Chapter Fourteen #2
chicken, Southern-style green beans, mashed potatoes, and those dinner rolls
you like. They’re in the oven right now.”
Turning his head, he gives me a weak smile. “I’m sorry, Ella
Rose.” His voice is soft, barely a whisper.
“For what?”
“I’m sure you think I’m just being stubborn, and I know I’ve
been in a surly mood. I don’t mean to be. I’m sorry I snapped at you. I’m just
frustrated with the situation. But that doesn’t give me the right to take it
out on you.” He picks up my hand and mimics my earlier move, kissing my palm.
“I love you.”
I caress his jaw with my free hand. “I love you, too.” He
tugs me in close, his arms going around me, and we stay like that for several
minutes until the oven timer goes off. Lifting my head, I smile. “Let’s eat.”
We spend the rest of the evening pretending everything’s
normal. I have a lot of anxiety about his appointment tomorrow and what they’ll
find. I’m supposed to fly back to LA next week for an audition, but if the
doctor finds something seriously wrong, I’m not going anywhere.
Just breathe…
I’m already expecting them to find something, I just don’t
know how serious it will be.
The eye doctor clears him to join the team in
Cincinnati.
Their big test for post-concussion syndrome? A standard eye
exam—reading letters, checking depth perception, and asking him a few
questions, which I’m pretty sure he did not answer truthfully. I can
tell he doesn’t feel well. He’s pale and wincing, and I know he’s in pain, but
did he tell the doctor that? No.
We leave the office, head home, and then I’m driving him to
the airport so he can play with the Archers tomorrow.
I’m absolutely heartbroken.
“Please, don’t do this,” I beg as we head to the airport, my
voice cracking.
“You heard the doctor, Ella Rose. I’m fine.”
“Pfft. That wasn’t an accurate exam,” I say, my frustration
making my voice rise. “That was a standard eye exam, Christian. You need to be
seen by a specialist.”
He pats my hand. I’m sure he doesn’t mean for it to be
condescending, but that’s how I take it. My head is ready to explode.
“I would think you’d be happy they didn’t find anything.
That means you can stop worrying.”
“How could they find anything when they barely did an exam?”
And yeah, I’m heavy on the sarcasm.
“Please, don’t be upset. I’ve got this under control, okay?
It’s going to be—”
“Fine. Yeah. Got it. You’ve said it enough times that I’m
sure you believe it. But I don’t. And you know what? I don’t have to. You may
not want to take this seriously, but I do.”
“I am taking it seriously,” he counters calmly. “I
take my career very seriously.”
“Mm-hmm…”
“Ella Rose…”
“Look, we’ll just have to agree to disagree right now.” I’m
taking the exit for the airport, and there’s no point in continuing the
argument. I don’t want to send him off angry, and personally, I don’t want to
be angry either. So, we drive to the terminal in silence. When I pull up to the
curb and put the car in park, I do my best to compose myself.
“I’ll text you when I land,” he says before leaning over and
kissing me.
I want to clutch him close and beg him not to go, but it
won’t matter. I know it, and I hate it.
“Have a safe flight. I’ll talk to you tonight when you’re
back at the hotel.” I kiss him again, but neither of us lingers. He gives me a
lopsided grin as he gets out of the car. Once the door is shut, he turns and
waves, and I watch him walk into the airport. Neither of us ever pulls away
until the other is out of sight.
The airport doors close, and I force myself to look away.
I cry the entire way home.
Four days later, I’m back at the airport to pick
Christian up. Not because he was due to come home, but because he’s injured,
and everyone’s taking it seriously.
Finally.
I’m a nervous wreck, but that’s nothing new. I’ve been
living on pins and needles and walking on eggshells ever since he got the
concussion. But this is a fresh injury, and he needs an MRI. As soon as he
walks out of the airport, I nearly burst into tears. He’s walking slowly, like
every step is agony, and I don’t know how to help him. I don’t want to jump out
of the car, take his bags, and risk embarrassing him or hurting his pride, so I
wait for him to join me so I can look him in the eyes and tell him it’s all
going to be okay.
