Luke closed out the screen. He felt sick to his stomach. It wasn’t that he had a problem with Dayne personally. The guy had been nice enough when they spent the week of the trial together. Not cocky or full of himself.
The problem wasn’t with Dayne; it was with Luke’s family. Okay, so Dayne was related to them. So what? How were they ever supposed to have another normal Baxter reunion with a movie star hanging around? And where did the arrival of Dayne leave Luke? The lesser of two sons? Was that all his entire life up until this point amounted to?
The seriousness of the situation was wearing on everyone he loved. Ashley and his other sisters could talk about nothing else—as if by keeping Dayne’s name alive in conversation they could will him out of the coma.
Luke pushed his chair back from the computer. He hated thinking like this; it made him feel small and mean and far from God. But every time he prayed for Dayne, every time he tried to think about the situation the way his sisters and his father thought about it, his mind led him on the same angry rabbit trail.
The change in him was obvious to his father. He’d called twice since Luke’s blowup with Reagan.
His dad’s voice had been heavy from the moment Luke took the call. “I talked to Reagan.”
The statement knocked Luke back against the wall. “About?”
“About the two of you. She told me.”
Anger spoke first. “She’s already told you her side of the story, so what’s to—?”
“Luke.” His father’s voice was firm. “She told me you were thinking of separating. Nothing more.”
“We’re not really.” He’d been too busy at work, too busy thinking about the situation with Dayne to consider that a separation might actually take place. “I mean . . . we haven’t made plans or anything.”
“Sometimes divorce is as easy as opening a door, Son. Open it just a crack, and the winds of discontent and frustration can blow it wide open.”
Luke hadn’t been sure what to say. His father had always talked with him this way, whatever the situation. Over the years a handful of his father’s profound statements had stayed with him. They would stay with him until the day he died.
This was one of them.
Even so, Luke downplayed the need for help or counseling or even fatherly advice. He pressed the phone closer to his head and tried to keep his emotions at bay. “Thanks, Dad.” He tilted his head back and closed his eyes. “We’ll work it out. We will.”
Before the call ended, his dad had told him he’d put a letter in the mail. One that his mother had written years ago. “It’s the secret to a happy marriage. Something she wanted each of you kids to understand.” His voice had been riddled with sadness. “The years must’ve made her forget about the letters because she didn’t hand them out. But I found them in an envelope, and I knew it was God’s timing. Exactly when you needed it. She made a copy for each of you.”
Luke’s back stiffened. He opened his eyes and looked at the floor. “How many copies?”
“Six.” His father hadn’t missed a beat. “Like I said. One for each of you.”
The conversation faded, and Luke headed for the front door. Six indeed.
For a moment he stopped and looked down the hallway toward the room he and Reagan shared. She was sleeping after another long night with Malin. Still . . . how long had it been since he’d stopped in to kiss her cheek on the way to work? Her secretarial work was only three days a week from noon to three, and with Malin’s refusal to get on a schedule, Reagan was usually asleep when he slipped out.
But for months after Malin came home he would at least go to Reagan’s side and tell her good-bye, remind her that he loved her more than life. Except now it had been—what?—all summer probably since he’d done that. His hesitation didn’t last long. Reagan was still mad at him, still discouraged with him for more reasons than he could count. The timing was wrong to start trying to turn things around now. He was already running late because of the time on the computer.
Luke left the apartment, took the elevator down, and headed for the double doors of the lobby. The sky was filled with storm clouds, and he remembered that rain was in the forecast most of the day. He had no time, but he couldn’t afford to show up at one of the most prestigious law firms in Lower Manhattan looking like he’d been dragged through the gutters.
He checked out an umbrella at the guard desk and hurried out for the three-block walk to the nearest subway station. Not until he reached the sidewalk did he see the photographer. The guy was ducking behind a parked car a few feet from the building’s covered entrance.
