No, the problem now wasn’t all the regrets she’d have if he didn’t get up from this hospital bed, if the machines couldn’t get his lungs working and he never woke up. The problem was if he didn’t make it, she didn’t want to either. Already heaven had her mother and her infant daughter — the girl who would’ve been Janessa’s older sister. But if God took Landon too?
Ashley refused to let herself think about it. “You’re okay, baby … breathe … come on, Landon. Breathe, sweetheart.”
A sound came from behind her, but it took a minute before Ashley realized the doctor was calling her name. She turned, but only for a moment. If she looked away from Landon for too long he might not be there when she looked back. The doctor was saying something, but his voice changed and it became Landon’s.
I’ll never love anyone like I love you, Ashley … the way I’ve always loved you …
And suddenly she wasn’t sitting here at Landon’s bedside begging God to let him live. She was a young single mother, painting outside in front of her family’s home, painting and missing Landon and longing for him … And like the wind someone was touching her hair, the side of her face, and she turned and it was him. Landon. Come home from New York and Ground Zero, his mission accomplished. And he was taking her in his arms and telling her how much he loved her, promising he would never leave her again, never be apart from her …
The scene changed and she was standing by Irvel’s graveside. Irvel who had only loved Hank all the days of her life. Irvel who, for the last seven years at Sunset Hills Adult Care Home where Ashley worked, believed only that Hank was fishing. Not that he was dead, but just gone with the guys … for the afternoon. Irvel, whose love added to the picture of love Ashley’s parents had given her when she was growing up.
She was there at the cemetery again, and Irvel’s funeral had just ended, and like so many other times Landon was walking up alongside her, putting his arm around her. “Has anyone told you … you have the most beautiful hair?” It was the question Irvel always asked her, never remembering that she had already asked it. And there was Landon, knowing just what to say and how to remind her that life would go on, and that Irvel’s love and wisdom would continue to live, because it would live in her.
And there was Landon, sitting in the dugout helping Cole with his catcher’s gear and even from the bleachers, even in the middle of a screaming loud baseball game, she had heard his pager go off, and she had known … absolutely known that this was the one fire he shouldn’t respond to.
But he had responded.
And now …
“Ashley.”
The doctor. She had forgotten about the doctor. Again she turned, keeping her shoulder to Landon, her arm alongside his. “Yes?”
Her father entered the room then, and without saying a word he pulled up a chair and moved it right next to her. If only her mom were here. Because this was a time when a girl should have her mother. When all the world was falling apart and the sky was upside down and nothing made sense. This was when she needed her mom the most, right?
“Ashley.” This time her father was talking to her. “Sweetheart, Dr. Jacobs needs to talk to you. It’s about Landon’s lungs.”
Landon’s lungs? The lungs that breathed life into the only man she’d ever loved? Was she ready to hear about Landon’s lungs? She shook her head slowly and then faster.
“Ashley?”
It was the doctor again.
Ashley closed her eyes. The thing with her and Landon was, they needed each other. If he couldn’t breathe, then she couldn’t either. Because when he inhaled, she felt life. That’s how it had been since the last time she sat at his bedside after a fire nearly killed him ten years ago. She blinked her eyes open and studied his face, the peacefulness of his closed eyes. “Breathe, baby … I’m here … breathe.”
“Ashley.”
She turned and looked at her father. Something in his tone snapped her from the blur of memories and fear and shock. Complete and utter shock. She became suddenly aware of her surroundings and what was happening. The reason she was there.
“I’m sorry …” She looked at the doctor, still standing a few feet away. He was holding a manila folder. Landon’s chart, most likely. The chart with the bad news. Stay in the moment, Ashley. Listen to the man. Dear God give me the strength to listen to the man. “Doctor Jacobs, forgive me … I can’t …”
Her father put his arm around her and held her close, holding her up so she wouldn’t fall to the floor.
