At the Graham house, Detria had decided to call and tell Crystal about Pastor and Francesca both being admitted to the hospital. Crystal expressed her sorrow and offered to sit with her to keep her company, but Detria turned down the offer. She was far too jittery about the day’s events. She finished her conversation with Crystal, and after taking a bath, she laid out her clothes for work the next morning. She wanted to call Stiles, especially when she saw the severe weather warning ticker scrolling across the bottom of the flat-screen television. But after thinking about it for a moment, she decided against it. Her dilemma was serious. Stiles seemed really angry with her when she told him that she didn’t know the seriousness of Pastor’s bruises. How could she have been so stupid? What was she thinking? She lay across their bed and rested her head in the folds of her arms. Not only had she lost their child because of Pastor, but now she felt like she stood on the verge of losing her husband if he ever found out that she was the reason Pastor was lying up in a hospital bed. She was an abuser. How could her life have changed so drastically and suddenly?
Detria jerked her head upward and spoke in an accusatory voice. “God, how can I be blamed for what happened to Pastor when he did what he did to me? He doesn’t deserve to be alive when my baby is dead. I hate him for what he’s done. It’s all his fault.” She flipped over onto her back. “If Stiles finds out, then I’ll lose everything,” she cried out. “And you”—she pointed a finger toward the sky—“you are the one who allowed this to happen.” Like a child having a temper tantrum, Detria started screaming and punching the bed. “I can’t take this. I have to do something. You have to do something,” she continued to bellow.
She cried until her eyes puffed up and her throat ached. When the phone rang, she wanted to ignore it, but then she sat up and looked at the caller ID. It was Brooke. She reached for a tissue to wipe her snotty nose and tear-streaked face.
She swallowed hard and hoped she would sound like nothing was wrong. “Hey, what’s up?”
“Nothing. I was waiting for you to call and let me know how your father-in-law was doing. I talked to Momma and Pops, and they said they hadn’t heard anything, either. How is he?”
“The doctor admitted him to the hospital, just for overnight. They gave him some intravenous antibiotics. He should be ready to come home some time tomorrow.” Detria didn’t know if she should disclose what the doctor said to Brooke or not. She chose not to go into detail.
“Well, how are you? You sound kinda out of it.” Brooke almost always detected when something was wrong with Detria. Tonight was no different.
“There’s nothing wrong. I guess I’m just a little worried about Stiles.”
“What’s wrong with Stiles?” asked Brooke.
“Oh . . .” Detria placed her hand on her forehead. “Brooke, today has been one of those days. Stiles got a call from somebody in Newbern. Francesca was admitted to the hospital in Dyersburg. He’s on his way up there.”
“What happened to her?”
“I don’t know. Whoever called didn’t say, and if he did, Stiles didn’t tell me. I’m tired, Brooke. I’m really tired.”
“Tired of what? Are you sick, too?” The change in Brooke’s voice registered concern for her sister.
“Nooo, it’s nothing like that. I’m fine health-wise. It’s just that I believe I’m getting too overwhelmed. Working, taking care of Stiles’s father when I get home, and trying to be the perfect wife—all of it is overwhelming.” Detria held back the tears. She tried to maintain the even flow of her voice so Brooke wouldn’t be able to tell she was all choked up inside.
“The past few months have been hard. Extremely hard. You’re trying to do all of these things, but you have to take some time for you, Detria. If you want to be a good wife, you have to be good to yourself. You already have a huge responsibility by being the first lady. That in itself is mind-boggling to me. I’m so inspired by your courage and tenacity. As for Pastor Graham, you can’t do it all. You’re not Mother Teresa, Detria. You need to talk to Stiles and tell him that Pastor is going to need round-the-clock care from professionals. You cannot do it any longer.”
“Brooke, I know, but I promised before Stiles and I got married that I would help take care of Pastor the same way I helped them out when Mother Audrey was alive.”
