A Discovery of Hope (A Coming Home Again Novel Book 3) (2 page)

Chapter Three

It’s been three months since the accident. Three months of pain and confusion that eventually led to more acute pain and confusion. Yes, I know I was in an accident. That’s what they keep telling me. The angry pucker snaking along my scalp and my casted arm also tell the story, although I don’t remember. I recall the storm and someone swearing and screaming. The rest I see only in occasional glimpses. I was in a coma for the first three weeks of it and I wish I could have stayed there until my body finished healing, for this has been a nightmare.

My dad couldn’t very well work on his own daughter, so he had the second-best rated neurosurgeon, who is an expert on brain trauma, shipped in to care for me. They’ve tried to explain all that BTI (brain trauma injury) mumbo-jumbo, but I’m too confused most of the time to understand it all. I’m too confused to even find my way to the bathroom sometimes…

I’ve begun speech therapy, which results in severe headaches. They say this is normal while my brain works hard to repair itself. Nevertheless, I feel broken. My words and thoughts don’t get along. I get everything mixed up. I want a glass of water, but end up requesting a puppy instead. I feel crazy.

Last month, I finally worked up enough courage to look in the mirror attached to my hospital table. I didn’t recognize the monster reflecting back at me and quickly slide the mirror away.

I am gaunt and nearly bald. Before the accident, I was a bit fuller in my figure—a healthy fuller, but now my body has become frail. I resemble one of those creepy zombie baby dolls that are all the rave right now, but with barely any hair and a gruesome scar slashing my head. My lips became chapped and cracked through this ordeal and the constant lip balm application is slowly making progress in bringing them back to normal.

My fingers absently pick at the sharp pieces of skin on my bottom lip as I stare at the beige wall. Bored, my eyes roam the room until they make the mistake of stealing a glance at the mirror set back up on the table, sending a wave of repulsion through me. The rough lips, sallow complexion, and scars will all take time to heal. Everyone keeps uttering reassuring words, but no one will meet my eyes while doing so. I fight to keep my tears at bay, but they rebel and begin to trickle down my hollowed cheeks. This only adds to the painful pressure in my head. Misery has become a well-defined word in my life.

After recovering from the shock of my new appearance, I wrote on a piece of paper that my dad could look at me again because I look nothing like my mom now. Dad read the note and fell to pieces, begging me to forgive him of those foolish words he spoke in anger that night.

I tried to tell him I forgave him, but it came out
I farted you
. He laughed then abruptly cried more. He knows how the brain works and knows what I have endured, and what I still have to overcome.

Mom is in and out most days. I don’t want to be angry with her. I want her happy and so I’m working on letting it go. Most days I just don’t say anything to her. When I try, I rub my scar in anxious confusion and this causes her to weep more. Mom is constantly reassuring me it’s okay. I guess that’s what she needs to get through this. Me? I don’t think it will ever be okay again.

My close friend Trina is here more than she’s not, by my side. I see how much pain it’s costing her. My other friends have come, but have left quickly. Now I only receive strained phone calls from them. I don’t fault them. I know how horrible I look.

