Song of Renewal (19 page)

In recent days, she’d seemed less resistant to him. Tonight, her eyes still held a measure of wariness, but he noted that she
did come to a halt before him, at a much closer range – within reach, actually.

Everything in him wanted to gamble tonight, to take her by the hand, lead her down the hall into Angel’s room, and show her the painting, to maybe convince her of his love, despite the chasm still separating them.

He gazed into the blue depths of her eyes, ones swirling with myriad emotions, so mixed he could not isolate or decipher any one of them, except one. Hunger. The insignia was distinct and clear.

He lifted his hand to touch her cheek and, for a moment, she closed her eyes and accepted the touch, seeming to lean into it. In the next instant, her lids lifted and she gazed at him, sorrow and fear etched into her features.

In a heartbeat, she was gone – leaving Garrison with the lingering herbal fragrance of her hair. He closed his eyes and willed the canvas vision to somehow, in that dark cosmos, reach Angel. To reach Liza.

Antiseptic odors tickled Angel’s nose, then…nothingness.

Slowly, darkness scattered, like a kaleidoscope shift…a blond-haired teen girl’s reflection smiled back at her from the shimmery pond covered with fragrant white and crimson water lilies. The lush aroma of water and vegetation completed the bouquet. Resting on a thick carpet of pine needles covering the forest floor, she saw Mama at a distance, now joined by Daddy. They motioned to her, their lips moving, but…she couldn’t hear. She floated toward them but an invisible wall stopped her…something else tried to emerge from a mist. It was shadowy and elusive….Troy.

The look on his face drew her. He was trying to say something to her, but she couldn’t wrap her mind around it. She
struggled to reach him, knowing him to be an anchor that would somehow tether her to something solid. She couldn’t understand what he was trying to tell her. And he wouldn’t come nearer. Why? But just as her frantic hands reached out, she began to float…the sunlight dimmed and shadows fell all about her.
Nonono!

She tried to speak, but felt lifted higher and higher from the voices. From Troy.

Was she on a cloud? No, because the blackness began to wrap around her again, tightening, the cocoon growing firm and comfortable and familiar….

Liza moved uneasily through those following days. Dressing for the hospital that morning, she heard Garrison moving about in the kitchen, making coffee. Within moments, he quietly entered the dressing room, deposited her cup of coffee before her, and left. She felt his gaze upon her but avoided direct eye contact. Too hazardous.

“Thanks,” she called after him. Resisting his overtures was becoming less of a struggle. After all, he was a gentleman and he would not force himself upon her. She depended upon that. She had to smile at his darned manners.

She applied lipstick, then blotted it, staring at herself in the dressing room mirror. And yet – was he really as enamored as he seemed? Or was it simply holy lust? She herself fought it daily. Every time she looked at him. He’d not, after all, really talked to her in any depth in recent days. But then, she’d not truly encouraged substance-discussions, had she?

The only common ground they had these days was Angel. Liza’s mascara wand paused midair. The reality whammied her. How far apart they’d grown. Outside their parenting bond, all she felt was the sexual awareness. Sex. Her eyes rounded on
that note. But that didn’t constitute the kind of love they’d once had. The “being there” brand. The “I’ll never leave you, no matter what” kind.

Dear God, she’d grown absolutely paranoid. Or were her fears justified? She put away her makeup paraphernalia and went into the bedroom. Immediately her gaze lit on a family photo of them at Angel’s tenth birthday party. Liza picked it up and gazed longingly into the three laughing faces beneath silly pointed hats. The images grew misty. How happy they’d been.

Purposefully she set it down. She grabbed her purse and joined Garrison in the foyer. This being Sunday, Garrison’s only full day off to spend at Angel’s bedside, he snatched his briefcase from the closet and filled it with papers from the office to study later. He added a James Patterson novel for when he finished that task. Liza had noticed him reading more lately. That helped, in her estimation, to ease the strain of silence. Liza also brought along a book, one penned by Francine Rivers, who laced her upbeat, fun stories together with strong moral fiber.

Once at the hospital, she leaned over Angel’s bed and took hold of her fingers. “Garrison, look. Her fingernails look bluish to me. And her hands are cold as ice.”

He peered at them, his dark eyes troubled. “I’ll get the nurse.” He darted out the door. He returned with a nurse in tow, who reset the level of the oxygen machine. Soon, her fingernails reverted to a pinkish cast and her hands warmed. Liza and Garrison both drew deep, thankful breaths and gazed at each other in mutual understanding.

Liza smiled. The overture came spontaneously, and she meant it as encouragement. Garrison looked at her for a long moment, features solemn, unrelenting, and then turned his attention back to his novel’s pages.

Liza understood.

After all, a man had his pride. And she knew she’d hurt him badly at times with her arm’s length stance. She hadn’t meant to. God knew she loved him and didn’t want to inflict hurt on anybody, especially not Garrison. But self-preservation would remain high on her agenda for the remainder of Angel’s recovery.

