There were other visitors after that, dozens of students and players. All of them helped distract John from the gravity of his situation. But when John started rehabilitation, the reality came crashing in on him.
John had told Abby that after a few days of therapy, he was certain he would have movement in his toes again. At least that.
Instead, a therapist spent the better parts of two days teaching him how to slide from the bed to his wheelchair. Movement in his toes or anywhere else beneath his waist was as impossible as willing a body part on another person to move.
“How much rehabilitation before I’ll be able to move my feet?” John asked Dr. Furin the question on the evening of the second day of therapy.
The doctor had been on his way out of the room and he stopped, frozen in his tracks. “Mr. Reynolds, paralysis is a permanent condition. Some people have made miraculous strides, depending on their situation. But at this point we don’t expect you to have feeling in your legs ever again. No matter how much time we spend on rehab.”
It was the first time since his accident that John had felt anger. “Then why bother?”
“Because—” Dr. Furin’s voice was kind—“if we don’t, you’ll never get out of bed.”
The answer infuriated John, and he told Abby as much that night. “They could at least give me a reason to hope.”
Abby had been strong as steel, rarely crying—at least not in front of him. He knew her well enough to know she was crying somewhere, sometime. But he appreciated the fact that she kept her chin up around him.
She had worked her way onto the hospital bed and soothed her fingers over his weary forehead. “Since when do you find your hope in what doctors tell you, John Reynolds?”
His anger had faded. “I hadn’t thought of that.”
“Yep.” A smile filled her face. “That’s why you have me. To remind you of the truth.”
“That my hope can only be found in God, is that it?”
“Exactly.”
“Okay, then, Abby . . . you gotta do something for me.”
“What’s that?”
“Pray for a miracle.” His eyes were wet, and he blinked twice to see her more clearly. “Don’t ever stop praying.”
In the days since then, the Marion Eagles finished their football season with a second-round play-off loss. John’s assistant coaches had taken over since his accident, and a quarterback from the junior varsity squad was brought up to lead the team. Nearly all the players and coaches had been by, most of them making only a brief appearance to bring John a signed football or a card or a bouquet of balloons.
When the season ended, the visits tapered off and John put his energies entirely into rehabilitation.
Day by day, he learned the things his therapists asked of him. He could balance his torso with the strength of his arms and swing himself into a wheelchair. His efforts at getting on a toilet were trickier, but he could do so unassisted now. In fact, Dr. Furin had assured him that he was maybe one week away from going home.
“Definitely before Christmas.” Dr. Furin had grinned at him the other day. “I’ll bet that’s the best news you’ve heard in a while.”
It should have been, but somehow it wasn’t. After a month in the hospital, a month of not coming a single centimeter closer to moving his feet or legs, John’s usually fiery determination was cooling fast.
Christmas? From a wheelchair?
The past few days he still prayed for a miracle, but not with any real sense of it actually happening. He was no longer thinking about fighting his diagnosis or beating the odds or somehow gaining the ability to walk again.
Rather, he was thinking of all that he’d lost.
Last night was the first time Abby had noticed it. She gave him the update about Jake. The judge had delayed making a decision about whether to try the boy as an adult, and at the same time, the district attorney was refusing any sort of plea bargain. The hearing on how he would be tried was set to take place in ten days. But either way, it looked like Jake would have to stand trial.
When Abby was finished talking, she planted her hands on her hips. “John Reynolds, you’re not even listening.”
John blinked. “I’m listening. That’s too bad. About Jake, I mean.”
“Too bad?” Abby huffed. “When you first got hurt, you couldn’t stand the thought of Jake going to jail. Now it’s just, ‘too bad’?”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry, John, be mad. Be furious. Be upset. But don’t lie there with that monotone and say you’re sorry. That’s not the man I married.”
John’s voice remained the same. “You’re right.”
“What’s that mean?”
“I’m not the man you married, Abby. I’ve lost the fight.”
“You’ve what?” Abby seethed, pacing from one side of his hospital room to the other. “Don’t tell me about losing the fight, John. The fight hasn’t even begun! You can’t ask me to pray for a miracle if you’ve already given up. I mean, come on . . .”
The conversation went on that way for an hour until finally Abby broke down and wept. She apologized for expecting so much and assured him he had the right to be discouraged. Before she left, she admitted he wasn’t the only one. She was discouraged, too.
No wonder he couldn’t concentrate on the therapist and bedsores. For entire hours of the day—even in the midst of rehabilitation— John could do nothing but remember. How the earth felt beneath his feet as he flew down the football field; how easily he’d strolled in front of his classroom day in, day out for the past twenty years. How his children had bounced on his knee as babies, and how he’d carried them on his back when they walked through the zoo.
How Abby’s legs felt near his when they danced at the end of the pier. How her body felt beneath him when they—
“Mr. Reynolds, I’d like you to explain it back to me now.” The slender therapist tapped his clipboard, his expression one of scant tolerance. “How often should you check your body for sores, especially after atrophy sets in? Have you heard anything I’ve told you? Mr. Reynolds?”
