Song of Renewal (33 page)

The first had been the outside ramps, now in place.

“She will not be limited here,” he’d emotionally vowed after she’d first regained consciousness. “Her life will be as rich and free as possible.” It was now his mission to transform the dwelling into a sanctuary in which she had full mobility and access to as many of life’s joys as he could make happen.

He had a lot to make up for.

Liza had joined in to reroute passageways and open up avenues of light and space, comfort, and accessibility. She’d designed the bathroom renovations, from the Italian tiles to the crisp white, double-crown molding. An oversized Spanish archway – cornered with snowy pillars – replaced the original French doors, to open up the dressing area, lending the flair of a backstage Broadway dressing room.

One fit for this season’s headliner, in this case, Angel Wakefield.

Liza had gone to great lengths – looking for bargains in the process to have surfaces nonslip-treated to ensure Angel’s safe mobility. The tub was the latest in accessible-paraplegic designs, raised up on a pedestal with a sliding door as in a van, where entering and exiting was like getting in and out of bed.
Since it was designed to fit into Angel’s existing five-foot tub, it could later be removed if and when her condition changed.

Liza and Angel had discussed this, and she and Garrison were determined to honor Angel’s faith and hope, regardless of the dismal prognosis of the medical team. In the meantime, nothing was too exorbitant when it came to Angel’s comfort – on this she and Garrison agreed. Liza had to laugh again, as she’d done throughout the reorganization.

“What?” Garrison asked.

“Us.
Me
. For one who hates pushy, backstage moms, I feel downright hypocritical. Just look at the dramatic setting we’ve created. It just – fits. Am I terrible or what?”

“Horrible.” He dipped his head for another solid kiss then murmured, “But then, so am I. In our eyes, she is and always will be a star.”

Downstairs, the aroma of fried chicken whacked him and immediately his mouth watered. Even cool, it was crispy and succulent at once. After they ate, they adjourned to the den and propped their feet on the coffee table. Garrison sat sprawled on the sofa with Liza’s head rested on his shoulder.

“We’ve got to be at the hospital by four,” she reminded him.

“Hmm. Right. I want to get there in time to practice our loading and unloading.” He chuckled suddenly. “That still sounds gross when I speak of transferring my beautiful daughter from bed to chair and back again. I need a better term to use. Something like ‘butterfly lift.’” He sighed, at a loss for a fitting idiom

Liza reached up and tugged his face down to hers. “Seeing you lifting her so gently, placing her so carefully…stirs the loveliest feeling inside me.” Her eyes moistened as she softly kissed him. “Thank you.”

He kissed her back, getting into it. “For what?” he murmured.

“For being you.”

Most of the time, Angel felt that gloom and doom were the order of the day. Why couldn’t the medical staff have the same positive hopes as she did? She’d learned quickly this was not the case.

Paramount to them – in her estimation – was to shield her from hope. Hope was portrayed to her as some slimy cretin-imposter stalking like some Shrek-like ogre, ready to pounce and eat her alive, leaving only the smoldering dregs of paraplegia and hopelessness.

Today, Penny listened good-naturedly to her grouching. “I told Dr. Head-Shrinker this morning that I’d dreamed that same dream last night. You know – about God and faith? You’d think I slapped him.” She didn’t tell Penny about the other dream she’d had the night before, the distressing one. She’d tucked it away in her denial knapsack.

Angel’s audacious mimicking face as she described the psychologist’s reaction caused Penny to giggle. “You told him, huh, Angel?”

Angel humphed. “Yup. Told him I...didn’t want to hear neg...negative stuff.”

“What did he say?”

She grinned mischievously. “He jus’ stomped out. Hates for me to hope.” Her smile dissolved and sadness slid over her features as she looked out the window. “Why?”

Penny reached over and took her hand. “He’s a knucklehead. That’s why.”

Angel laughed suddenly and Penny joined in. “What do they know?”

“Yeah.” Angel grew solemn. “What do they know?”

“Don’t get a…a hernia, Daddy!” Angel croaked, laughing as Garrison lifted her and shifted to get a better balance before turning to the raised bed.

He looked down at her, only slightly winded. “Real men don’t get hernias from lifting beautiful little Angels. You’re light as a dove.”

“Aunt Charlcy keeps feeding me…Snickers…I won’t be.”

“Oh, I don’t think we have to worry about that in the near future. Enjoy life, punkin’. Every moment of it.”

Liza watched Garrison tenderly place their daughter on the bed, moist-eyed as usual when she witnessed this little daily interaction. She’d never tire of seeing that father-daughter spiritual connection.

“Here.” Angel gently pushed his hands away. “Let me.” She struggled to use her arms to lift and turn her body, a long, arduous task at times, surrendering to her father’s help only when her strength ebbed. This too was a daily battle for Liza and Garrison. To help Angel recognize her limitations without stripping her of her sense of worth.

