Illusions

  illusions

  The Apple Hill Series Book Two

  Jennifer Sienes

  Copyright © 2020 by Jennifer Sienes

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Chapter 1

  Corey

  Sins, even those buried with time, have the power to destroy. How could I have foreseen, eighteen years ago, that Taylor would be the victim of that destruction? A life for a life. If only I could trade places with her now.

  A fluorescent light above her hospital bed spotlights her stark white features, and a lone drop of blood stains her left cheek like a macabre tear. So many tubes. The one attached to her mouth is ominous, plugged to a machine that sucks and whirs, breathing for her. A heart monitor beep, beep, beeps, and I’m entranced by the corresponding blips on the screen. One side of her head is shaved, and a neat row of stitches, an inch long or so, stands out against her pale scalp.

  Panic crawls up my throat.

  What have I done?

  Paul storms through the doorless entrance of Taylor’s neuro-unit ICU room. “I got here as fast as I could.” He wraps me in a fierce hug and pulls away, his eyes darting to her still form and back at me. “What happened?” The pitch of his voice, fear in his eyes, steal what breath I have left. The horror displayed in his features matches that in my heart.

  I draw air in through my mouth, unable to abide the stench of antiseptic and anxiety, and shake my head. “I…I don’t know.” Liar. “Car accident.”

  “I know that much!” He grips the side rail, knuckles whitening. Murmured voices float from the hall, and he lowers his voice. “Why was she driving? Did you send her on an errand?”

  Send her? I shake my head. She was on a mission, and I was the target. How can I tell him, though? It’ll change everything, and I can’t face that. Not yet.

  Maybe not ever.

  Michael moves from the shadowed corner of the room, drawing Paul’s attention as he steps up to the bed beside me. The faintest whiff of cigarette smoke clings to his jacket. “Taylor told me she was heading to the church to see you.” Accusation, improperly focused, laces his tone.

  “Me?” Paul’s features are pinched. “But…I…we…was I supposed to meet her? I don’t think so. I was preparing for the board meeting…” He stares past me. Is he retrieving his mental calendar?

  “It doesn’t matter,” I say. Another lie. How many have I told in the last ten minutes?

  Or the last eighteen years?

  I clutch the gold cross hanging around my neck and pray for Taylor to live, bargain my life for hers, even knowing her survival will be the end of me.

  The end of everything.

  First Michael. Now this.

  “It doesn’t make sense,” Paul mutters. “It’s not like her to—”

  “Are you Taylor Shaffer’s parents?”

  “Yes,” I say. Hope wars with dread.

  The tall man striding into the room glances from me to Paul, no emotion crossing his tired features, and my heart beats like a bass drum. “I’m Doctor Nielson, Taylor’s neurosurgeon.”

  “Neurosurgeon?” Paul steps toward the man in his usual take-charge manner, and I join him.

  The doctor nods. “Has anyone given you an update?”

  “No.” Paul’s one word overflows with impatience.

  I place my hand on his forearm, and the muscles relax under my touch. “Not exactly. I was told she’d been in surgery and there’s concern about a head trauma?”

  “Yes. I’ve inserted an ICP monitor. Gauges if there’s pressure building from the injury.”

  Michael slumps into the chair beside the bed, watching the interaction with the air of cool only a fifteen-year-old can feign.

  Paul shifts from one foot to the other. “ICP?”

  “Inter-cranial pressure,” Dr. Nielson supplies. “No internal injuries, but the impact to her head…” He looks me in the eye. “It’s serious. She’s non-responsive.”

  “Non-responsive?” I shake my head. “What does that mean?”

  “She’s in a coma.”

  “Oh, God.”

  Michael rises, hands slipping into the front pockets of his baggy jeans. “When…I mean…do you know when she’ll wake up?”

  The doctor turns to him, one eyebrow hitching up. “There’s no way to know. Could be days, or weeks. But there’s been no swelling, and she’s young. Best guess? Days.”