“The key words are helped out, Detria. You’re doing more than helping out with his father. You’re taking care of him by yourself from the time you get off work until the next morning, when the aides return. I mean, Stiles is either at church or teaching his class at the university. I can’t say I blame you for being a little overwhelmed. And then I hate to mention this, but I have to.”
“What?” A knot formed in Detria’s throat.
“You’ve lost a child, Detria. You haven’t allowed yourself to grieve. At least that’s my opinion. You don’t talk about it to anyone. You don’t want anyone to talk about it with you. Instead, you returned to work and went right back to living like nothing happened. When is the last time you and I have hung out? When is the last time you’ve visited Momma and Pops?”
Detria couldn’t control herself this time. She began to cry again. Tears dripped onto the phone receiver. She used the crinkled piece of tissue to wipe her running nose. “What does hanging out with you and visiting Momma and Pops have to do with any of this? And why bring up the death of my baby—my precious baby who I didn’t have the chance to hold, not one time?” Detria wailed into the phone. Her chest heaved.
“Detria, let it out. You need to cry. You’ve always tried to be strong. And you are. But being strong doesn’t mean that you cut off your feelings and act like nothing bothers you. Stress and holding things inside can lead to all sorts of maladies. Sis, I love you,” Brooke said. “I want to see you happy. I want to see you and Stiles happy like me and John. We’ve had our ups and downs during our marriage, but I know that I can count on him, and he knows he can count on me. But the truth remains, I’m not going to be able to say yes to everybody all the time. You have to learn how to do the same thing. Regardless of what you might think, you are not a superwoman. Suffering in silence will only hurt you and lead you to do something you might regret.”
Detria sniffled and wiped her nose again. “Yeah, I hear you, but it’s so hard. And . . . and,” she stuttered slightly, “I feel like Stiles blames me for his father’s injury.”
“Why would he blame you? You’ve been nothing but good and kind to his daddy. Girl, don’t make me get riled up over here. I’ll be like Tyler Perry—don’t make a black woman take off her earrings.”
Detria released a giggle through her sobs. “That’s one of the reasons I love you. You’re so crazy.”
“I mean it. There’s no way he can make this out to be your fault. And I know you better not be sitting over there believing that.”
“You’re right. And he’s not. I guess I’m just in a sorrowful state right now, but I’ll be okay.”
“Promise?”
“I promise,” Detria replied.
“Good. Call me again if you need to talk. Oh, and keep me posted about Francesca,” said Brooke.
“I will. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” Detria perched the phone back on its charger. “God,” she said, “forgive me. Don’t hold my actions against me. I’m sorry for yelling at you. I’m sorry for the pain and injury I’ve caused Pastor Graham.” Slowly she picked up the remote from the night table, turned on the television, and balled up in a knot on the comfy bed. She surfed through the channels speedily until she saw one of her favorite fitness shows. She fixed her eyes on the woman exercising and talking. After fifteen minutes or so, her eyes grew heavy, and she could no longer fight the call of sleep.
Chapter 14
It is not good for all our wishes to be filled;
through sickness we recognize the value of health;
through evil, the value of good;
through hunger, the value of food;
through exertion, the value of rest.
> — Dorothy Canfield Fisher
Stiles parked and grabbed an umbrella from the floor of the backseat. The rain hadn’t let up at all. If anything, the storm had grown fiercer. He opened the car door and the umbrella, then ran until he made it to the covered hospital entrance. Shaking the water off the red and black wide-brimmed umbrella, he closed it, shook his body like a wet dog, and proceeded to patient information. He was given directions to ICU.
Once Stiles arrived in the ICU area, he wasted no time inquiring about his sister. A nurse talked to him briefly and updated him on Francesca’s health after seeing Stiles’s name listed in Francesca’s privacy file. Stiles listened carefully.
“Ms. Graham is resting comfortably. Her doctor will not be returning tonight, but she’s in good hands,” the nurse said.
“What’s going on with her? Why is she in ICU?” asked Stiles as he stood with his arms wrapped like a pretzel.
“Your sister is having complications primarily due to her HIV diagnosis. Her immune system is severely damaged,” the nurse practitioner continued to explain. “HIV has mutated and is more pathogenic.”