I’m beginning to wonder if I will ever be normal again. More things are happening to make me doubt my brain is okay. I’ve started seeing things. I lay here in the dark room and see the warm light again. I’m losing grasp on my sanity, but decide it’s best not to tell anyone about it.

~~~~~

Angry resentment kept me company for quite a while, but now I’ve moved on to depression. I’m home, but I feel so alone. I’m not saying the anger doesn’t rear its ugly head every now and then. Mainly, sadness has crept over me as of late and a constant uneasiness nudges me. After the accident and rehabilitation, I don’t feel I had the proper time to absorb the reality of my parents’ split. I naively thought my family was immune to the broken family syndrome that seems to be plaguing so many families anymore. With twenty-four years of marriage, they were set as an ever-after-tale.

Life is never that tidy, or so I’ve bitterly learned. I don’t want my parents to divorce. I want my mom to come home, and I want my dad to welcome her with open arms—neither one of these will be happening. I may not be a child in age, but I will always be their child. I’m hurt and feel betrayed by their split. I don’t believe for one minute that me being older is making this any easier to handle. I feel as though they have deceived me with the twenty years of conveying a false happily-ever-after.

My sweet friend, Trina, has made several attempts to pull me out of this funk. She showed up at my door a few weeks back with a hair stylist (she didn’t think that one through) and a manicurist, saying I needed some spiffing up. It was obvious the stylist felt awkward with trying to style my
buzz
cut. It’s barely two inches long and does nothing to hide the angry pink scar visibly shining through the dark fuzz. Trina rectified her misstep quickly with an entire gift bag full of fun, funky hats on her next visit.

Her next attempt was just last week. It felt almost like an intervention. She brought our pastor to visit with me. His words made sense. You know, the whole
such is life
. You have to move on… Lean on God… Remember He won’t put any more on you than you can handle… His reassuring words reminded me of what Mother Teresa was quoted as saying and I completely agree—
I just wish He didn’t trust me so much
. Because the weight of my parents’ split and then the accident feels like too much for me to bear.

He kept saying, “Time will heal you.”

I have to trust him, because really, what other choice do I have.

Chapter Four

Six months of therapy and all I have to show for it is a slower speech and a gnarly new hairdo. I’ve been going through a bit of a bitter stage with this whole mess. I get frustrated easily and tend to throw things.

And there’s this other thing that I don’t want to admit. I’m seeing things. Well, more accurately, I’m seeing a young woman. First she showed up in my hospital room, always standing in the background watching me with a pleasant smile. I told no one about her then, because I couldn’t speak. Now that my speech has all but straightened out, I still don’t. I worry my brain didn’t heal properly in a spot and I’ve conjured this whole thing up. Even odder is the fact that she was bald the first time I spotted her and now her hair seems to be gradually growing at the same rate as mine. Creepy, right?

I’ve been back home with my dad for the past four months. It’s just the two of us in this palatial estate on Kiawah Island. Although my mom only made it three in this ridiculously large house, it felt like a home. I only feel like a guest now and I’m always uncomfortable in the confines of the vast walls.

Tonight we are finishing up some Japanese takeout, when I work up enough nerve to voice my concerns. We are both perched on stools at the creamy granite kitchen island because the dining room is too uncomfortably big. I drop my chopsticks on my plate and say, “Dad?”

He wipes his mouth with his cloth napkin and looks over at me. “Yes, sweetheart.”

“Are hallucinations a common side effect to my type of brain injury?” When he hesitates in answering me, I notice his warm eyes swimming in tears.

He clears his throat and places his hand on top of mine. “Willow, you should have never survived with the injury you sustained. It is by the miraculous grace of God, you are still alive and I thank Him daily for this gift.” He pulls me close for a hug and I let him.

Once he regains composure, I ask, “What about the hallucinations?”

He chuckles at this as though it’s insignificant in the whole scheme of things. Maybe it is, but I still need to know.

“Yes, sweetheart. It’s perfectly normal. Your brain is still healing from the trauma. Do the hallucinations scare you?”

“No. I just see things every now and then that I know shouldn’t be there.” I shrug it off.

“It’s a good sign that you can discern the hallucinations from reality. You let me know if they become worrisome and we’ll get it checked out.” Dad pulls me in for another hug. I look over his shoulder and see her sitting on the kitchen counter, barefoot as always in her beautiful white gown. She offers a small smile, but I look away and try to pretend she’s not there.