  As he leaves, I turn back to the bed and slip my hand over hers, pale and still on the bed.

  “It’s okay.” Paul whispers the words against my temple, wrapping his arm around my waist. “She’ll pull out of this. She’s strong.”

  “But brain injury?” I look at my beautiful daughter. Tears pool in my eyes and spill over. If she dies…if she lives…Oh, God, what have I done? I swipe trembling fingers at the tears. You have no right to cry. I fumble in my pocket for a tissue. With a feather-light touch, I dab it at the blood on Taylor’s cheek. No use. It’s now a smear.

  “You heard the doctor, babe. She’s young.”

  Wadding the tissue, I lick it and try again. Better, but still a trace—

  “Mom?” Michael hovers on the other side of the bed, his face as white as Taylor’s. “Is she…?” He shrugs, hair spilling over one eye. “I mean, do you think she’ll…?”

  “I need to call Mark.” Paul plants a kiss on my temple before stepping away. A chill invades my bones, like his presence is all that keeps death at bay. “Let him know what’s going on. Pray up our girl.”

  Clenching the tissue, I hug my body and watch while Paul gives Michael’s shoulder a squeeze before leaving the room.

  Michael moves around the bed and steps into his father’s place, eyes on Taylor. Again, a whiff of cigarette smoke. But now’s not the time. “She was, like, real mad when she left this afternoon.”

  I wrap an arm around his shoulders. “It’ll be fine, sweetie.” But the hateful words that spewed from her lips, the contorted features—the hurt, the loss. My assurance to Michael is just another lie. They’re piling up, one on top of the other, burying me alive.

  But what difference does it make now? I’m as good as dead anyway.

  * * *

  Paul

  Chest constricting, cell phone biting into my palm, I slam through the double doors, escaping the ICU. Taylor’s face, like a ghost of my girl. Head shaven, a slash of stitches across her scalp. Coma. Brain trauma. What if she…?

  I can’t go there.

  Oh, God, don’t do this to her.

  Eyes focused on the elevator doors at the end of the linoleum-floored hallway, I pass an elderly couple without a glance. Gotta get out of here before I lose it. Calling the church office was an excuse. Breaking down in front of Corey and Michael…it won’t do. At the double-steel doors, I punch the down arrow. Just a little fresh air and I’ll regain control. Be strong again.

  “Pastor Paul?” A quivery female voice floats from behind me. The elderly couple? Church attendees?

  Ignore them. For once, I won’t be ruled by my position.

  The down arrow lights with a ding before the doors whoosh open. I spot the stairwell to my left and sidestep to it without turning toward the couple I now realize is Grace and Ron Spires. My staunchest supporters, even in the wake of Michael’s stupidity. But supporters or not, I can’t face anyone. No
t yet. Not until I muscle some control.

  The stairwell is gray, cold, illuminated by fluorescent fixtures. A giant 5 is painted in black on the wall, in case I miss the coordinating number painted on the drab door. But it’s quiet and—thank God—empty. Just in case the Spires try to follow, I jog down a level before pocketing the phone and dropping onto the top step of the landing.

  This morning at breakfast, Taylor was excited about some science project for physiology. Blood typing. All she talked about on the way to school was the blood drive. How she’ll finally be able to donate, and now…

  What if she never wakes up? What if she wakes up, but she’s never the same? What if—?

  Oh, God, heal her. Please don’t let her suffer brain damage.

  I rub my eyes, and my fingers come away wet. I can’t let Corey see me like this. She needs to believe, and if I appear afraid, well, then she’ll—

  A ring echoes in the quiet, followed by the vibrating of my phone against my thigh. Could be Corey. Maybe something’s happened…maybe Taylor woke, or…I fish it out of my pocket and check the caller I.D. Not Corey. I shake off the disappointment and thumb the CALL button. “Mark.”

  “Where are you? The board meeting started ten minutes ago.”

