Red, White and Blue Weddings: Red Like Crimson, White as Snow, Out of the Blue by Janice Thompson
Brianna turned her attention back to the television set, watching as the paramedics lifted Brandon onto the stretcher and carried him away in the ambulance. Her heart felt broken in two, and she reflected on her earlier thoughts: Why does this always seem to happen to the people I love? Why do they always end up hurt?
The people I love? They? So this wasn’t just about Daniel anymore. This was about her love for Brandon, too. How had she pushed down the feelings that now consumed her? How had she gone this many weeks—months—and not been honest with herself about how she felt about him? Why did it take something this catastrophic to convince Brianna that her feelings for him were deeper than she’d dared dream?
Oh, God, please touch him. Heal him. Protect him.
Brianna covered her face with her hands and wept. Gran- Gran reached to take her hand. “I know, honey.”
Just three words. But they said it all.
NINETEEN
The next day Brandon lay in the bed, unable to think clearly. Results of the initial tests, CT scans, and MRIs were inconclusive. But after sixteen hours the feeling had returned to his legs. Thank the Lord. Brandon didn’t know when he’d ever been as shaken. Both his faith and his body had taken a tumble over the past day or so.
And all for a losing game.
He couldn’t throw off the fact that he’d come so close—so close.
And yet so far.
The doctor—a fellow who had introduced himself as David Grant—entered the room with a nod and a hint of a smile.
“Good news, I take it?” Coach Carter asked from his chair next to the bed.
“Well, no breaks. Nothing permanent. What we’re looking at here is what’s commonly referred to as a stinger injury.”
Brandon nodded and remembered a fellow player in Tampa who’d been off his feet for days with a stinger injury.
“The nerves that give feeling to the arms and hands start out in the neck area.” Dr. Grant reached to a spot at the back of Brandon’s neck. “Nerve injury often happens when the athlete makes a hard hit using his shoulder. The direct blow to the top of the shoulder drives it down and causes the neck to bend toward the opposite side.”
“I felt it when it happened,” Brandon said.
“No doubt. We’re talking about a motion that does a whopper of a job stretching or compressing the nerves, to the point where it triggers a pretty intense discharge of electricity. For a few seconds the electricity shoots down the nerves to the tips of the fingers.”
“Felt that, too. Just after the impact.”
“In your case,” Dr. Grant said, “the spinal cord in your neck was bruised during the impact, causing your whole body to be affected from the neck down, not just your arms. We see this occasionally, though it always gives the patient and the doctor quite a scare.”
Carter stood and began to pace the room.
Brandon watched his coach out of the corner of his eye as he propped himself up in the bed. He still fought a lingering headache. “But this isn’t permanent, right?” he asked. He just needed to hear it again, to assure himself.
“Well, your symptoms—pain and tingling in both arms and legs—have passed,” Dr. Grant explained. “There are no cracks. No breaks. Nothing like that. Once we have determined that your sense of feeling, strength, neck motion, and reflexes have returned to normal, you will likely be able to return to the game next season.”
“Likely?” Carter and Brandon spoke in unison.
“Look.” Dr. Grant pulled up a chair next to the bed and took a seat. “I’ve seen this before—where an athlete has a stinger injury—then doesn’t wait until he’s completely healed before jumping back into the game. The goal here is to prevent a recurrent stinger. If you take another hit, your injuries will likely be more severe. We could even be talking permanent nerve damage if you’re not careful. So no practices, nothing like that, for a while. We want to err on the side of caution. And I mean that.”
“Right.” Carter nodded. “And we put these guys through an exercise regime at the beginning of each season to develop full range of motion in those muscles. We’ll keep a close eye on him, I promise.”
“Good.” Dr. Grant turned back to Brandon. “In the meantime I’m referring you to an orthopedic doctor, and he’ll perform a thorough evaluation of your neck, shoulders, and nerves.”
“Here? In the hospital?”
“Nah. No need for that. Oh, and by the way—”
“Yes?”
“You have a low-grade fever. Have you not been feeling well?”
“I had a terrible headache last night,” Brandon said. “Felt a little woozy. And I’ve been kind of stuffy. I wondered if the shivering was from the cold or something else.”
“Ah. Well, we’ve seen a lot of flu-type symptoms going around, so I’ll put you on a decongestant for that. Could be that’s what had you so off balance in the first place.”
“Thanks,” Brandon said. Then with a sigh he leaned back against the pillows.
“Just so you know,” Dr. Grant said with a sympathetic smile, “you’ve played great all season. Everyone in this city is proud of you. And right now they’re just rooting for you to get better so you can come back next season.”
“He’s right, Brandon,” Coach Carter said with a nod. “That’s the important thing here—getting you better. And not just because of the game.”
Brandon smiled his thanks.
“Okay.” The doctor nodded. “I’m releasing you. Just make sure you have someone with you over the next few days. Head and neck injuries are nothing to ignore. You’ll need to be watched.”
“We’ll make sure of that,” Carter said.