I spent last summer in a coma, then trying to overcome the aftereffects during what should have been the beginning of my junior year of college. I’m a semester behind now and have to decide within the next few weeks if I’m strong enough to start the spring semester. I want to resume normal, but my dad is hesitant. He and mom agree I should wait until next fall to return to school. She said her job in raising me was done last summer, so her opinion holds no weight in the decision any longer. Being an entire year behind seems too overwhelming. I’m already overwhelmed with some changes I want to make with my major. I’ve not worked up enough bravado to share these changes with my dad just yet.

I’m in my room worrying about all of this when I feel a headache nudging. It’s creeping up the left side and I know I’m about to be debilitated by it. I rub my scar through my short hair. I have a black pixie hairstyle going on now and I’m warming to the idea of short hair. All I have to do is run some gel through it and a quick blast of the hair dryer and I’m good to go. It’s still hard to hide the scar though so I think it needs to grow out some more. I’ve made other changes to my appearance as well. In a fit of rage, I tossed all of my makeup. Dramatic, I know. I don’t want to mimic my mom anymore. I want to discover who Willow Carter truly is supposed to be, and I feel like I can’t do that hiding behind the makeup. I need to just be raw and me.

I lie back on my bed and ask the empty room, “What should I do?”

“We both know it’s time for you to get back to school and choose to follow your passion.”

I sit up in shock and have to clutch my pounding head. I squint around the room to find her. She’s perched on my windowsill, knees pulled up with her arms wrapped around them. She always looks like such a tranquil apparition, but with her first word spoken, she just became real. Her voice sounds like a peaceful song, yet it freaks me out.

I close my eyes and whisper as I lay back down, “You’re not real.” I feel the bed dip slightly and then a hand finds mine. My entire body jumps at the touch as I reopen my eyes. She’s smiling down at me.

“You and I both know I’m real.”

I get off the bed to get away from her. Standing on one side of the four poster bed, I guardedly watch her sit cross-legged on top of it. She seems to be floating just above the comforter. “Who are you?” I continue to whisper.

“You may call me Hope.”

I look at her more carefully and it’s eerie at how closely she favors me, yet does not. Where my hair is raven black, her hair is stark white. My gold eyes are opposite of her silver eyes. Yet we look identical even down to the wild short hairdo. I wonder if she has a scar marring her scalp. I glance at her left arm and see hers does not bear the scars mine does from where the doctors surgically hemmed it back together with pins. Her skin is flawless and appears almost translucent. My fingers itch out of curiosity to test the texture, but I keep my hands to myself. “Why do you look like me?”

“I’m a reflection of you.”

“You’re a hallucination my broke brain has conjured up,” I mutter as I try to massage the throb in my head away. My hallucination climbs off my bed and places her hand over the scar on my head. As she does this, I feel the throb slip away, the same as it used to feel when they gave me morphine. Hope brushes her fingers through my short hair in a maternal gesture before dropping her hand. “I’m an angel of God. He sent me for you that stormy night, but then He changed His mind.”

“What?” I ask, taking a confused step back. “Angels aren’t real.” As I stutter this out, beautiful vast feathers appear in a glittering flash. The iridescent shimmering wings undulate with life from her back and I am in awe of their splendor. Her white gown flows around her in the same shimmering glamour now. I blink several times, but the image holds.

“Do you believe in God?” she asks, and I nod. “Do you believe in His word, the Bible?” I nod again. “Then you should understand the Bible makes direct reference to angels one hundred and eight times in the Old Testament and one hundred sixty-five times in the New Testament. There are thousands upon thousands of us created by our Father. I assure you I am real.”

“Why did God change His mind?” I ask with tears threatening.

“He wants greatness from you, my child, and He wants you to share that greatness with others.”

Feeling completely spent by this craziness, I collapse on the edge of the bed. My mind flips back over the faint memories of the past year. I’m still here and my mom is still gone with no signs of returning. I feel no greatness within me. Just defeat. “Please leave me alone,” I whisper through tears. I keep my eyes firmly closed and ease under the covers of my bed. If I don’t acknowledge her, maybe she will simply go away. I try to conjure up the emphatic voice I found my only comfort in that dreadful night and focus on it until sleep finds me. Even though it’s a foggy remembrance, I latch on to it with hopes it’ll become clearer over time.

“Hold on… Please… Hold on…”
The deep tone of his voice bellows out through the haze of my memory.

I’m trying
, I want to reassure him…