“Don’t apologize.” Dr. Jacobs took a step closer. “We ran additional tests on your husband when he was admitted, and I’m afraid …” his voice trailed off as he opened the manila folder.
“When I look at his records, the tests that have been done … I can only conclude that your husband does, indeed, have the lung disease we feared. All signs point to polymyositis.”
Polymyositis … polymyositis …
The word screeched at her, stripping away her composure and her strength and her heart’s ability to carry out a normal beat. “That … that’s the disease we talked about?” She looked at her dad, begging him to tell her she was wrong, that this was a different sort of a disease … an illness, maybe. Something he could take antibiotics for and be fine in a few weeks.
But her father nodded. “Yes, sweetheart. It’s that disease.”
What had the doctor said last time Landon had an appointment? That people with polymyositis wound up on oxygen fulltime, and that … that they needed a lung transplant if they were going to live? Was that it? Her mind was in that instant very clear. How could this be happening? She put her head in her hands and tried to block out the doctor’s words, willing the clock to turn back two minutes to a time when the word polymyositis had never been read from the diagnosis in Landon’s chart.
Her father rubbed her back, whispering soothing things about God’s peace … His plan … His presence …
Somewhere over the course of the next few minutes, Dr. Jacob left and Kari brought Cole and Devin into the hospital room. Janessa was in Kari’s arms, her thumb in her mouth, her eyes wide. Ashley wanted to get up and go to her children, but instead they came to her. Cole was still in his New York Yankees uniform, dirt still smudged on his cheek from the game. He put both arms around Ashley and held her, hugging her, his eyes focused on Landon.
Devin reached up and took hold of the hospital bed railing and peered through the cracks at his father. This can’t be happening. It can’t be … Ashley closed her eyes and tried to convince herself it was all a dream, a terrible nightmare. She would wake up, and they’d be in bed, and it would be Thursday morning … time for school. But when she blinked her eyes open, Devin was still looking through the bars of the bed, and Cole was still holding her, and Kari was still standing helplessly a few feet away, Janessa on her hip.
“Is Daddy going to die?” Devin was the only one willing to put their terrifying fears into words.
The response came from her father, who had positioned himself on the other side of Ashley. She leaned into him more as he spoke. “Jesus is with your dad, Devin … he’ll be just fine. It’s our job to keep praying.”
And then … in the way they’d been taught since they were born, Cole and Devin linked hands with Kari and Ashley and Ashley’s father, and they prayed for Landon, that God would breathe life into him, and that he would wake up from his coma, and that very soon he would be well enough to come home.
But even as they prayed, Ashley couldn’t help but think about the only word that screamed through her mind, the one Dr. Jacob had talked about earlier.
Polymyositis.
Because no matter what miracle God might do to get Landon through this night and out of bed and back home where he belonged, this was only the beginning. The disease that had caused Landon’s lungs to shut down was aggressive and sure … fatal in every case without a lung transplant. The very idea was nauseating to Ashley, sickening. Landon was the picture of health: tall and built and bullet
-proof. Until today. The devastating reality was only just beginning to take root in her mind, and it was enough to destroy her. If not for her kids, her father, her God — who was with her — Ashley wasn’t sure how her heart would keep beating.
Landon was sick. He was fighting for his life, and beyond that he had a deadly lung disease. How was that even possible? She clung to her father, her sister, and her kids. I can’t do this, God. I can’t … please, change this. Take it away …
My grace is sufficient for you, my daughter. I will never leave you nor forsake you.
Jesus, no. Ashley sobbed out loud, right in the middle of her father’s prayer … railing against the reality, refusing it. Please, God … take it away. Fresh tears spilled onto Ashley’s cheeks and again she leaned into her father’s shoulder so she wouldn’t collapse. The reality was something she could only gape at in horror, like a grotesque monster that had stepped into the room to devour her. She closed her eyes, her breathing faster than before. Too fast. She drowned out the sound of the prayer and her children crying and the machines beeping in the spaces around them.
