Rejoice (28 page)

Brooke nodded and took the call in her office. Her father didn’t normally call her at work, and she had to fight her initial reaction that something was wrong. Something else. She pushed the blinking button on the phone. “Dad?”

“Listen, honey. I know you’re busy but you need to know about Peter.”

“Peter?” Brooke felt her heart skip a beat. She settled into her office chair and shaded her eyes with her free hand. He hadn’t contacted her or the girls since before Christmas. Twice she’d called his office to make sure he was still seeing patients. He was last time she checked, but that had been two weeks ago. Kari had told her maybe she should give him space, time to realize how lonely life would be without her and the girls.

“Honey, Ryan called. Peter’s at the mental-health facility in town. In the detox lockdown unit.”

The words came across the phone line, but somewhere in Brooke’s consciousness they hit a brick wall. Detox lockdown? That unit was for drug addicts, people so desperately addicted their very lives were at stake. Why in the world would Peter be there? “Dad, I . . . I’m not sure I understand.”

“He’s been taking painkillers. He overdid it on Friday and called for help.”

“Help?” The walls of the office began closing in, and Brooke struggled to grab a breath.

“Paramedics responded. The hospital stabilized him, and they sent him to the mental-health facility the next day.”

“He’s been there since Saturday?” Brooke was buying time, getting the facts straight in her head so she could accept the truth of what he was saying. The suspicions of her family had been right after all. Peter had been writing prescriptions for himself, taking painkillers until he couldn’t function without them.

And not once had he called her for help.

Brooke wasn’t sure which truth hurt worse. She pinched the bridge of her nose and concentrated on her father’s words. “Does . . . does he want to see me?”

“Not yet.” Her father hesitated. “Ryan visited him last night.”

“Why Ryan?” Brooke dropped her hand and leaned back in her chair.

“Because the pain pills aren’t working anymore. Peter told his doctor Ryan was the person he trusted most, spiritually. I guess they talked about walking through the pain with God and coming out whole at the other end.”

A single ray of light shone its way through the murky fog of desperation. Brooke held her breath. “And . . .”

“And Peter agreed that was the only way—his only hope.”

Brooke released a small cry. “Are you serious?”

“Yes.” Her father’s voice was thick. “He’s got a long way to go, Brooke. But he wants to find his way back.”

The conversation wound down, but for several minutes after Brooke hung up, she sat there, her head bowed as she considered the situation. In the months since Hayley’s accident, Peter—the confident, brilliant doctor she’d married—had become an empty, broken man. A man whose pain over what had happened to their daughter had almost cost him his life.

As difficult as the news was, Brooke didn’t feel discouraged or desperate or any of the things she would’ve expected to feel. Instead she felt a river of joy—deep and vibrant and full of life—running through the barren places of her heart. God was working in the situation. Hayley was making progress, and for the first time in his life, Peter was a broken man.

Brooke wouldn’t have wished anything else for her husband. Because only once he realized he was broken could God fix him. Knit them all back together again.

Whole and healthy and once more walking toward a future soaked in sunlight.

The visit came four days later, one week after Peter’s admittance to the mental-health facility.

Peter’s counselor agreed that he was far enough into his rehabilitation, far enough removed from the suicide attempt, that he could meet with Brooke. Besides, he’d been asking for the chance since seeing Ryan earlier that week.

That evening, Brooke had dropped Maddie and Hayley off at her parents’ house and reminded herself to be calm. Believing rehabilitation was the best thing for Peter and visiting him in a detox lockdown unit were two different things. By the time she entered the facility and found the front desk, Brooke’s fingers were freezing cold and she couldn’t draw a full breath.

So much of what she’d prayed about had led them to this moment, this time together. And though Peter had asked to see her, Brooke had no idea what he wanted to talk about. Had his time at the rehab center made him reconsider his place in their family? Did he want to save their marriage after all? Brooke didn’t know, and the counselor hadn’t shed a single ray of light on the issues.

