a half hour ago.”

  She heard beeps and a rhythmic whooshing like a vacuum turning on and off. The pinching scent of antiseptic stung her nostrils.

  “Okay. I’m in soprano overload,” a female said. With a click, Charlotte Church stopped singing. “And I have called for a bed in the Recovery Unit, sir. Twice,” the woman continued. “Security’s removing a drunken boyfriend. Former pro kick-boxer. Tried to kick down the entry doors to get to his girlfriend, and broke his own foot.”

  “I don�
��t care what they’re doing. This one won’t stay under much longer. We have to move her or tie her hands. Or we’ll have to extubate her here.”

  Julie strained to lift her eyelids. Through a slit she saw dark masculine eyes above a surgical mask. A gloved hand reached across her face.

  Her lungs shrank. Something was filling her nose and throat. She couldn’t open her mouth. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t speak.

  She had to get what was in her nose out. She was suffocating.

  She jerked her hand up and grabbed at her face. Her fingers wrapped around the tube sticking out of her nose.

  Julie pulled.

  “Shoot!” A large hand clamped over hers, while another stilled her forehead. “Ma’am! Let go! You’re in the OR, and you’re okay.”

  Razors! Her vocal cords screamed as hot blades lacerated her throat from the inside.

  More hands held down her body. The masked man pried her fingers free and lowered her arm.

  Tears bubbled behind her eyelids, trickled down the sides of her face, burning her skin.

  What had they done to her throat?

  “Mrs. Matthews, you’re in the hospital and you’re okay.” The female spoke calmly, directly into her ear. “I’m Stella, your nurse. Your surgery’s over and we’re about to take you to Recovery. Hang in there another minute, and we’ll get that tube out.”

  ***

  A warm blanket. Firm but gentle hands were tucking her in, rooting the soft, warm blanket under her torso and limbs. She felt snuggly, like when she was a child and she rolled herself in her covers before going to sleep.

  Her body vibrated with cold, but her teeth weren’t chattering. Thankfully, the blankets kept coming. Another and another. The wave of soothing heat penetrated her goose-pimpled skin, relaxed her tense muscles.

  “Mrs. Matthews. You’re in the Recovery Room now. I’m Stella, your nurse. That last blanket did the trick, didn’t it?”

  Julie wanted to answer, tried to answer, but sleep reclaimed her groggy mind. She didn’t know how long she was out before she heard Stella’s voice again.

  “Sorry about all this bothersome monitoring, but that’s how we get you out of here.”

  A band tightened on her arm. Almost too tight, then finally released. One eyelid wobbled open.