His hand went to his throat. He never liked to be without it. Someone had been thoughtful enough to realize that.
“I’m not a religious man.”
He saw no point in explaining to the doc or anyone else that the ichthus was his only link to the past and to the brothers he hadn’t seen in more than twenty years. Other than this small reminder, he had nothing. He didn’t even know where they were.
Like Larissa, his brothers were gone.
Something deep inside him began to ache. He wished the morphine would kick in again.
The memory of his two brothers, of that last day in the school counselor’s office sometimes overwhelmed him, especially when he was weak or sick or overtired.
Times like now. For a few painful seconds, Ian and Collin hovered on the edge of his mind.
Ian, cute and small and loving had probably been adopted. No one could resist that little dude. And Collin. Well, Collin was like him, a survivor. Collin would be okay.
Sometimes he wondered what it would be like to find them again, to be with his brothers, but he couldn’t. Never would. He was no longer Drew Grace, pitiful child of a crack queen. He was Drew Michaels, successful photographer. He never wanted anyone, especially Larissa, to discover that he was literally nobody—a nobody with a deadly secret and a gutful of guilt.
Over the years, he’d become a master at forcing his brothers back into the box inside his mind where the past resided.
He did that now, carefully, painstakingly shutting the door on the childish faces of Ian and Collin Grace.
“The brain is an interesting organ,” Dr. Pascal said, handing him the necklace without comment.
Drew reclaimed the ichthus, but didn’t answer. He didn’t know how interesting his brain was and didn’t much care. But he couldn’t afford to lose the one thing that made him a photographer—his eyes.
“Most visual disturbances resolve as the swelling in your brain returns to normal.”
Drew swallowed. His throat was raw and scratchy from what the nurses called intubation. Basically, having a tube stuffed down his throat during surgery.
“And when the problems don’t resolve themselves?” he asked.
The doctor patted his shoulder. “No use borrowing trouble. You have enough to think about.”
Drew was not comforted. “What happens next?”
“In a few days your surgeons and I will look at dismissal. But you’re still weak from the blood loss.”
“Tell me about it.” He could barely feed himself.
“Losing your spleen is a serious operation. How’s the incision?”
“The other docs looked at it this morning. At least, I think it was this morning. They said it was looking good.”
“You’re fortunate to be healthy and in good physical shape. It probably saved your life.”
“I’m a survivor,” he said grimly.
“You’ll need some rehab on the shattered ankle and heel and plenty of time for the broken ribs to mend.”
“So, are you sending me to one of those rehab places?”
The doc’s brown eyes crinkled as if he was about to offer Drew the grand prize. “Wouldn’t you rather go home?”
The question was a kick in the gut. Sure, he’d like to go home. Wherever that was.
Larissa’s knees trembled as she traversed the long white corridor toward Drew’s hospital room. For five days, she’d done nothing but pray and make telephone calls and argue with her parents. Even though she was thirty-two years old, they still attempted to run her life. To their way of thinking, she never should have married Drew. And she sure shouldn’t run to his bedside after he’d announced his intention to divorce her.
But how could she not? He was her husband and she loved him.
Right now, she refused to deal with the pressure from her parents. Knowing her husband was lying in a hospital bed, seriously injured was all she could handle. The list of injuries was frightening, to say the least. Broken ribs, ankle, heel, a ruptured spleen, and too many cuts and bruises for anyone to tell her about on the telephone. She was terrified to see him.
Her Prada heels echoed in the sterile white environment. She reached room 4723 and stopped, suddenly short of breath, not from the climb but from the uncertainty.
How would Drew look? Would he be conscious? Was he in awful pain?
The new worry crowded in. Would he want her here? Would he be angry that she had come after he’d made it clear that he never wanted to see her again?
During the time Drew was in a military hospital in Germany, she’d called every day. He either hadn’t been able or willing to speak to her. Now that he was here in Walter Reed, she’d given up calling. She’d gotten on a plane and come.
The fact that he’d initiated a divorce didn’t mean anything at this point. Drew was her husband. He needed her. And she was going to take care of him whether he liked it or not. During his recovery, she would pray every single day for God to change Drew’s mind and heal their marriage. A politician’s daughter didn’t give up without a fight.
Fingers on the handle, she paused to draw in a steadying breath.
“Help me, Lord,” she whispered, and then slowly pushed the heavy door inward.
The semi-darkened room was quiet. Drew was alone, eyes closed. A shiver of relief rippled through her. Though bruised and sutured, he still looked like Drew.
She breathed a prayer of gratitude. A roadside bomb often did much worse. From the bits and pieces of information she’d gathered, the rest of the convoy hadn’t fared as well.
Given the rhythmic motion of his chest, Drew was sleeping. An IV machine tick-ticked at his bedside, and his left leg was elevated on pillows. A medicine scent permeated the small unit. Monitors she couldn’t name crowded in around his bed. The whole scenario was surreal and frightening.
Heart in her throat, Larissa tiptoed inside, careful not to wake him. She wanted a minute to drink him in, to love him with her eyes, to remember all the beautiful times they’d had together. And most important of all, to thank God above that he remained alive and would recover. Her husband, her heart. How could he want to end the precious gift God had given them when they’d found each other?
As always, Drew looked larger than life, his tall form too big for the standard issue hospital bed, his skin dark against white sheets. One long, manly hand lay across his chest gripping the necklace he always wore. She’d asked him about the tiny fish more than once, but his vague answers hadn’t satisfied. Now that she was a Christian, she wondered even more. Drew tolerated her new faith, but he wasn’t interested in sharing it, which made his attachment to the necklace even more curious.
“A friend gave it to me when I was a kid,” he’d say. “It’s nothing special.”