The woman at the front desk checked her in and nodded. “Mr. West is expecting you.”

“Will his counselor be there?” Brooke sounded official, the way she always did when she was in a medical facility. But she was weak with fear, suddenly unprepared for whatever lay ahead.

“Yes.” The woman pointed down a long hallway. “They’ll be in 235, at the end of the corridor.”

Brooke thanked the woman, and seconds later she made a cautious entry into the room. Peter looked thin, his face pale, but he had a look of hope in his eyes, something Brooke hadn’t seen there in more than a year.

“Hi.” He stood and nodded at her.

The counselor cleared his throat. “Hi, I’m Richard Camp, chief psychiatrist at the center.” He paused and gestured to the space around him. “Don’t mind me; I’ll keep to myself over here.” He adjusted his notepad. “Try to let your conversation be normal.”

“Okay.” Brooke ran her tongue over her lip. She needed water.

Tension hung in the air, and Brooke glanced at the counselor. She wasn’t sure if she should cross the room and hug her husband or ask Dr. Camp for permission. In the end she did neither, opting instead to drop slowly onto the chair nearest the door. The moment was even more awkward than she’d expected. She met Peter’s eyes. “Hi. I . . . you look good.”

Peter shrugged. “Not really, but thanks.” He took a long breath. “How’re the girls?” She smiled, and the counselor jotted something down on his notepad.

“Good.” A layer of sweat beaded up on Peter’s upper lip.

Brooke tried to think of something to say, but nothing came to mind. She fiddled with her wedding ring. Had they run out of things to talk about? She sucked in a quick breath and thought about Hayley, how far she’d come and how much of her recovery Peter had missed. “You should see Hayley.” She offered a stiff smile. “She’s rolling across the floor now, making her way to me whenever I call her.”

“Really?” Peter’s eyes stayed flat. “What does her doctor say?”

“Nothing.” The words were coming easier now, the counselor less of a distraction. “She shouldn’t be alive, let alone rolling across the floor.”

A loud beeping sound came from the counselor’s pager. He unclipped it from his belt and frowned at the Caller ID window. “Hmm.” His eyes lifted to Brooke’s and then to Peter’s. “I have to take this.” He hesitated. “Why don’t I give you twenty minutes alone; will that work?”

Brooke felt the sting of fear. The question brought a mix of feelings. Alone would be good, but without the counselor she and Peter would have to face the obvious: They were sitting in a room at a rehab unit in the wake of his suicide attempt, with an unexplored ocean of tragedy lying between them.

The counselor was waiting, and Peter gave the nod. “Go ahead.”

“Okay.” The man looked from Peter to Brooke and back again. “Twenty minutes.”

The counselor left the room and shut the door behind him. Brooke looked at her husband, and suddenly the atmosphere between them changed. Peter’s forced smile faded. His shoulders slumped and his head fell forward until he was staring at the floor between his feet. A minute passed, and he said nothing. But then his upper body began to shake and he brought his hands to his face.

“Peter . . .” She slid to the edge of her seat and angled her face.

“I haven’t . . . I haven’t told you what happened.” He raised only his eyes. “With Hayley.”

Brooke’s stomach tightened, and a wave of nausea hit her. She’d expected the counselor to be present, expected them to talk about his addiction or their marriage or his fragile recovery.

But Hayley?

“You don’t have to, Peter.” Adrenaline shot through her veins and she closed her eyes. “It doesn’t matter now.”

“It does.” His voice sounded tight, pinched by the struggle. “I have to tell you. So you don’t wonder forever.”

She blinked and opened her mouth, ready to beg him not to tell her, not to paint the picture she’d avoided since Hayley’s accident. Better to never know, to not find herself falling asleep fighting images of Hayley underwater, Hayley at the bottom of the pool, Peter diving into the water. . . .