It took no time for Luke to figure out what was going on. The guy was paparazzi. Somehow someone had figured out that Luke Baxter lived in the city. They’d probably already found out where he worked and that he’d been with Dayne in the sensational LA criminal trial. No wonder they looked so much alike. No wonder the press was sometimes guilty of confusing Luke, the legal assistant, with Dayne, the Hollywood heartthrob.
In the time it took Luke to blink, a small, wiry guy with an arsenal of cameras and equipment jumped up and blocked his path.
A sudden rage filled Luke, and he glared at the man. This was just the sort of thing he wanted to avoid, the type of encounter he and his family never should’ve had to deal with. And all of it was because of Dayne, because his father and his sisters wanted so badly to work him into their lives.
The seething thoughts flashed in his mind but not as quickly as the camera lens. By the time Luke realized how he must’ve looked and how many photos the guy had already taken, it was too late. “Leave me alone!” His words carried an implied warning. With the umbrella and briefcase tucked under his left arm, Luke blocked the camera’s view with his right and made a sharp turn north toward the subway. He tried to blend in with a handful of walkers.
But the photographer was relentless. “Luke Baxter?” The man was behind him now, keeping up with him. “You are Luke Baxter, right?”
Luke’s heart pounded. He wanted to turn around, grab the guy, and wrap him and his camera around the nearest light pole. If it weren’t for the crowded streets . . . He worked the muscles in his jaw and kept walking.
“Talk to me, Luke.” The photographer was jogging to keep up, and by the sound of his steps he was dodging people as he came. “Just a few words and I’ll leave you alone.”
Still Luke didn’t respond. He hit the first intersection just as the light turned red. He had two more blocks and nowhere to turn.
The man maneuvered himself through the people gathering near the curb so that he was facing Luke, and even as Luke tried to turn away, the guy wouldn’t let up. “One question, that’s all!” He sucked in the quickest breath. “When did you find out Dayne Matthews was your brother?”
That was it. Luke faced the guy and stopped just short of grabbing his camera off his neck. “Dayne Matthews is not my brother. Blood does not make him a Baxter.” The words barely made sense through his clenched teeth. He took a step back, rage like hot lava consuming him, flooding his veins. He didn’t shout; no need to make more of a scene than it already was. Instead he put his face an inch from the photographer’s. “Listen, jerk. I work in a law office, and if you can’t respect my privacy—our privacy—you’ll find yourself at the wrong end of the worst lawsuit you’ve ever seen.”
Instantly a peace came over the man. Luke watched it happen. His shoulders and the expression on his face relaxed in the same instant. The fight was over, knockout in the first round, the winner barely out of breath. He smiled. “Thanks.” In his eyes, victory slow danced with pride. Before Luke could react, the man lifted his camera and clicked another few shots. Then he pointed at Luke in a mock-friendly way. “That’ll do it.”
The man swung his camera over his shoulder, turned, and pushed through the pedestrians, who were by now making their way across the street.
Luke stood there, unable to draw a breath. Signs up and down busy Manhattan streets advised people of the one New York City s
idewalk rule: No Standing. But Luke couldn’t help himself. He felt the crowd of people moving past him, and only when they’d crossed the street did he finally allow himself to breathe.
What had just happened? How could he have said that to a photographer? The story would be splashed all over the tabloids in a week. Sooner, if the guy could find a way to use it. He faced the intersection again, but the light was red once more. He leaned against the street sign, his head spinning. What exactly had he said, anyway? And how would the man spin the story around the photos?
The light turned green and Luke crossed, but his pace was slower now. Never mind getting to work on time. He wanted to turn around and threaten the guy again—use his quotes and he’d have a lawsuit on his plate by next week. But a sea of people separated them, and Luke had no idea where to find him. Paparazzi didn’t hand out business cards.