But I don’t know whether I believe it.
Christian gingerly gets into the car, and I can tell it even
hurts for him to smile. “Hey, beautiful. Thanks for picking me up.”
I don’t wait for him to lean over to kiss me; I’m the one
moving. I kiss him, hold his face, and will myself not to become a big, weepy
mess. Resting my forehead against his, I let out a shaky breath. “It’s going to
be okay,” I whisper.
“I don’t know,” he says quietly. It’s the first time he’s
ever sounded less than confident. “I just don’t know, Ella Rose.”
I kiss him softly before straightening in my seat. “Let’s
get you to the doctor.” The trainers already made arrangements for him to get
the MRI as soon as he got back to St. Louis, and I’m beyond relieved that
they’re finally doing something that may actually help my husband.
As I pull away from the curb, I glance over and see that his
eyes are closed, his head fully back against the cushion, his baseball hat
slightly askew. As much as I want to talk to him, because it’s one of my
favorite things to do, I don’t want to disturb him. He needs the rest.
He’s needed it since the concussion.
Ugh…stop harping on it.
Besides, I already know what happened. Yesterday, the
Archers were playing in Chicago, and during a play that had Christian sliding
into home plate, he collided with the catcher. His body bent at an unnatural
angle, and the trainers think he did some damage to his oblique muscles. So,
essentially, an entire side of his torso. They pulled him from the game and
taped his whole midsection to stabilize it, but even without knowing about the
play, anyone with eyes can tell he is in pain.
So, I drive in silence. By the time we reach the medical
complex, I can tell he’s asleep.
“Christian?” I say softly. “We’re here.” I place my hand on
his thigh and squeeze it gently. Fortunately, he wakes up right away.
“Let’s get this over with.”
I get out and race around the car because now I don’t care
what anyone sees or thinks. My husband is in pain, and I’m going to help him,
even if he doesn’t think he needs it.
But he leans on me and lets me support him. We awkwardly
make our way inside, and they take him back immediately.
Now, all I can do is wait.
Guess who’s back on the injured list and has to stay
there for four weeks?
I don’t do a victory dance or say, “I told you so,” but for
the first time in ages, I finally feel like I can breathe.
Christian completely detached his oblique from his ribs. I
don’t know how he could stand the pain from it, but the only way for him to
heal is to rest and do absolutely nothing for a month.
And guess what the best way to heal from post-concussion
syndrome is?
Four weeks of doing nothing except resting.
Relief doesn’t even begin to describe how I feel, but I also
have to cancel my audition in LA. There’s no way I can leave Christian right
now. Not because I don’t trust him, but because he seriously has to rest, and I
don’t want him to have to do anything for himself. I want to take care of him
and make sure he knows that he’s the most important thing in the world to me.
My agent and publicist aren’t happy with me for bailing on
the audition, but they both know Christian and know how traumatic this last
month has been.
“So, what does this mean, Ella? Are you taking the entire
month off?” Tracy asks. “Am I supposed to just hit pause on pitching you until
Christian’s better?”
“I think that’s best,” I tell her. “We live so far away from
our families. There’s no one close by who can stay with him.”
“But he’s not completely helpless. Surely, he’d be okay for
a few days. Or you can hire someone to stay with him. Like a home health person
or something.”
“That’s not the point.” And yes, I’m a little annoyed at
what she’s implying. “I’ve been so worried about him. I need to be here with
him for my own peace of mind.”
She sighs. “Why don’t you call me when he goes back to
playing? That way, I’ll know when I can start actively looking for roles for
you again.”
“Thanks, Tracy. I appreciate it.”
“I hope so. That movie role could have been amazing for you.
It wasn’t some low-budget indie deal either. It was with a major studio.”
“Then I guess I need to hope they don’t find anyone else for
the part before I can come back and audition.” I say it lightly, but it’s the
truth. Landing a role in a major motion picture is the dream, but it’s not more
important than being here for my husband.
Tracy makes a noncommittal sound. “Give Christian my best