Instead she was back on the baseball field and the sun was shining and Cole’s team was going to win … they were definitely going to win … and Landon was coaching the boys and Devin and Janessa were beside her … her family all around. And no one had yet labeled Landon with any disease, and he was laughing with the boys, and she was thinking the same thing she always thought when she was with him.
Despite all the ways she’d messed up in life, she must’ve somehow gained God’s favor anyway.
Because Landon Blake loved her.
Nineteen
CODY HAD TO SEE HER, HAD TO GET IN HIS CAR AND GO FIND Bailey, or he wouldn’t survive the weekend. He balanced his roommate’s guitar on his knee and played the first few notes of his new favorite song, “Walk by Faith.” It had been around for awhile, but Cody didn’t care. It spoke straight to his heart and gave him a reason to look forward to tomorrow.
“I will walk by faith … even when I cannot see …”
The song was by Jeremy Camp, and Cody was learning another of his too. A song called “Give Me Jesus.” Both songs filled in the lonely spaces when he wasn’t sure he could go another day without at least talking to her, finding real closure for the empty months that were proof of how poorly he’d handled their talk in January.
Cody strummed a few notes and stared at a framed photo of Bailey and him. The two of them had gotten drenched in Lake Monroe, and on the way out, with the football tucked under Bailey’s arm, her dad had snapped the picture. It stood like a beacon of light, a reminder to Cody of all he’d walked away from, all he might never find again. Especially after what had happened this morning.
For the first time since his flashbacks started, earlier today he had gone to a Christian counselor. The guy was nice, patient with him — and kind enough to take him on a Saturday. But the man kept focusing on Cody’s mind-set when he was in captivity. What kept him alive, what gave him a reason to go on, what motivated him to plan an escape, and risk his life and the lives of the other men, so that they could fully and finally be free.
“For many people the reason might be a deep love for their country, or a competitive nature that refuses to be beaten — even in a life and death situation,” the counselor’s voice was calm, soothing. Cody felt like he was acting out a scene in a movie. “Of course for others it’s family back home, a wife … children. And many times it’s a combination.”
He went on to explain that when a soldier faces posttraumatic stress disorder, oftentimes the motivation for escape, the thing the soldier lived for during the most horrific times of his life, was now in jeopardy.
It wasn’t what Cody wanted to hear. He wanted the guy to walk him through those awful days and remind him that he was here, he had survived. Yes, he had been seriously injured, and he would bear the scars all the days of his life, but the ordeal was behind him. Somehow, if he heard that from a professional, Cody figured he could walk out of the counselor’s office whole and ready to face tomorrow. The nightmares, the flashbacks would stay behind him, and he never would have to worry about becoming Coach Oliver somewhere down the road.
But instead the man looked at him, his expression open and mildly curious. “Can you identify what that might be, Cody? The thing that motivated you to stay alive, the thing that pushed you to escape during your time as a prisoner of war?”
Could he identify his motivation? She was as close to him as his own heartbeat. “Yes, sir. I can.”
The man waited and then gave a slow, patient nod. “That’s fine. We can talk about specifics at our next session. The point is, do you feel that motivation is now in danger of no longer being a part of your life? Like maybe you risked everything to escape only to find out that the motivation is no longer valid?”
Cody stared at the man. “Do you mean is she still in my life?”
“Okay.” Another nod. “Let’s say it that way. Is she still in your life, Cody?”
He clenched his jaw, fought back a sudden freight train of anger at himself and the situation. “No.” Was that why he was here? Because he’d been a fool and let her go? “She’s … she hasn’t been in my life for several months now.”
“Hmmm.” The man’s slight smile was sympathetic, as if maybe even untrained Cody might see the connection now. “And when did your flashbacks begin?”
Cody was glad he wasn’t paying for this session. The school had set it up, and so this first appointment was free. “They began back in January.” He massaged his temples with his thumb and forefinger. “Around … the same time we said goodbye.”