John looked at the man, but he couldn’t bring himself to answer. The miracles he’d expected weren’t happening, and he’d reached the next stage in what would be the rest of his life. The life without dancing or running or making love to Abby. It was a stage he hadn’t anticipated, hadn’t planned for. And for one reason alone it was more painful than even the first days after learning he’d been paralyzed.
Reality was setting in.
Eighteen
ABBY HAD NEVER FELT MORE STRESSED IN ALL HER LIFE.
In part, she wanted a glorious homecoming. It was Christmastime, after all. They should have had the tree up and decorated, their home looking festive like it always did. She pictured a houseful of guests there to greet John as he arrived, and sweet conversation throughout the evening.
But John wanted nothing of the sort.
“Just get me home and let me sit in the living room with my family, Abby. Nothing else.”
She spent every waking hour trying to be whatever John needed at the moment. When he was subdued, she was the quiet supporter. When he was angry, the patient listener. And when he showed signs of determination, of a willingness to fight the terrible curse that had come upon him, she cheered him on. If she couldn’t read his mood, she maintained a false sense of euphoria—her way of convincing him that she was okay with his paralysis, that the changes in their life were not enough to take away her joy.
But it was all a lie.
She wasn’t happy. Hadn’t been since John’s accident. But she owed it to John to appear happy and positive. He needed that from her. The trouble was, she had nowhere to let her guard down, nowhere to weep and wail against the twists life had taken.
And so she kept it bottled deep inside her heart, where the only thing it did was make her a basket case. Anxious and uptight and alone.
In the end, Abby did as John asked and kept his homecoming cel
ebration to a minimum. Kade, who had gone back to school to finish the football season and the semester, was home for a month on Christmas break. He and Sean had picked out a tree and brought it home before John’s arrival. Nicole and Matt and Jo and Denny had helped decorate it.
Dr. Furin released John at one that afternoon, and an hour later Abby and he pulled up in front of their house. She turned off the engine, and for a moment neither of them moved.
“Can you imagine, Abby?” John stared at the front door of their home. “I’ll never drive again. Have you thought about that? I mean never again.”
“You’ll drive, John. They have hand-operated vehicles set up for people with—”
“Abby, can you just let me accept the truth for a minute?” His tone was sharp, but immediately he let his head fall back against the seat. “Ugggh. I’m sorry.” He looked at her, and she could see the heavy fatigue in his eyes, his features. “I didn’t mean to snap at you.”
“I was trying to help. They have special cars . . . lifts . . . that kind of thing.” Abby’s hands trembled and she couldn’t draw a full breath. How was it going to feel, pushing John into their house? Knowing he would never walk up to the door beside her again? She clenched her teeth. She’d keep her sadness at bay if it killed her. John deserved at least that.
“Do you know how much we take for granted? The little things in life? Like jumping in a car, and driving, and running up the sidewalk to your front door?”
Abby held her breath. “I know.” Did he want her to cry with him, or play the role of encourager? And what about her feelings? The loss she was suffering? She blew out a shaky breath and filled her lungs again. “Let’s go in. The kids are waiting.”
John nodded and opened the door. Looking like the athlete he still was, he swung his legs out of the car. Abby tried not to notice the grotesque way they hung limp and fell onto the curb. He did his best to straighten them, but it didn’t help.
He looked back at her, and she jerked into action. “I’ll get the chair.”
John hung his head while she hurried around, popped the trunk, and heaved his wheelchair onto the road. Abby tightened her jacket. It was cold but at least it wasn’t snowing. For nearly a minute she struggled with the latch, ripping a fingernail off in the process. “Yikes.” She shook her hand to stave off the pain.
“What’s wrong?” John craned his head but he couldn’t see her bloody nail base.
“Nothing.” Abby blinked back tears. How strange it felt to be struggling this way and not have John’s help. He was ten feet away. Just ten lousy feet. But he couldn’t stand up and help her. “I’m . . . I’m trying to open the chair, but it’s stuck.”
“The latches are on both sides. Can you see them?” John was trying, doing his best to help her, but she needed more than his suggestions. She needed his strength.
“They won’t budge.” She pulled at it again, this time with more force. Don’t let him hear me crying, God . . . “It doesn’t work.”
Abby struggled a moment more, and then in a flurry of angry frustration, she tossed the wheelchair on the grass beside the curb. “I hate that thing!” She fell against the side of the car and hid her face in her arms. “I hate it!”
“Abby, come here.” John’s voice was gentle.
She wanted to turn and run a hundred thousand miles away, off to some place where John didn’t need a wheelchair to get into the house. But that wouldn’t do any good.
God, I’m falling apart. Catch me, Lord . . . please, catch me.
Lean not on your own understanding . . .
It was the same Scripture that had come to her the last time she felt this way. What could it mean, though? Lean not on her own understanding? Was there a different way to understand the things that had happened in their lives? Could there be a good aspect to John’s paralysis . . . ?
Abby didn’t see it.
“Did you hear me, Abby? You’re killing me.” John’s tone was louder now. “You’re crying, and there’s nothing I can do about it. Not a single thing. At least come here so I can hold you.”