Or hope.

To let her be herself – be the new Angel she’d claimed somewhere along her dark journey back.

Twice-a-day physical therapy brought Angel more to life than any other hospital routine. At least she was
doing.
Not just being. Range of motion exercises had already brought her back in touch with her upper body.

Occupational therapy was slowly moving her toward the self-reliance she craved. Right now it was very basic, such as the small gestures of using her arms and hands to compensate
for her lower body paralysis. She’d mastered operating the motorized chair and looked forward to going home and using the brand-new, high tech vehicle her parents had ordered.

The spasms were, with drugs and exercise, diminishing. She felt strength returning to her upper torso and extremities. Using her arms to shift her weight was becoming easier. Angel worked diligently with small weights now to increase muscular strength and agility in her arms, shoulders, and hands, often sweating with exertion and concentration.

Sometimes now in the wee hours she thought she felt a slight tingling in her legs. It came and went. “Phantom sensations,” was the consensus of the specialists.

Of the medical staff, Dr. Abrams alone seemed to really listen to her. “Time will tell, Angel,” he always responded in his kind, fatherly way. He did not – as others did – caution her against hope. She watched his reactions carefully, and many times when she vowed to walk again, she thought she saw a glow behind those thick lenses and a softening of austere features. Was it admiration or pity? She didn’t know but she trusted him.

Somewhere along this extraordinary expedition Dr. Abrams had stepped into a nurturing role, beyond the medical. At times, when they were alone, he’d pull a chair up to her wheelchair or bed and talk at length, asking her questions, encouraging her to share her aspirations, understanding when she did not delve deeply into fears. He seemed to know that she held them at bay, not allowing them to overshadow her hope.

During those times, the once-reserved physician disclosed his own journey from an impoverished childhood, through long, difficult, struggling years of college and medical school, to proudly hanging out his own shingle and becoming a “bona fide medical doctor.” He allowed her to see his pride and then
his humility at what he called a “providentially led” road to accomplishment.

Angel shared with him Troy’s unfinished veterinarian dreams and her own aspirations of going into medicine to help others. But when she opened her mouth to tell him about the bad dreams, something always stopped her.

It was like when she was cheering. Like running to get her momentum to do a triple somersault, and when she prepared to push off, stopping on a dime, freezing to the floor with fear.

It was a new thing to her, fear. And she didn’t quite know how to handle it. Didn’t even know how to own up to it. Her mouth simply would not spit it out.

Several times, during descriptions of her comatose visions and awakening to her loss, she saw Dr. Abrams’ eyes moisten when he removed his glasses to clean them.

“Do you think about him much?” Dr. Abrams softly inquired one day.

“It’s strange,” she replied. “Sometimes it all seems like a dream. It’s beginning to change, though. Sometimes now it hurts like…really bad homesickness. Y’know?”

He nodded. “You’re still protected by the shock, to a small degree. The feeling – homesickness – means that your emotions are beginning to reemerge. You’re handling it all remarkably well, Angel. I commend you. If you ever need to talk about it, don’t hesitate to summon me. Okay?”

“Okay,” she replied, feeling ridiculously cared for. It was a good feeling, though. Not like the cosseted feeling under which she was beginning to smother and squirm, like when she was forced to submit to others doing things for her that she’d always done before. Intimate, personal things.

That was tough to deal with. With Dr. Abrams she felt safe.

chapter seventeen

The psychological visits always forced Angel to stretch for emotional equilibrium. Today was no exception.

“Are you not angry?” asked Dr. Carlsbad, trying not to furrow his brow. Angel knew it took great effort for him to maintain a passive mien when she so obviously did not receive his prognosis nor, indeed, his counsel.

“A little,” she said quite honestly, casting a glance at his attractive brunette female colleague, Dr. Blair, who seemed to be studying her handheld chart quite studiously. “But not about my current condition.”

“Current,” he mumbled and wrote something on his chart. He looked at her then, eyebrows raised above dubious eyes. “Then what
are
you angry about?”

She took a deep breath and exhaled, determined to slow down, take her time, and not stammer as much in her speech. She looked him square in the eye. “I refuse to have you feed me neg...negative crap any longer.”

At his pursed lips, her indignation swelled.
Slow down
. “I have…the right to hope. And
believe
! And nobody should take that from me. But if you try – I...I’ll still not give up.” Her fingers curled into tight fists.

Instantly, tears stung her eyes and nose, surprising her as much as they did Dr. Carlsbad.
He should be pleased to see anything emotional
, she thought hatefully, since he seemed bound and determined to make her cry. But his face quickly softened and he patted her shoulder as he averted his gaze from her stricken, over-bright eyes.

“I’m sorry, Angel. I didn’t mean to upset you. We’ll talk another time, huh?”