  “Something came up—”

  “Came up?” A sigh blows over the line. “Well, I can put them off for a few minutes. When can you get here? Where are you?”

  “Sutter-Roseville Hospital.”

  “Roseville?”

  “Look, Mark—”

  “Your position’s on the line here. What am I supposed to tell the board members?”

  I clench my jaw tight to bite back the expletive. Let every person be quick to hear, slow to speak, slow to anger. Breath in, one, two, three and out, one, two, three. “Tell them my daughter’s been in a car accident and I need to reschedule.”

  “What?” Mark’s voice falters on the word. “Oh, Paul. Man, I’m sorry. What…what happened? How bad is it?”

  I swallow down the lump choking off my air supply. “Don’t know yet. She’s in a…coma.”

  “Coma? But…how? I mean, what happened?”

  “I’m not sure. I haven’t had a chance to talk to Corey yet. There might be some brain damage. We don’t know. We’re kind of in shock here.”

  “Oh, man.” He sounds weary and a sigh comes through the phone.

  “What?”

  “It’s just…you know that group. They’re gunning for your position. I don’t know how long I can put them off.”

  A sharp and visceral anger impales me. “Ridiculous. This whole thing’s been blown way out of proportion.” I slam my fist against the wall, the impact and throbbing pain a welcome distraction.

  “It depends on your perspective.”

  “You agree with them?”

  “Didn’t say that.”

  “Then what?”

  “It’s just…this whole thing with Michael…you know. The way it looks.”

  “Yeah? Remind ’em of John eight. Might be a good reminder for you, too.”

  “I’m not making accusations here, Paul. But throwing it back in their faces isn’t going to save your butt.”

  “There’s not a man among them whose kids haven’t messed up at some point or another.”

  “Maybe, but none of them are pastoring a church.”

  With no comeback, I close my eyes. “I can’t deal with this right now. My family’s got to come first here.”

  “No. You’re right. Sorry. I’ll see what I can do.”

  I hit the end button and fight the urge to hurl the phone.

  Chapter 2

  Twelve Hours Earlier

  Corey

  I appreciate when life is perfect, because I know it might only last fifteen minutes. Humming a tune under my breath, I set a pitcher of orange juice on the kitchen table and get busy making French toast and bacon—the breakfast of champions. Tantalizing aromas trickle out of the room, sure to rouse my sluggish family. Just one of my sure-fire strategies to get everyone out on time. Not as obvious as an air horn, but more likely to bring ’em in smiling.

  “French toast.” Michael plops onto a chair at the table and swings his head to clear his vision. It must be time for a haircut. “Cool.”

  I wave a spatula at him. “Good morning to you, too.” Being taken for granted should be second nature by now—occupational hazard.

  He flashes me a cheeky grin, so much like his dad’s. “Good morning, Mother. How are you on this fine day?”

  I roll my eyes, tween-girl style. “You’ve been watching Leave it to Beaver again.” I glance at his baggy jeans and questionable t-shirt—is that a skull peeking from the swirl of black and gray?

  Paul steps in, Rambo, killer Westie, on his heels, and catches my gaze. “Tell me, June, whatever will we do about the Beaver?” He nuzzles my neck, warm lips sending a zing down my spine.

  Michael hides his scowl behind a glass of orange juice. “What the heck?”

  I pop a piece of bacon into Paul’s mouth, then take advantage of his momentary silence to run interference. I shift my attention to Michael. “Hey, bud, you might want to rethink the wardrobe.” I slide a plate of French toast onto the table and attempt to swipe my fingers through his shaggy hair, but he ducks out of the line of fire. It’s no use. The thick mop needs some serious pruning. At least it’s not purple. Thank God for small favors.

  Paul, still chewing, quirks a knowing eyebrow at me and sits. His censorious gaze flicks over Michael’s t-shirt.