“Okay, then.” The man slid to the edge of his seat. “You’ve told me about the dreams, the details. What happened back in Iraq.” He stood and held out his hand. “I think we’re getting somewhere as to the motivation. Very often people think the traumatic event is the problem, when in reality it can be a secondary trigger, something that causes us to rewrite a terrible time in our past and find that the danger or trauma no longer has meaning in our lives, because our motivation has been removed.”
“Right.” Cody shook the man’s hand. “Meaning next time we’ll talk about what happened in the last three months. Why she’s gone?”
“At least for part of the time.” The man’s eyes were warm, and he clearly had a kind heart.
But Cody was pretty sure this was his last session — for now anyway. How could he come spend an hour with this guy, when the bottom line was so obvious? He didn’t need time with a counselor, at least not at this point. He needed Bailey. He had driven back home, and for nearly an hour he had picked up his roommate’s guitar and played around with a few chords.
Never in all his life had Cody played guitar or piano … and he’d never been interested in singing. But on lonely nights here in the apartment near the Indianapolis campus of IU, there were times when Cody wanted any connection he could find to Bailey. And since she played the guitar, he figured maybe he would learn to play too. His roommate had taught him a few chords, and now he could sing a few basic praise songs.
He strummed his thumb over the strings and hummed the song again. “I will walk by faith … even when I cannot see …” The words were like his anthem. A song about the broken road of life, and how in the end he had to believe that even the brokenness was somehow preparing God’s will for his life. He checked the time on his phone. Just after ten o’clock. If he left now, he could be at Bailey’s house by eleven. She would be home helping with the chores, the way the Flanigan kids always did Saturday mornings. Unless the boys had a scrimmage. His own team had a scrimmage next Saturday. It was that time of the year.
The guitar was nice, but it wasn’t a replacement for what he needed to do. Cody set it down, stood, and stared again at the photo. Why was he putting himself through this? No, they might not be meant for each other. And yes, Bailey might’ve moved on by now. At the very least she would be upset with him. He knew her that well. But if
he didn’t go to her, he would never know, never tell her how sorry he was for his silence. Never put a final goodbye to their years together.
Suddenly, with an intensity that he’d only known a couple times in his life, he grabbed his keys and wallet and headed hard toward the front door. He was about to open it, when there was the sound of a few light knocks. He stopped, and for a few seconds he was unable to breathe or move or respond. Was it her? Had Bailey figured out where he lived and found a way to come to him?
He opened the door, and almost called out her name. But standing there on his step wasn’t Bailey. It was Cheyenne. Her dark hair was ironed straight and it fell right to her shoulders. Her brown eyes held a depth and sorrow he hadn’t seen before. “Can … can I come in?”
“Of course.” Cody jumped back. His heart slammed around inside him, because how was he supposed to handle this situation? He was on his way out the door to see Bailey, and now this? “Come on … follow me.”
She stepped inside, and Cody hugged her a little longer than he intended. She smelled wonderful, like cinnamon and vanilla mixed. He closed the door behind her and led her into the living room. It was small — only a worn-out leather sofa, a beat-up chair, a coffee table, and a smallish TV. Perfect for a couple of college guys. “Here.” He pointed to the sofa. “Sit down.” He had no idea what could’ve brought her here without a phone call or a plan. Cody had never even given her his address.
He took the spot beside her, though he left room. Something about her cried out to him, made him wonder if they were building more between them than friendship. Her eyes and her expression were vulnerable and tender, and a part of Cody knew he could fall for this girl if he let himself. Even if he could be ten minutes closer to Bloomington by now.
“I’m sorry for coming without calling first. Tara gave me your address.” She put her hands on her knees and seemed to struggle for the right words. “I … got word this morning. Kassie … she spiked a fever a few days ago, and the infection … it tore through her little body.” Tears filled Cheyenne’s eyes. She covered her face with her hand and a few quiet sobs broke through.