Song of Renewal (16 page)

“Where’s Restorative Care?” Garrison wiped his mouth with a napkin.

“Across the road, behind the hospital. It’s a fairly new facility, I understand.”

They remained silent for long moments. “Do you suppose they’re giving up on her?” Liza asked with trepidation.

Garrison peered at her, worry evident in his mahogany eyes. “I don’t think so. I would think that they only send patients there who – well, those for whom they’ve done all they can. We’ll ask Dr. Abrams about it when he makes his rounds.”

Their later talk with the primary physician reassured them both that Angel’s care would remain in good hands in the ICU annex. “They’re set up to handle all that we do here. It’s simply a longer-term care provider.”

Two days later, an ambulance transported their daughter to Restorative Care. True to what Liza had heard, the facility was indeed new and the atmosphere caring and efficient.

“We could consider this as a step up,” Garrison told Liza as they stored Angel’s belongings in her room’s corner locker. “We can at least stay with her throughout the day.”

“Thank the good Lord,” Liza agreed, refolding and stacking a pink pullover and matching pink socks atop jeans and white Reeboks, the clothing Angel wore the night of the accident. She then pulled a moderately comfortable chair up to her daughter’s bedside. “These accommodations sure beat the old waiting room, with elbow to elbow visitors. And we aren’t limited to seeing Angel only twenty minutes out of every two to three hours.”

“Yeah,” Garrison said, settling into his own chair on the opposite side of the bed. “That was the roughest part – leaving her.”

In the new quarters, a wall-mounted cable television offered respite from boredom. “It’s great to know,” Liza observed, “that little has changed care-wise. She’s still constantly monitored and the staff is here pronto when a light goes off.”

Hovering, however, was the reflection that this move signaled either moving on to recovery or death. Daily, folks in RC died. Few experienced remarkable, quick recoveries.

Liza forced herself to think positive thoughts.

Pastor Steve Dill, from St. Joseph’s Presbyterian Church, where they attended, came by around noon. “Everyone sends their prayers and thoughts,” he said. “Angel is missed in her youth choir and Sunday school class.”

Tears pooled in Liza’s eyes before she quickly swiped them away and thanked Pastor Dill for the church’s support. It seemed that tears always hovered just below the surface these days.

“The medical team is going to turn off the respirator today,” Garrison informed the pastor. “They want to start weaning her. See if she can breathe on her own.”

“That’s wonderful, Garrison. Sounds like progress to me.” Pastor Dill celebrated with them and prayed before departing to complete his hospital visitation rounds.

Later that afternoon, the respirator went still.

The vigil began. At first, all was well.

But through the afternoon hours and into evening, the girl’s breathing slowly grew more and more labored. By ten o’clock, Angel began to gasp, her lips turning blue. Liza and Garrison panicked and summoned the nurse on duty.

Within moments, the respirator was back on.

Minutes later, blue gave way to pink lips and Angel breathed evenly, albeit with the help of a machine. Garrison and Liza, chairs pulled up to opposite sides of the bed, each holding a swollen hand, watched the rise and fall of their daughter’s chest.

Across the white covers, their gazes connected. Each mirrored the other’s sentiment: We got past another crisis. Thank God she breathes.

Fighting despair, both Wakefields retreated to their separate quarters that evening, following a silent, barely touched dinner of leftover pizza. Neither wanted food.

Garrison poured his heart onto the canvas, wondering if his daughter would survive. Angrily, he pushed the thought away, dipping his brush into vibrant, living colors and transporting them to canvas, willing subsistence into the painting…willing Angel back from the darkness entombing her.

But not for long. His hands moved with purpose as the brush stroked and slashed and coaxed life to the creation. Despite airconditioning, sweat beaded upon his furrowed brow, swelled to bursting, then trickled down his face. He didn’t notice.

Music wafting from Angel’s dance studio down the hall filled his heart with hope and vision for the future. And he looked up and caught sight of a needlepoint on Angel’s wall. From a white background, tiny pink roses and green leaves meandered about large, bold black letters. A gold frame bordered it all. He moved closer to read the message, one from his daughter’s heart: “Now faith is the substance of things hoped for and the evidence of things not seen….

His heart gave a leap. His lips curved into a slow certain smile.