Luke reached the subway station in a kind of automatic mode, because he wasn’t seeing the people and streets around him. He was seeing his own words in a magazine spread. Grief pierced him as he pictured the pain on the faces of everyone his words would inevitably hurt. People who had done nothing wrong and who had suffered enough. His father and his sisters and Katy Hart.
And most of all, the guy who hadn’t asked for any of this, the guy who had tried everything—even avoidance—to keep the press from ever knowing about the Baxter family. While Luke had thought of no one but himself all summer, the one he’d hurt the most now lay knocking on death’s door.
The guy who would forever be something neither of them could deny.
Dayne Matthews, his brother.
Katy settled into the chair by Dayne’s bed and studied him. The swelling was long gone, but the almost-normal look he’d had the week after his accident was gone too. Now his muscles had atrophied, and his face was noticeably thinner than it had been. Grayer too. As if the life was draining from him one day at a time.
Don’t think that way, she told herself. He needs your support. She leaned over and touched his forehead. “Dayne, I’m here. Back from lunch.” Her throat tightened, the way it always did when she talked to him. “I’m going to read the Bible to you, okay? I know you can hear me.” She searched his eyes, his face. No twitches, no reaction at all.
She sighed, giving the pain and tension a way of escape. “I’ll start where I left off in chapter twelve of Hebrews.” She kissed her fingertips and pressed them to his cheek. “Probably some of thirteen too.”
Touching his brow, his cheek, made her feel as if he were still healthy, still the same Dayne she had spoken with the night before the accident. Like he really was only sleeping. It was harder touching his hands, trying to hold his fingers. He was cool and somewhat stiff and utterly unresponsive. There was no way to reach for his hand without giving in to the sorrow, the tears that were always waiting.
She opened her Bible to Hebrews and began to read. “‘Therefore, strengthen your feeble arms and weak knees. “Make level paths for your feet,” so that the lame may not be disabled, but rather healed.’” She looked at Dayne. Please, God, let him not be disabled but rather healed. Like the Scripture says. Please. She waited, as if maybe this might be the moment when Dayne would move his toes or try to blink.
But he remained motionless.
Against her understanding of faith, hope faded. Some days it was all she could do to keep even a flicker of hope burning in the darkness, and this was one of those days.
She found her place and continued. “‘Make every effort to live in peace with all men and to be holy; without holiness no one will see the Lord. See to it that no one misses the grace of God and that no bitter root grows up to cause trouble and defile many.’”
No bitter root. The words were like a personal warning straight to her soul. Some days, when the paparazzi blocked her way into the hospital or into her hotel, bitterness defined her. How dare they do this to Dayne and still have the nerve to show their faces? She had no place in her heart or mind to even begin to understand them. And so she would have to guard against bitterness the way people in the Midwest guarded against tornadoes. Constantly. Diligently.
Before she could read on, there was a knock at the door. Dr. Deming entered the room and motioned for Katy to follow.
It was the first week of October, four weeks since Dayne’s accident. During that time she and Dr. Deming had shared many conversations. The woman was kind and compassionate and determined to see Dayne through to recovery. For that reason, when the doctor summoned her from the room she refused to panic. Instead she clung to the possibility that this would be the time when she had good news. Tests had been done, and Dayne was coming out of the coma—even if Katy couldn’t exactly tell yet. The doctor could tell her that now, couldn’t she? It was possible. Katy took another look at Dayne, then stood and followed the doctor into the hallway.
Dr. Deming led the way to an office three doors down and pointed to a pair of chairs. The walls were filled with photographs of animals and children. When they were seated, the doctor set a folder on her lap and folded her arms. “Do you understand the time frame we’re working with?”
“Time frame?” Katy’s blood ran cold. They’d talked about a time frame last week. She’d passed on the news to Jenny Flanigan, but since then she’d tried to put the information out of her mind. A Bible verse flashed in her mind. “Do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own.” That’s what she’d read to Dayne a week ago. It was from the book of Matthew. She blinked and waited for an explanation.
