The Choice (56 page)

Sandy threw herself across Dusty as the gun went off.

Everything went black.

THIRTY-EIGHT

S
andy felt suspended in space, surrounded by a wonderful fragrance, a heady aroma that permeated the atmosphere. The scent was vaguely familiar. Somewhere, at some unknown time, she'd experienced a hint of the delightful odor before. Then, into the darkness a shape appeared. The shape moved gracefully out of the shadows. A face and form came into focus. The darkness turned to light.

It was the old woman from the gas station.

Sandy knew her immediately, but there was something different about her. The woman's entire being was wreathed in a glorious radiance. Her blue eyes remained bright; her snow-white hair was still pulled back in a bun. But the wrinkles of Sandy's teenage memory were gone. And Sandy knew she had been wrong.

The woman wasn't old; she was ageless. She didn't live on earth; she came from heaven. Words emanated from the angel and traveled straight to Sandy's heart.

“You chose well.”

And in an instant a limitless flow of divine affirmation washed over Sandy. Enveloped in pure love, she felt herself being lifted up and carried away. She'd chosen well. Not once, not twice, but at every critical turning point when self-sacrifice required her to lay down her life for her sons. She opened her arms wide.

She'd followed the path of her highest destiny.

Click.
Silence.
Click
.

The sound seemed to come from a long way off. Sandy opened her eyes a fraction of an inch, then closed them without seeing anything. She longed for the light, the fragrance of glory, but the blackness returned.

Click.
Silence.
Click
.

This time the sound was more distinct. Sandy waited for it to repeat but heard nothing. She moaned slightly and opened her eyes. The scene was fuzzy. She closed her eyes again. Someone touched her hand.

“Sandy,” a faraway voice said.

She opened her eyes. A male face swam into view. It was Ben.

“What?” she managed.

“Don't try to talk. You're in the hospital.”

Sandy returned to the darkness. She wasn't sure how long she stayed there. She heard other sounds. Voices came and went. She opened her eyes again. The lights in the room were dimmed. It was night. She slowly moved her head to the side. Ben was leaned back in a recliner beside her bed. His eyes were closed.

And Sandy remembered everything.

“Ben,” she managed in a hoarse voice.

Her brother turned his head. He jumped out of the chair and came to her side.

“The surgeon said you'd be coming around soon.”

“Dusty?” she asked. “Is he—”

Ben took a deep breath. Fear came into Sandy's face.

“It was touch-and-go. They lost him on the operating table, but he came back. He's in intensive care now. They wanted to transport him to Atlanta, but it was too risky.”

“Dusty died in the operating room?” Sandy asked weakly.

“Yes.”

“But he's alive.”

“Yes.”

“I'm just glad Dr. Molitor was on call. He returned a few months ago from a tour of duty in Afghanistan, where he treated more gunshot wounds in a year than some surgeons see in a lifetime.”

Sandy closed her eyes for a moment of thankfulness.

“And Jeremy. Where is—”

“They were able to set his wrist without surgery. He's on the orthopedic floor and should go home tomorrow.”

“He's okay?”

“Yes.”

Her boys had survived. Two tears forced their way past Sandy's eyelids and ran down the sides of her face. She felt a soft cloth against her cheek. Ben was wiping away her tears with his handkerchief. Sandy could see that her brother's eyes were red too.

“I was scared—” Sandy started.

“Of course you were.”

“But then I felt strangely calm. I knew what I had to do.” She paused. “Then I saw her.”

“Who?”

Sandy closed her eyes and didn't answer. She longed to return to the place of fragrant light, but all she could smell was a hint of antiseptic. She took a deep breath. Pain shot through her chest. The thought of paralysis flashed through her mind. Sandy wiggled her fingers and toes. They seemed to work fine.

“What happened to me?” she asked.

“You were shot in the abdomen. The bullet sliced through you into Dusty and stopped within a fraction of an inch of Dusty's heart. If you hadn't shielded him, he'd be dead.”

Sandy could see tubes coming out from beneath the covers near her hips. The clicking noise she'd heard was coming from the device attached to a bag of IV solution.

“You're stitched and bandaged up,” Ben continued. “The surgeon told me the bullet destroyed one of your ovaries.”

“An ovary?”

“I know,” Ben said and managed a slight smile. “If you had to lose an organ, I guess that's one to pick at your age. There was quite a bit of internal bleeding, but no extensive damage to your colon or small intestine. The doctor cleaned you out, and you're getting a heavy dose of antibiotics.”

“What about Maria and Rosalita and the children?”

“They're fine. The man you shot also had surgery.”

“I thought I missed him.”