Tonight, after warm-up stretches, Liza’s choice of music was unorthodox. But it seemed right. She loved the rich tones of John Barry compositions, especially his movie themes. She found that their deep, mellow sounds somehow drew upon her soul, releasing it into her movements. She inserted her
Somewhere in Time
movie soundtrack CD into the wall theater sound
system. Rich melancholy strains filled the chamber and set her sore body into slow, sustained adage movements. And she found herself wondering as she moved,
how will Angel handle not being able to dance again?

How will I handle it?
The thought almost brought her movements to an abrupt halt, but something inside her kept her momentum going, something she couldn’t quite wrap her mind around. Something otherworldly, subterranean, and yet to be known.

A peace settled over Liza. She didn’t question it. She simply moved in it. Simultaneously, the catharsis of tranquility pushed back darkness just as the movement of dance chased away painful soreness.

Renewal set in.

She switched to another CD, one featuring balletic themes.

Soon, Liza no longer felt pain. Instead, she soared through transition paces to jetés and dizzying pirouettes, grande jetés and more pirouettes, segueing through rotating rhythms and moods.

Mirrors on all sides reflected her grace and brilliance, on and on, into infinity.

But she didn’t see that. She saw Angel, rising from her deathbed, beautiful and vibrant.

Alive.

Liza felt tired. But it was a good tired, one that ensured deep rest. She and Garrison passed each other in the hall on their way to their separate beds. Garrison reached out to brush fingers, ever so gently, halting her in her tracks.

Their gazes collided. Confusion gripped her as her body instinctively reacted. Her emotions felt snatched up in a cyclone.
Then, another response rushed to the forefront – offense. Her heart was still too, too wounded.

Tears gathered suddenly and she rushed past her husband, hoping he didn’t detect them.

chapter nine

Angel felt, at times, suspended between being and not being. Somewhere in her mind’s sphere, she was aware of sounds. Sporadically, she felt sensations…a needle pricking…metal sticks shoved under her tongue…and that huge thing jammed down her throat that forced air into her.

Pain. Gosh-awful pain. Here. There. Everywhere at times.

Mostly, she floated along a river of nothingness. Wrapped in a black cocoon.

But sometimes, her stubborn brain ticked on. Submerged visual fragments broke loose…a huge rehearsal room? Mama was dancing the ballet
Giselle
. She was so beautiful and graceful as she danced away to the far side of the chamber…Mama looked around and saw Angel…the music changed to “Allegro Brillante” as she spun in pirouettes around the room….

She turned and smiled her luminous smile, then beckoned to Angel to follow. “You can do it, darlin’!” Angel began to dance the same steps, exuberant and elated….but suddenly Mama stopped smiling and the room became shadowed.

“Point de toes! Point de toes!” cried Mama in a Russian accent. “It is one movement, not three! One!” Mrs. Vollweiller’s features superimposed over Mama’s.

Terror struck Angel’s heart. And failure. Instantly, Angel’s legs grew heavy, then numb…and she toppled again into black nothingness.

Charlcy called Liza that week. Her sister, six years older and eons more worldly-wise, had finally landed back in the States. “I’ve got a two-hour layover here in Atlanta,” she told Liza.

“It’s great knowing you’re back on home soil.” Liza’s voice vibrated with emotion.

“Shoot, sis,” she said in her travel-weary, husked voice, “you know I’d a’ been there the night of the accident, but I was halfway ‘round the durned world when you gave me the news. And then you wouldn’t let me come!”

“Only because I love you and wanted you to get your money’s worth on the cruise.” That was so true. It had been a sacrifice to forfeit her sister’s presence.

“Anyway, thanks for keeping me updated. I’m gon’ catch the next plane out, so keep a light in the window, now, y’hear?”

“God, it’s good to know you’ll soon be here, sis.” Liza could hardly speak past the lump in her throat.

“That is, if you need me. I know you do, but Garrison might not feel that way. Don’t wanna intrude if he doesn’t, y’know? Folks react to these things differently.”

“You gotta be kidding!” Liza’s laugh was half sob “Honey, if I ever needed you in my life, it’s now. And you know Garrison adores you.” Then to lighten up for Charlcy’s benefit, she added petulantly, “Probably more than he does me.”

She picked Charlcy up at the Spartanburg-Greenville International Airport later that day. Humidity hung hot and sticky in the evening air when she got out to help load the luggage into Charlcy’s Land Rover. Her sister had left it in the Wakefields’
garage while on her jaunt. “You want to drive?” Liza offered. At Charlcy’s refusal, she took the wheel.

“Garrison had to go back to the office for a while.” Liza turned on the vehicle’s air conditioner full blast. “He sends his love. He’ll join us later at the hospital.”