“Okay, well, be looking for a nurse to show up in about an hour or so with your discharge papers. You can go ahead and get dressed if you like.” He walked out of the room, saying something about writing a prescription for pain.
Carter gave him an inquisitive look. “You okay, son?”
“Yeah.”
“I wanted to let you know the mayor called this morning to check up on you.”
“He did?”
“Yes, and someone from the governor’s office, too. They’re all rooting for you.”
“Wow.” Brandon shook his head at the thought of it.
“Of course, a dozen or so reporters are hanging around in the lobby of the hospital, so we’ll have to make a statement on the way out. Just wanted to get you psychologically prepared for that.”
“It’ll be fine.” Brandon smiled.
“Great.” Carter glanced at his watch. “I’m going downstairs and make a couple of calls before we leave. Just call my cell when they’ve discharged you, and I’ll meet you downstairs to take you home. And don’t worry—I’ll make sure you get back and forth to your doctor’s appointments, that sort of thing. We’ll take care of everything. You just rest easy.”
“Yes, sir.”
Seconds later Brandon found himself alone in the room— alone with his thoughts. He felt torn between being thankful God had spared him from a more serious injury and regretting that he’d fallen short of the goal line. He hadn’t led his team to victory. For whatever reason, that brought on a nagging feeling of guilt. He couldn’t shake it.
Then again, guilt seemed to be his middle name.
Maybe it had something to do with the call from his mother late last night. She’d been in quite a state, and he couldn’t blame her. He knew how badly she wanted to come, but he’d insisted she not fly up there with the weather so bad.
Besides, he’d told her, he would recover within days. By the time she could travel, he’d be feeling great.
She promised to come in the spring, as soon as the snows cleared. He hoped the weather would cooperate; otherwise, he’d never live it down.
He thought about that for a while. Maybe he placed too much stock in what people thought, even people he cared about deeply. Maybe that’s where the guilt came from—caring too much.
Or maybe he could blame it on the look
Brandon closed his eyes and reflected on the pain in her expression. Looking at those eyes had convinced him of one thing.
She cared about him.
She didn’t have to say it. Not yet, anyway. But he knew, as Abbey had said, in his knower. He knew Brianna had come to see him because she cared.
And soon enough, if the Lord continued to work in such a miraculous way, he would be ready to tell her how much he cared, too.
Brandon smiled as he thought about their visit. So many good things had come out of it. For the first time in weeks they’d talked. Really talked. She had even shared a few tears and an apology.
He reflected on that part—how she’d finally told him her reasons for hating the sport. She explained about Daniel’s terrible injury and the forgiveness she’d finally been able to offer her father after so many years of holding a grudge.
Her tears had flowed as she shared about her past and the changes she’d been through in recent weeks. Brandon’s favorite part was her embarrassed confession—what fun!—that she’d finally started watching the games—in spite of her fears that someone, like him, for example, might be hurt.
The look in her eyes as she’d gazed at him made every bit of the pain worthwhile.
Oh, how wonderful it had been to spend an hour with her, just talking—about their hopes and dreams. Their pasts. Their futures.
Brandon’s eyes opened, and he half expected to see her standing there beside him, her hand clutched tightly in his own.
If the Lord responded favorably to his prayers, one day she would be.
❧
On the day after Brandon returned home from the hospital, Brianna took a meal to his home. She stood at his front door, bundled in her heaviest coat and clutching a plate of food in her hand. It contained several of his favorites—meat loaf, fried bread, and the creamiest mashed potatoes in town—and she was happy to deliver it. In fact, everything about being with Brandon made her happy, and she was finally ready to admit it.
After a couple of knocks the door opened. Brianna gasped as she saw both of his eyes completely blackened.
“Oh! You look worse than you did in the hospital.”
“Humph. I don’t know whether to thank you or be offended,” he said with a weak smile. He gestured for her to enter the house, which she did with a shiver.
“Hungry?”
“Always!” He took the plate from her and led the way to the kitchen, where he pulled back the plastic wrap, then looked up with a big smile. “Thank you so much.”
He set the plate on the table and pulled out a chair for her. Brianna hardly knew how to react. How long had it been since a man had offered this gesture of kindness and chivalry? Ah, yes. Christmas Day. Brandon had done the same thing when they’d shared Christmas dinner together. It had felt good then, and it felt even better now that they were actually alone together. She slipped into the chair, feeling more comfortable around him today than ever.
Brandon took a seat next to her and looked back down at the food, his eyes lit. “A couple of the guys from the team stopped by with take-out last night,” he said. “But it’s not the same as Abbey’s great cooking. This is certainly worth thanking God for.” And he did. His prayer was simple and heartfelt. Afterward he took a bite of the meat loaf then sat back with a sigh. “Ah, yes. She’s a pro. Gotta give her that.”
Brianna finally worked up the courage to tell him something. “Actually I, um”—she did her best not to blush—“I made the food this time.”
“Really?” He gave her an admiring smile. “Well, you’ve acquired her talent; that’s for sure.”
“You think so?” She watched him as he took another bite and nodded. “I’ve been working at it.”