But before she could tell him no, before she could ask him to forever keep the details to himself, a glint of understanding dawned in her heart. What if this was part of his counseling? What if telling the story was Peter’s first attempt at building a bridge between them?

“Why, Peter?” Her throat ached from the sudden tension in her neck. “Tell me.”

He sat a bit straighter. “I can’t feel . . . I can’t feel close to you until you know.” He dug his elbows into his thighs. “We need to talk about it. We should’ve talked about it a long time ago.”

Brooke’s teeth began to chatter, and she gave a shake of her head.
No, God . . . I don’t want to hear.

Daughter, do not be anxious. . . .

The verse that had struck her time and again these past months practically shouted at her: “Do not be anxious.” The words played in her mind again and she gritted her teeth. Fine. She would hear the details. Maybe Peter was right. Maybe then they would get past that awful day and find a way to move ahead. Maybe even move ahead together. A long breath eased between her teeth. “Okay.” She relaxed her jaw. “Tell me.”

Peter fit his hands together and wrung them. The lines on his forehead relaxed and resignation filled his eyes. “It’s all right. You don’t have to hear.”

“I changed my mind; I do want to hear.” Brooke slid her chair across the tile linoleum until she was a few feet from Peter. With every passing second her statement was becoming truer. Hadn’t she wondered about that day? Of course she had, and she’d wonder until the day she died unless Peter told her every bit of what had happened that Saturday. Her heart pounded as she spoke again. “Go ahead, Peter. I’m ready.”

For a long moment, he didn’t look like he would do it. He raked his fingers through his short dark hair, and Brooke saw he had more gray than before. He looked weary and remorseful and terrified and nervous all at the same time. For another few seconds he massaged his temples, and then the story began to spill out. “After you left, I was watching the game with DeWayne and—” he shook his head and rubbed the back of his neck—“I don’t know, maybe ten minutes later the girls came in, dripping wet.”

Brooke lifted her fingers to her throat and massaged away the tightness there. The scene Peter was describing was a last time—the sort her mother had talked about recently. The last time Hayley had ever run into the house after a swim in the pool. The last time she’d started a conversation with Peter. At that point, her minutes as a normal, healthy child had been counting down fast even though no one knew it.

“Tell me.” She nodded, giving Peter permission to continue.

He let his hands fall to his lap. “They asked me to take their life jackets off so they could have cake, and—”

Brooke fell back against her chair. There it was: the admission she’d known was coming, the explanation she’d imagined even that very same day after Hayley was taken to the hospital. Peter himself had taken off the girls’ life jackets. He’d taken them off and never thought once about putting them back on until . . . until . . .

“Wait.” She held up her hand. But even as she did, she caught herself. This was the reason he was telling her in the first place, so she’d never have to wonder what happened next.

“Brooke.” Peter looked at her, his eyes narrow, intense. “I know what you’re thinking. You told me to keep their life jackets on, but I thought . . . with them sitting at the table they should . . .”

“Don’t, Peter.” Brooke spread her fingers out in front of her.
Steady,
she told herself.
Stay steady.
She gave a sad huff. “Don’t say it. Just go on.”

He hesitated and she watched him, the way he worked his fingernails into the palms of his hands. After half a minute he gave a slight defeated nod and continued. “Well, so a little while later Maddie came running into the TV room and . . .”

This time, the story spilled out in its entirety, the whole thing. The part about Maddie crying out to Peter, afraid, unable to find Hayley, and the way he’d noticed Hayley’s life jacket swinging on Maddie’s arm. His mad run toward the pool and Hayley’s small body lying at the bottom of the deep end. The dive into the pool and the awful time it took him to swim her to the surface.

Peter’s voice was a gritty monotone as he let the story come, every horrifying detail of it, and finally, when he was finished, he searched Brooke’s face. “That’s what happened. I took her life jacket off, Brooke.” As he said her name, his voice cracked and he sank lower in his chair, still buried beneath the guilt. “It was my fault.”