A quick pain sliced into her, cutting her to the quick. She hadn’t thought of that before. How helpless he would feel. Always before if she was upset, he could come to her. Now he couldn’t even do that. She dried her face and went to him, falling to her knees before him. His legs were in the way, so she put her hands on his thighs and pushed them apart. It wasn’t the first time she’d moved them on his behalf, but she still wasn’t used to the sensation. They didn’t move easily, but slow and heavy, like the legs of a dead person.
When the space between his knees was big enough, she moved closer, pressing her body against his and laying her head on his shoulder. “I’m sorry for crying. This was supposed to be a happy moment.”
“Aahhh, Abby.” John nuzzled his face alongside hers. “There’s nothing happy about it.”
“Yes, there is.” She spoke near his ear. “You’re alive, John. And you’re home in time for Christmas. That’s plenty to be happy about.”
“So those are tears of joy?” He ran his lips lightly along the side of her neck.
“I hate your chair.”
“It’s my only source of freedom. My only way to get around anymore, Abby.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay.” He brought his lips to hers and kissed her, soft and tender. When he came up for a breath, he caught her eyes. “I hate it, too.”
There was a sound behind Abby and she looked over her shoulder. It was Kade, bounding down the walkway.
“Hey, what’s taking so long? We’re in there waiting, and you two are out here hugging or something.”
Abby studied their older son. The pain in his eyes was a mile deep, but his smile was genuine.
Abby stood and wiped her hands on her jeans. Her finger still throbbed where the nail ripped. “I can’t open the chair.”
“Is that all?” Kade reached for the wheelchair, checked the latches on both sides, and then with the toe of his shoe, he flipped a third near the base. With a single flick of his wrist, the chair opened, and Kade snapped it into position. He did a sweeping bow. “Your chariot, sir.”
Abby stepped back, awed. “I fought with that stupid chair forever.” She shook her head. “How’d you know how to work it?”
“I practiced at the hospital.” Kade shrugged one shoulder. “Too much time on my hands, I guess.”
Abby watched as Kade positioned the chair in front of John, then slid his forearms beneath his father’s armpits and eased him onto the padded seat. The scene made Abby’s heart catch. How must John feel? John who had always been stronger than Kade . . . John the mentor and teacher and coach . . . now having to be lifted onto a wheelchair? By his son? And what about Kade? The boy was only eighteen, yet he gave the impression that helping John this way was a routine event.
When John was buckled into his chair, Kade took the handles and pushed him up the walk. “Well, Dad . . .” Kade opened the front door and wheeled John inside. “Welcome home.”
And with that, a new chapter of their lives began.
The black cloud that had settled in around John was darker than ever.
He appreciated the reception and was grateful to be home and surrounded by his family. But no matter where his mind settled, it always wound up in the same sorry place: deep in self-pity and regret. A place from which he simply couldn’t escape.
Sure, he went through the motions. He accepted his family’s cards and well-wishes and encouraging statements about how good he looked and how wonderful it was that he’d survived.
But all the while he could only think of one thing: Why me, Lord? Why now, when Abby and I had just worked things out? When we were just learning to dance again? Since coming home, he’d been short with Abby, short with anyone who had an answer for his poor attitude. He didn’t want a wheelchair van, or an invitation to the Special Olympics.
He wanted to walk. Just once more . . . so he could savor every step and a
ppreciate the feel of his shoes on his feet, wonder at the balance in his legs and the graceful way it felt when he jogged around the track at Marion High.
Just one more day to say good-bye to the legs that had gotten him through every major event in his life. Not that it would help, really. One day wouldn’t be enough. But if he could only move his feet and legs again now, he’d appreciate them every day for the rest of his life.
Too bad that wasn’t going to happen. And neither was any other good thing until he could find in God the strength to will away the black cloud.
Two hours after getting home, the kids had returned to their activities. Abby was in the kitchen, but John still sat in the chair, facing out the front window.
God, I know You’re still there, watching me, loving me. You have a plan for my life, even now . . .
“But what could it possibly be?” His ragged whisper tore through the silence around him. “What good am I?”
Another hour passed. At least three times John thought of something he wanted to get or look at or check somewhere in the house. Each time he would grab hold of the chair’s armrests and make an attempt to stand.
And each time his body would jerk up against the safety belt and snap back into place. He realized what the problem was. He didn’t yet think like a paralyzed person. His brain still gave him reasons to move and stand and walk, but his legs no longer heard the discussion. He wondered if it was this way for everyone who suffered from sudden paralysis. And if so, how long would it be until his mind gave up, too? Until his brain no longer thought of his legs as anything more than dead weight?
John had always loved the view out the front window of his house. Trees and a winding drive that looked like something out of a painting. But right then he couldn’t take another moment of sitting in one place. He worked the muscles in his jaw and slipped his hands around the wheels on either side of his chair.
Specially designed for paraplegics—people who still had the use of their arms—the wheelchair maneuvered more easily than most. John gave the wheels two hard shoves—and zipped backward so fast he crashed into the coffee table.