Ben shook his head. “According to the police, you hit him in the thigh. The bullet severed an artery, and he passed out on the floor right after he shot you. The sound of the gunshots brought police and emergency medical crews to the trailer park within a few minutes.” Ben paused. “There's something to be said for living in a town with no traffic jams and a hospital that's two miles away.”

Sandy's gratitude went much higher and deeper.

“Mama and Linda are on their way from Florida and should be here in the morning,” Ben continued. “I'm going home in a few minutes, and Betsy is going to spend the rest of the night with you.”

“She doesn't need to do that.”

“Do you think I could stop her?”

“No. Does Jessica know?”

Ben patted Sandy on the arm.

“Yes, along with several million other people. The triple shooting at a trailer park in Rutland was the lead story on the eleven o'clock news on every TV station in Atlanta. Media trucks are still in the hospital parking lot. I guess they want to file follow-up reports about my heroic big sister in the morning.”

“I'm no hero.”

“That's right. You're something better.” Ben took Sandy's hand in his and looked into her eyes. “You're a mother.”

By noon the next day, Sandy's hospital room was a swirl of activity. Local florists brought in so many flowers that Sandy asked the charge nurse to start sending them to the rooms of patients who didn't have any. Sandy's favorite card was one designed and signed by every member of the cheerleading squad. The most extravagant floral arrangement was from John Bestwick. Sandy had it positioned so she could look at it whenever she liked. One of the first things she wanted to do when her appetite returned was let the basketball coach take her out for a steak dinner. The arrival of Sandy's mother and her aunt Linda elevated the hospital's already high level of care.

Sandy was propped up in bed eating a few bites of soup broth when the door opened, and Jeremy, a white cast on his right wrist and lower arm, came into the room. Directly behind him was Leanne. As soon as Leanne saw Sandy, she burst into tears.

“I wasn't going to do that,” she said, rubbing her eyes with the palms of her hands.

Jeremy came to the bed, leaned over, and kissed Sandy on the forehead.

“I love you,” she whispered. “I'm sorry about your wrist.”

“The broken wrist probably saved my life.”

Sandy's mother and Linda were standing by a chair in the corner of the room.

“This is Jeremy and his wife, Leanne,” Sandy said to the two women. “The last time you saw Jeremy, he weighed four pounds, ten ounces. He's gotten a lot bigger and stronger since then.”

Sandy watched as her mother and Linda met Jeremy and Leanne. Her heart overflowed.

The morning of her third day in the hospital, Sandy awoke to shafts of sunlight streaming into her room. She was drinking a cup of weak coffee when Jeremy came in to see her.

“Do you want to go for a ride in the wheelchair?” he asked.

“To the baby nursery?” she asked with a smile.

They'd made several trips to inspect the latest crop of newborns.

“No, but your older baby can have visitors.”

“Let's go,” Sandy replied immediately.

Although Sandy was able to get out of bed and go to the bathroom, she wasn't walking more than a few feet on her own. She put on her robe and brushed her hair.

“I look terrible,” she said as she came out of the bathroom.

Jeremy held the wheelchair steady for her to sit down.

“That's not what I think. I can't believe I have a mother as young and attractive as you are.”

“That's sweet. Even if it's not true.”

“Don't argue with me. I'm a lawyer.”

As Jeremy wheeled Sandy down the hallway, virtually every member of the hospital staff paused to greet her. She was getting used to the attention but longed to return to anonymity.

“Dusty's father and sister ate supper with Leanne and me last night,” Jeremy said. “They enjoyed their time with you.”

“It was fun answering their questions,” Sandy replied. “Lydia is a sharp young woman.”

“She and Leanne really clicked. I think they're going to become friends even though we're not related. To me, it's confirmation that you made the right decision to separate Dusty and me. How else would we connect with these people?”

“You really think so?”

Jeremy patted her on the shoulder. “Don't second-guess yourself now. It won't change anything.”

Even now, Sandy didn't understand everything, but she could still be grateful. They reached the elevator, and Jeremy pushed the button.

“I'm nervous,” Sandy said. “I feel like this is the first time Dusty and I are going to talk. How alert is he?”

“You'll see.”

The third floor housed the cardiac and cancer patients. Rutland had few serious trauma cases, but when they occurred, the severely injured people were placed on the third floor where the staff-to-patient ratio was higher. Jeremy pushed the wheelchair to a locked double door and pressed a button. A woman's voice asked who they were.

“Jeremy Lane with Sandra Lincoln,” he said. “We're here to see Dusty Abernathy.”

A buzzer sounded, and the door opened on its own.

“No one calls me Sandra except my mother when she's telling me what to do in the kitchen at Christmastime.”

“Okay, I promise not to call you Sandra if you can fit my family into your schedule this Christmas in Charleston.”

“Did you clear that with your mother?”

“It was her idea.”

“But I haven't written her a letter yet.”

“You can tell her in person.”