Garrison had used the word renewal. Angel must first survive.

Survive.
Always with that thought came more qualms. How did she even know that Angel would recover? The long days of sitting and hoping were taking their toll on her. How many times could disappointment beat a person down before she lost the tenacity to pull herself back up?

“Angel won’t ever dance again,” she said softly, matter-of-factly, knowing it to be so. “But,” she looked at her husband, “that’s not the important thing, is it?”

He shook his head sadly. “No. No, it’s not. Just to have her back awake – that’s what I’m praying for.”

Liza sighed heavily. “Me too. But it would be nice if she could recognize us.”

“Yeah,” he murmured, this time his lips echoed her sad smile.

“Y’know, whatever happens with us – this is one place our hearts connect,” she said softly.

His eyes flickered to unrest for a long moment. “That’s true.”

And she knew it would always be.

“I’m going to take a walk,” Garrison said, rising from the chair. “My legs need stretching. I have my cell phone, in case you need me.”

“Sure,” Liza replied, looking up from the book in her hand. He saw the wariness in her face and wished to God it wasn’t there. She glanced at the wall clock. 1:45. “Take your time. I’m going to visit Dad in a little while. It’s my turn.” Even fitting in the nursing home visit, Garrison knew she would still have plenty of time with Angel today. Visiting hours ended at nine each evening and they stayed until the last second, leaving only when the staff chased them out.

Garrison set off down the corridor, relieved to move about. He’d felt unusually restless today. At times, the stress nearly crushed him. He missed Liza, both physically and emotionally.

What a lousy curve life had thrown him. Immediately, he shook his head. He couldn’t afford to look at things like that.
That’s exactly what I don’t need. A pity party.

Down the corridor, something about the polished mahogany door beckoned to him. He approached it and tried the handle. It opened and he felt an overwhelming sense of welcome upon entering.

The little chapel was quiet, but it was the peaceful kind; the kind that blankets and soothes. At that precise moment, that was exactly what Garrison needed. His gaze traveled to the wooden cross on the white wall, then moved down to the crimson carpet. The stark colors stirred the artist in him. He lowered himself to a velvet-cushioned pew, took a deep calming breath, and soaked up the moment’s serenity.

When he returned to join Liza, hoping for some moments of warmth and camaraderie, he found her laid back in the partially reclined chair, asleep. He spotted her small journal, one she carried with her at all times, spread out open across her lap. Dangling, actually. One move and it would clatter to the floor. The pen lay in her relaxed fingers, atop today’s entries.

He crossed quietly to shift the notebook to a more secure position, but he stopped when his eye caught the words, “What
must I do? Without trust, our marriage cannot survive. How can I entrust my heart to someone who cannot forgive me? Who would abandon me in my darkest hour? I cannot.”

Garrison stepped back, stunned. His integrity wouldn’t allow him to read more of her private entries. But the claim gave him pause. Did she still detect unforgiveness on his part? Was it still there?

Truthfully? There were moments when he thought he had let it go, when they were at Angel’s side and he felt that their very souls wrapped around each other. There were other times, when melancholy hit him hardest and the scene of that tragic night replayed over and over, that he still drew apart from her. Especially in the wee hours when the whys were the worst, when his defenses were down.

The best he could hope for now was that their current truce would endure until the crisis passed. For better or worse, it would pass. It would give them both time to regroup and see what remained of their marriage. That invisible atom of doubt pierced his heart. Could he live without Liza?

He didn’t want to find out.

The bottom line was that he loved her. At least she’d stopped bolting every time he came near her. But he couldn’t argue with her heartrending journal sentiments. She wrote what she believed to be true.

Hands shoved in slacks’ pockets, he moved to stare out the window into another hot, humid day. His cell phone’s ring broke his reverie, startling Liza awake as well. She caught her toppling journal and tucked it quickly into her nearby oversized purse as he answered his call.

“Yes, Gwen?” He listened for long moments, then said, “I’ll be there shortly.”

He turned to Liza, who, now awake, eyed him guardedly. “I’ve got to go to the office for a while.”

“On a Sunday?” She frowned, bewildered and still groggy.

“Duty calls,” he offered with a long, weary sigh. “Another deadline push.”

He started to lean and kiss his wife good-bye, but the look on her face quickly changed his mind. Despite his best intentions and desires, he couldn’t put Humpty Dumpty back together. He couldn’t unscramble quiche. Something else would have to renew them.

He sucked in a deep breath then blew it out, hoping to release his apprehension with it. He tried to push away the offkilter feeling, that not-quite-right sensation. He tried to remember that most of what he felt resulted from the tragedy. Tried to remember that Liza was at least pleasant with him. And that was something to build on. Wasn’t it?