“What does that mean in regard to my sister’s overall health?”
“The doctor can explain it in more detail when you see him, but what I can tell you is that her T cells are being destroyed at a faster rate, so her body can’t keep up with replacing the cells. I’m afraid she’s been diagnosed with full-blown AIDS.”
Stiles placed his hand over his mouth and let out a deep, long sigh. He leaned his head back. “God, no,” he said. “How can this happen? There are people walking around every day with HIV who’ve yet to succumb to full-blown AIDS. Couldn’t something have been done to prevent this?”
“Over time, Mr. Graham, it can happen. We are more knowledgeable about HIV and AIDS, but unfortunately there is nothing we can do to stop a person from acquiring AIDS. What your sister has is called an opportunistic infection. Opportunistic infections vary, but the one your sister has is called PCP. She’s probably been feeling pretty bad for a while but may not have told anyone, including her doctor.”
“Obviously, it’s serious or she wouldn’t be in ICU, but is it treatable?”
“It is. But it usually strikes children with HIV. It’s treated with Septra or Bactrim. In Ms. Graham’s case, her CD4 cell count is extremely low, and now that she has developed AIDS, the infection can be life-threatening.”
“Is she conscious? Can I go in and see her?” asked Stiles. He was visibly shaken but determined to pull himself together for the sake of his sister. It was bad enough that Pastor was lying in a hospital bed in Memphis, but to also have his sister in the grip of death was stifling for Stiles. He followed the nurse practitioner into the ICU area and on to a room filled with sterile clothing. She gave Stiles a mask, paper-made scrubs, and disposable shoe covers to put on before she allowed him to enter the patient area.
“Your sister doesn’t need anything that can lead to more infections. She is quite vulnerable now.” The practitioner outfitted herself as well, and they walked out of the ICU dressing area. She stopped in front of a door marked ICU3. The small window allowed Stiles to see inside the room before they entered. He saw the white sheets and the steel bed rails.
He walked inside the cold room. The force of the storm prevailed outside, and the ventilator made similar sounds inside. Stiles prayed within for God to give him strength to withstand seeing his sister in such a terrible condition.
“She may be asleep. We’ve kept her pretty sedated so she’ll be able to rest and hopefully get some relief.” The nurse’s voice was low and calm. “She’s on a ventilator to help with her breathing.”
Stiles approached the bed. Francesca’s eyes were closed. Seeing the tubes going down her throat, the IV needle planted in her arm, and the tubes leading from her nose almost made Stiles break down and cry. He used his godly resolve to remain steady.
“Hey there, sis.” Francesca remained still except for the ventilator, which caused her chest cavity to go up and down. He took hold of her cold hand and gently massaged it. “You’re giving me a scare, you know that? Is this your way of getting me to come up here to see you?” He said it in a joking manner, yet Francesca remained still. She looked like she was sleeping peacefully.
Stiles turned and looked at the nurse. “She probably doesn’t hear you right now. If she did, she would probably open her eyes, but like I said, she’s heavily sedated. I’ll leave you alone with her. Since you’re from out of town, you can stay with her a little longer, but then you’ll be asked to leave until the next scheduled visiting hours.”
“Thank you, uh”—Stiles looked at the name badge pinned on her chest—“Nurse Wilcox. You’ve been kind and patient. May God bless you.”
“You’re welcome. I’ll be close by if you have further questions.” She left the room.
Stiles planted his exhausted body in a chair parked next to Francesca’s bed. He continued to hold her hand.
“Francesca, I love you. Everything is going to be all right. You’re going to be all right.” He kneaded her hand ever so tenderly. “Father, heal my sister. Do what people say is impossible, Father God. You said if we come to you believing we have already received what we ask for, it shall be done. I believe, Father. Do it, Lord Jesus.”
Stiles bowed his head and sucked in his breath. The mask covering his nose and mouth took some getting used to, but he managed to talk to Francesca with greater ease as he became accustomed to the protective measures put in place for his sister. For the next twenty minutes, he sat beside her. He prayed out loud, talked out loud, and then prayed to himself.