“It’s great.”
As he continued to eat, Brianna took silent assessment of his injury, at least the part visible to the eye. She wondered how deep the wounds went, psychologically speaking. This must be quite a blow, especially knowing he’d have to take it easy for a while. Should she ask him about it? With more sighs coming forth from him, she opted for Plan B: food and chitchat.
She would give her questions to the Lord as she lifted Brandon’s name in prayer each day. And she would also ask the Lord something else, too.
She would ask Him if He would give her the desires of her heart.
TWENTY
The following Sunday morning, after a week of snow, the city of Pittsburgh remained blanketed in white. Brianna wouldn’t have gone to church, even if the weather had cooperated. She called the pastor’s wife early in the morning to explain their predicament. Gran-Gran was sick. Really sick. She’d been fighting a cold for days, and it seemed to have settled into her bronchial tubes.
Mitzi prayed over the phone and let her know others would be praying. A second telephone call, this one to the doctor, relieved Brianna’s mind a little. He’d been happy to call in some antibiotics to the pharmacy, but he cautioned her to keep a close watch on her grandmother. And that’s just what she did.
Under other circumstances Gran-Gran would’ve laughed it off. She always managed to remain positive and upbeat, even in times of sickness. But this time she kept herself quiet and still under the bedcovers, coughing and trembling as the fever peaked. Brianna made sure she administered the medication every four hours, along with aspirin.
As she did she prayed fervently that the sickness wouldn’t develop into pneumonia. She found herself given over to that concern, however, on more than one occasion. What would she do if she needed to get Gran-Gran to the doctor’s office or the hospital in a hurry? The roads were in such a mess. Would she have to call for an ambulance?
About ten thirty in the morning, Brianna went into her grandmother’s bedroom to check on her. She found her tossing and turning in the bed, clearly uncomfortable.
“Is there anything I can get for you, Gran?”
“Hmm? Oh, Bree, is that you?” Her grandmother looked up with glazed eyes. “I think I was dozing.”
“You look a little restless to me,” Brianna observed. “Can I get you something from the kitchen? Do you need some hot tea? Or maybe you’re ready for some chicken soup? I’ve been downstairs cooking all morning.”
“In a few minutes, maybe.” Her grandmother sat up in the bed, and a coughing fit erupted. When she finally finished, she looked at Brianna and sighed. “I’m not having much fun with this.”
“I hear ya. I’ve been praying. I know Brandon is, too.”
“Brandon.” Gran-Gran’s eyes lit up for the first time that day. “How is that boy?”
“Oh, he’s recovering slowly,” Brianna said with a shrug. “I’ve been over to his house off and on, taking food.”
“Caring for two invalids at once is a lot to ask from one girl,” Gran-Gran said. “And you’re a doll to do it. I know we’re both grateful.” She paused a minute and shook her head. “It’s Sunday, right?”
“Right.”
“I don’t even know if I feel up to watching the next play-off game, to be honest.”
“Whoa.” Brianna sat on the edge of the bed and placed her palm against her grandmother’s forehead. “You really are sick, aren’t you?”
Gran-Gran nodded then looked toward the window. “Is it still snowing out?”
“No. Nothing since last night. But I watched the forecast on television this morning, and they’re asking folks to stay put in their houses.” Brianna glanced over at her grandmother’s bed- side table, her gaze falling on a tiny, framed black-and-white photo. She’d seen it hundreds of times before, naturally, but this time it seemed to affect her in a different way.
“You’re looking at Katie.” Gran-Gran’s weak voice took her by surprise, and for a minute Brianna felt like a kid caught with her hand in the cookie jar.
“She was really pretty.”
&n
“I did?”
Her grandmother reached to pick up the tiny frame, which trembled in her hand. “I always imagined she would’ve turned out just like you if she’d lived. I just know she would have. And so many times. . .” She got choked up.
“What, Gran?”
“So many times I’ve thanked God for sending you here to me. He gave me a second chance with a little girl.”
Brianna laughed. “Well, I wasn’t exactly a little girl when I came to you, was I?”
A serious look came into her grandmother’s eyes. “You were on the inside. You were a hurt little girl, needing someone to reach out to love her.”
A lump filled Brianna’s throat as she thought about that. As always, Gran-Gran had hit the nail right on the head, though this one carried a bit of a sting.
“I told you on Christmas Day that I’ve been praying the Lord will restore my relationship with your father,” her grandmother said with a slight sigh.
“Yes.”
“I’ve been praying the same thing for you, too—that God will restore your relationship with your father.”
Brianna stood and began to pace the room. “It’s not so bad. I mean, we’re civil and all. You saw how it was when he was here. We didn’t argue or anything. I think we’re making progress.”
“Right.” Her grandmother paused for a moment before responding. “But a relationship—a real one—is more than distant, guarded conversations. A relationship is—”
“It’s what we have.” Brianna sat once again and took her grandmother’s hand in her own, as tears dampened the edges of her lashes. “And, to be honest, my relationship with you has been the healthiest one of my life. You’re my best friend, Gran.”