Dr. Deming reached for the folder. “The prognosis and outcome for people with traumatic brain injuries are different for each person. It’s the same with the staging of a coma.” Her voice was gentle. “The problem, Katy, is that Dayne’s coma hasn’t progressed from the first day. In cases such as this, we wait as long as we can—hoping for change.”
Katy knew what Dr. Deming was going to say next. With everything in her she fought to stay seated, to not bolt from the room and run to Dayne and never, ever leave his side again. She gripped the edges of the chair. “Yes.”
“Unfortunately, if we don’t see some sort of sign in the next few days, we’ll have no choice but to transfer him to a long-term facility. We’ll begin the process tomorrow.”
Tomorrow? The sound of it shook her, threatened to drop her to her knees. Long-term meant indefinitely. Months and months, then years and years. A lifetime even. Where are You, God? Why isn’t Dayne waking up? What’s happening to us? She tried to think of something to say, but nothing would come. The tick of the clock on the opposite wall grew louder. Tick . . . tick . . . tick . . . mocking her, laughing at her. Time was running out. Any day now the doctors here would wash their hands of Dayne, and then what?
Dr. Deming was saying something about the transfer and how Dayne would receive around-the-clock care, and that as long as he was breathing there was hope. “Physical therapists will continue to work his arms and legs and turn him on a regular schedule to encourage circulation.”
Turn him? Katy shuddered. Was this really happening? She was supposed to be back in Bloomington working with Rhonda and Bethany and Ashley on the final details for Cinderella. So what was this nightmare she was caught up in?
The doctor seemed to be waiting for some kind of response.
Katy swallowed. “So we need a miracle.”
“Yes.” Dr. Deming didn’t look confident of the possibility. “I’m afraid so.” She stood. “I will be working with Dayne’s team of doctors on a placement. There’s a very capable long-term facility not too far from here.” She pulled a packet from the folder and handed it to Katy. “The first page gives details on that particular location. You can look through a few other choices in the local vicinity.” Her expression was shadowed with futility. “We’ll be discussing options later today. I believe we’ll all agree that the facility closest to the medical center would make for the smoothest transition.” She took a few steps toward the door. “That’
s all. I’ll keep you posted about the logistics of the transfer.”
When Dr. Deming was gone, Katy covered her face with her hands. She was alone in the room, so it was okay to cry. So often she denied herself the chance. When she was with Dayne, her first goal was to stay upbeat. If Dayne could hear her, she couldn’t sit at his bedside weeping. Never. Tears in Dayne’s presence were silent and hidden. When she took breaks for meals, she slipped into a functional existence, numb from the entire situation. And when she finally made it back to her hotel, she was too tired to cry.
But here, with the latest news crashing over her like a collapsing building, the ocean of tears inside her finally overflowed. Dr. Deming’s news was devastating. Not because anything had changed but because she was giving up. And she had seemed like she would never, ever give up on Dayne. Katy’s tears became sobs, and the helplessness surrounding her became anger. God could’ve prevented this. He could’ve caused the paparazzi to stick to their lanes of traffic, and He could’ve let Dayne be ten feet farther up the road or ten feet back. Anywhere but in the path of an oncoming truck.
God, I’m so mad. Dayne and I . . . we’ve been through so much, and now this? Was it wrong to believe that life might actually turn out right? The doctors are willing to give up on him, and now You are too. Is that it?
Bitterness shot out another root, another branch, and her heart had little room to breathe. She wiped her tears, stood, and walked to the office window. I’m sorry, Lord. I don’t want to be bitter. She caught a series of quick breaths. Anger doesn’t feel right either.
Across Wilshire Boulevard she spotted a building with a garden on top—like the hotel where she and Dayne had found peace that night during the first part of the trial.
“I miss him so much.” The words came in anguished whispers. “We need a miracle, Father. I know I’m just one person and . . . and You hear so many cries. But we need Your help. Tonight. Please, tonight.”