The sound of the booming thunder reminded him of the awesome power of God. Stiles allowed his tears to fall, believing that God saw everyone and gathered every tear shed. His mind began to race, and soon he was transformed into a grieving man. He thought about the loss of his mother, the loss of his baby, and pastor’s battle with sickness. He reflected on Detria and their marriage. Feelings of loneliness and despair fought to overpower him.
“Francesca, I’m going to step outside for a while so you can rest, okay? I’ll be back at the next visitation.” Stiles went into the ICU waiting room. He saw a familiar face. He recognized him as was one of the men who had come to Memphis with Francesca’s group a few weeks prior. The slender, black-haired white man approached Stiles and immediately stretched his hand toward him.
“Hello, Pastor Graham. I’m Tim Swift. Everyone calls me Brother Tim. We met when our church group came to Memphis.”
Stiles nodded in recognition. “Yes, I recall. Are you the one who called to tell me about my sister?”
“Yes, sir. I am.”
“I want to thank you for doing that.”
“How is she?” asked Brother Tim. “They won’t let anyone in to see her unless they’re with the immediate family.” A riffle of wrinkles on his face marked his concern.
“She’s heavily sedated and on a ventilator. They say she has some type of infection. It’s pretty serious,” explained Stiles. “Has she been complaining about not feeling well?”
“Not really, but I spend a lot of time with Francesca, and for the past couple of weeks she hasn’t been herself. She tries to play things off, like she’s invincible, but I’m learning how to see through her.”
Stiles noticed the change in Brother Tim’s facial expression when he spoke about Francesca. Stiles recognized the look of affection that replaced Tim’s stress frowns.
“My sister is a pretty tough cookie.” Stiles laughed.
“Yes. That she is,” agreed Brother Tim. He changed the subject and began talking about other members of Francesca’s church who were deeply concerned about her health and well-being. “Francesca is loved by everybody. Our pastor and several other members were here not long before you brought the storm in with you.” This time it was Brother Tim who led in laughter.
“No, I can’t take credit for that,” replied Stiles.
“I know that’s right.
Anyway, our pastor prayed for Francesca’s healing. She’s really a special woman to me.”
Stiles spoke up. “God knows what He’s doing. I have to remind myself of that from time to time, especially during difficult circumstances like this. We don’t always know the reasons God allows certain situations to occur in our lives, but one thing is for sure, whatever He allows He will eventually work out for our good. I mean, I could be angry and puffed up right now because both my sister and my father are in the hospital. On top of that, I don’t know if Francesca told any of you, but my wife and I lost our first child through miscarriage not long ago. So much has been happening, but I try to remain strong in the Word and stay on my knees.”
“I hear you. Prayer definitely changes things,” added Brother Tim. “And I had no idea about your father. I hope it’s nothing serious,” he added.
“Thank you for your concern,” expressed Stiles.
Brother Tim stroked his goatee. “I don’t recall Francesca mentioning that her father was ill.”
“That’s because he was being admitting into the hospital around the same time you called about Francesca. I didn’t have time to tell her.”
“I understand.”
“I hope you don’t mind my frankness, and if you don’t want to answer this question, it’s fine, but are you and my sister involved with each other?” Stiles wanted to know for his own sake. He didn’t know whether Brother Tim was aware of Francesca’s sexual orientation, but it was far too apparent that he had deep feelings for Francesca.
“We’re friends. That’s what she tells me, but she’s well aware that I’d much rather take our friendship to another level. I’ve heard her testimony, so I know her life hasn’t been a bed of roses. Neither has mine. God had to allow some unpleasant things to take place in my life before I recognized that He is the only one who could clean me up and make me a new creature. Since I turned my life over to God, I feel like I’ve been given a second chance. God has restored time for me and given me so much more than I’ve lost. I love Francesca, and I’m praying that if she’s the woman for me, God will open her eyes to receive me as her mate one day.”
My Son's Next Wife Page 12