  Before Michael can respond to the non-verbal challenge, a floral-scented cloud floats into the kitchen, competing with the sweet tang of syrup. “Hey, Mom.” Taylor scoops Rambo up in her arms and Eskimo-kisses his snout. “Is breakfast about ready?”

  “On the table.”

  “French toast?” She wrinkles her nose and releases the dog. “Total carbs.”

  Michael snorts. “Just throw it up later, like all your friends.”

  “Very funny.” She plops into a chair and reaches for the pitcher of orange juice. “I’ll just have this and a piece of bacon.”

  I look at Paul to veto that idea, but his face is now buried in the newspaper. No help there. “You’re not going to get through the morning on bacon and juice.”

  “That’s all you’re going to eat.”

  No point in arguing the truth. “Let me cook you up a couple eggs.”

  “I’ll take a couple, too,” Michael says.

  Paul folds up the paper. “Of course you will.” With a shake of his head, he takes the pitcher of juice from Taylor and fills his own glass. “Where you manage to store all that food is beyond me. By the looks of your jeans, you’re wasting away.”

  “It’s the style.”

  “Style?” Taylor picks off a minuscule bite of French toast from Michael’s plate. “Is that what you call it? Why you guys think it’s cool to show off your underwear…”

  I turn a deaf ear to the banter between Taylor and Michael and catch Paul’s attention. “Do you want eggs, too?”

  “No time.” He downs the juice and slaps the glass back on the table.

  “Oh?” I glance at the clock. “I thought you weren’t going in until nine.”

  “The board called for a meeting this evening. I’m not prepared. Not sure I’ll be home for dinner tonight.”

  His tone puts my mother-lion protectiveness on alert. “Problems?” I take a pan from the drawer under the stove and turn on the gas.

  “Nothing I can’t handle.” His eyes hone in on Michael. “So, about the wardrobe, kiddo. You didn’t answer your mom.”

  My eyes flick to Michael as I pull a carton of eggs from the fridge. I bite my tongue. Stay out of it.

  “There’s nothing wrong with what I’ve got on.” His words are garbled around a mouthful of food.

  Paul rests his wrists on the edge of the table, his hands loosely clenched. “I’m afraid I don’t agree.” The words are quiet, but there’s no missing the strength behind them. It
’s not up for debate. Too bad Michael inherited his father’s strong will.

  “School policy says—”

  “I don’t care about school policy.” Paul takes a breath and softens his tone. “My policy says you’ll dress appropriately for school.” He rubs his brow, no doubt contemplating a compromise. “At least turn it inside out, okay?”

  Do I know my husband or what?

  “Fine,” Michael mumbles.

  I move back to the stove and crack four eggs into the pan. “What have you got going today?” I catch Michael’s eye. Maybe I can distract him from his defeated mood. It worked when he was two.

  “History test.”

  “What about you, Taylor?”

  She pushes back from the table, a piece of napkin-wrapped bacon in her hand. “Blood-typing in physiology today. Mr. Johnson says by the end of the day, we’ll know our type. It’s so antiquated, the whole blood type thing. I suggested we take a DNA test, like one of those that are popping up all over the place. But Mr. Johnson said it’s not part of the curriculum or something like that.”

  “You already know your blood type,” Paul says.

  “No…” Taylor draws the word out. “You and Mom know what blood type you are. And if you’d let me donate blood—”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Paul grimaces. “We’ve been through this. You have to be seventeen, so this year—”

  “How fair is that?” Taylor rolls her eyes. “I’m the one who came up with the idea of a yearly blood drive for our community outreach.”

  Paul’s lips twitch. “And I’ll be eternally grateful.”

  “Whatever.” She shakes her head. “At least I’ll know today what mine is.”

  “Hey, genius.” Michael slips a bite of bacon to Rambo. “If you know what type Mom and Dad are, you already know yours. It’s simple science.”

  “Well, Beav,” Paul drawls. “I’d be thrilled if your grades reflected your grasp of simple science. There’s no doubt you’ve got the skills.”