~~~~~

Waking up to a new day, my mind feels disoriented as most mornings. I hesitate to open my eyes. When I do, I find the room vacant except for me. Relieved at this, I head to my shower.

Today is Sunday and I get the entire day with my dad. Before the fateful events of last summer, the typical routine began with church. Then he would spend the rest of the day at his private office near the Medical University where he would work on some Medical Journal article or whatever else he was writing at the moment. My dad has coauthored several books on the medical wonder and advancement of the brain. Since the accident, he seems to have had a wakeup call and spends the entire day with me now. We always go out to eat after church services, and do whatever else strikes our fancy afterwards. It’s usually something low key because the stimulation of the large crowds all day tends to overwhelm me. He’s always mindful of what my poor mind can and cannot handle nowadays.

We go to a nondenominational church off the island. The congregation is so numerous, we don’t really know our fellow members. There is an array of ethnic groups here, too, and I figure that is why my parents chose this church family since they were an interracial couple. Dad says a church brand doesn’t matter as long as they have the fundamentals right—preach from the whole Bible and believe Jesus is our Savior. Done and done here at this vast church.

After service, Dad takes me to a little yet pricy bistro that only seats a select few in its small, classy space. Our salads have just arrived and I’m having a hard time mustering up an appetite. I need to tell him about some decisions I’ve finally made.

“What’s on your mind, sweetheart?” Dad asks.

“Nothing,” I whisper, suddenly chickening out. With a wave of my hand in dismissal, Dad straightens his tie and goes back to eating his salad.

He is ever so polished and poised. I used to neatly fit right into this description as well. Now with everything changing drastically, so have I. My hair now goes every which way as opposed to the former sleek do, and my face is free of any high-end cosmetics I used to paint on daily. My pristine yet terribly uncomfortable designer outfits have been replaced with comfort. Gone are the pinching skinny jeans and odd asymmetrical blouses in scratchy material. They have been replaced with well-worn jeans in relaxed fit, flowing tops with a bohemian flair, and super-soft cotton T-shirts.

As the hushed harmony of conversation and the tinkling of silverware meeting dishes echo around the dining area, I nervously pull the faded jean jacket a little closer over my chest as I study the red bandana pattern of my maxi dress. Taking a deep breath, I look up and gaze around the ritzy bistro. Even though my attire no longer resembles those seated in nearby tables, no embarrassment can be found on my part. I used to stay in a constant state of discomfort when I was Dr. and Mrs. William Carters’ prim and proper daughter. Our pretentious façade has crumbled to total disrepair, allowing me the freedom of being Willow Carter, college junior on her way to figuring out her path in life and not simply doing what everyone expects. Today I claim my dreams publicly.

I take a sip of my water, hoping it will help to beckon my voice to come forward. I’m about to shatter my dad’s dreams for me and I’m scared to death.

“I’ve decided I’m ready to go back to school.”

Dad looks up from his salad. “If you’re sure. I’ll make arrangements to go with you tomorrow to take care of getting you registered.”

“I’ve already taken care of it,” I say and watch a perplexed look cross over his face.

“Oh,” is all he says. I’ve never made a decision that didn’t include him.

“I’m twenty years old, Dad. I think it’s time I start doing things for myself.”

“I understand. It’s just…” He trails off, and then picks back up. “Sweetheart, you’ve had a really tough year.”

I interrupt him quietly, “I know. That’s why I feel it’s time to move on.”

“Okay,” he agrees too quickly, wanting to appease me in the mixed company of others. We have already become enough talk in this wealthy group and I understand he wants to draw no more attention. “What classes do you plan on taking this semester? I hope you start out with a light load. Maybe only one science this time.”

“Intro to Photography, Photography 101, and Art History,” I tick off.

“Are you short on elective credits?”

“No. I’m short on my major credits.” I pause to work up some more bravado. “I’ve changed my major.” I say no more and go back to picking at my salad.

Dad places his fork down, realizing his dream for me will not be coming true. Or maybe he’s hopeful it’s just on pause. “Willow—”

“The medical field has never been my dream, Dad. It has always been you and mom’s dream for me.”

He thinks this through for a moment before nodding his head in agreement. With what, I’m not sure. “Take this spring semester and enjoy those classes. It’ll give you a break from all of the tougher science classes. We can reevaluate this decision before the fall semester.”

I let him hope and nod my head in agreement. At least I get to pursue my dream for now.