Song of Renewal (37 page)

Hello?
She’d been too busy fighting. Running warfare had consumed her entire life. Only thing she’d developed was an armadillo shell behind which to take cover. And heaven help those who dared to get in her face, forcing Charlcy to tackle fear demons. Such unfortunates found themselves targets of unleashed volatile hostility.

No sir. She didn’t take crap from anybody.

Furious, she strode to glare at her image in the full-length door mirror. Reflected were burning eyes, up-thrust chin, locked knees, rigid posture. oozing, festering hauteur.

Tall, lean, and mean glowered back at her. Amidst the glamorous trappings, rage flailed and thrashed like startled red birds loosed in an Eskimo igloo. It flashed like bullets from her eyes, stance, and demeanor.

Mean?
Yeah. She was as mean as they came. It hit her upside her head like a steel mallet.
This is what Raymond came up against daily
.

In that pulse beat, the adrenaline high crashed. She felt her knees unlock and her chin cave. Her rigid bones dissolved. From the mirror her features stared back at her, emptied.
Poor Raymond.
And he’d always loved her anyway.

Hadn’t he? A moment of uncertainty seized her.

The doorbell-peal hammered her nerves and she slammed the closet door shut. Leaning back against it for a moment, head hung, she felt herself reeling from the grasp of who she was. What she’d become.

A royal B.

Dear God.
She squeezed her eyes shut for another second of shame. She had no right to send an SOS
there
because she’d even sent
Him
away. What a total waste she was. How had Raymond survived her for so long?

Charlcy rushed to the door and flung it open, feeling as lowdown as she’d ever felt in her miserable life. Raymond towered there, loose and lanky, a smile quirking his full mustached lip – until her appearance visibly stunned him. His mouth fell open as his hawk-focused eyes ran over her from head to toe and back again. He swallowed soundly, then gazed into her eyes, which she suspected were wary at best and mortified at worst.

Oh well. Hell or high water, here I am
.

“God, sugarbabe. I could eat you alive,” he husked and shook his head in disbelief. “You’ve always been the prettiest woman on the planet. But when did you turn into such a
glamourpuss?”

Nearly melting with relief and humility, she shot a silent thanks to the Man Upstairs, then simply smiled from her very soul. Adoration gushed from Raymond’s gaze, rode his rumbling basso voice, taking her breath away. Charlcy had never seen him so open and vulnerable.

Yeah. He was susceptible. How had she never seen it? For all his puff and cowboy toughness, he was gentle as mush when it came to her.

God help her, her anger had sent him away.

To drink. Into a stranger’s arms.

Then she fast-video-replayed his guilt and anguish. And his vow of fidelity. And his attending regular AA meetings, which helped heal the body, mind, and soul.

Raymond meant business.

Betrayal would not happen again. Somehow, in her soul of souls, beyond doubt, she knew.

“Come ‘ere, cowboy,” she purred, tugging him inside, one slinky foot shutting the door behind her. “We’ve got some catching up to do.”

He gazed down at her, eyes half closed, searching, weighing. “You know our divorce won’t be final till next month and if we – ”

“I know all that. Like I said, we’ve wasted lots of time.”

He grinned then and sent his Stetson flying. “You got that right, sugarbabe. B’sides, we need to do some testing.”

“Testing?” she murmured, sliding her arms around him and gently nipping his ear with her teeth.

“Yep. Gotta see if some fixtures still work.”

Homecoming was a wonderful, exuberant event. Fifty-plus guests welcomed Angel back to her house late that afternoon. The early September weather was a comfortable warm and the humidity low. On the expansive lush lawn, the Byrnes cheerleading squad executed a three-tiered formation with Penny and teammate Cheryl atop, holding a three-by-six-foot gray banner emblazoned with royal-blue words. “CAN’T KEEP A GOOD GIRL DOWN! YOU GO, ANGEL! WELCOME HOME!

Angel’s one moment of anxiety had been when she was being transported into the car for the ride home. Panic rose up like a tsunami, breaking out a sweat and hitching her breath into hyperventilation. Understanding, Daddy had gently lowered
her back into the hospital wheelchair as she breathed into a paper bag to ease the buzzing in her head and hands and to reinstate a proper oxygen level.

This is stupid
, she thought and held up her arms to her father. She was ready to go home. And though apprehension rippled through her while riding in the car, she now knew why. The flashbacks of that auto accident, Dr. Blair reassured her, would eventually subside.

As their car slowed to a stop, Angel’s tears blurred the big sign’s letters, but she got the message loud and clear. Her cheerleader teammates shared an affinity with Angel of which others – save close family – did not partake. It was the physical contact, teamwork nature of their affiliation that kept them intuitively connected.

A visceral thing. Angel felt it when each of them touched her and spoke intimately, from the soul, to her. She would always be a part of them and they of her. They had faithfully visited her in the hospital and filled her in on gossip and school happenings and remained steadfast that she would completely recover.

It was as though her renewal would be theirs, personal and intrinsic.

“Let’s do our dove flight,” her father murmured, leaning in the car to scoop her up.

When Daddy lifted her in his arms and carried her inside, all her loved ones closed in around her, laughing and poking good-natured fun at her and one another as though this party was one they’d anticipated for ages.

Angel felt like Cinderella, not a paraplegic. She could almost feel normal.

Almost.

Even Gramma and Grampa Wakefield had flown in from Florida for the celebration. They planned to stay three whole
days, the longest stay they’d ever done before. Angel felt happy that she would have more time to get to know them on a deeper level. Tonight, they couldn’t seem to say enough kind things about her parents,

Especially things concerning Daddy. Angel noticed how his eyes increasingly lit up when they shared little stories of his young days with the party guests. Angel appreciated this new facet of her grandparents.

Daddy’s usual shroud of reserve when in their presence fell away tonight, exposing a wonderfully spontaneous, fun-loving man. He blushed with pleasure when they announced during a toast how proud they were of Angel’s recovery, of Liza for her loving support to her family and also of their son and his productive life, both as a family man and as an artist

And Mama floated around during the gathering like a fairy godmother in her most nurturing role, as beautiful and graceful as the ballerina she was born to be. Angel still wondered at her mother’s self-imposed exile from ballet all during Angel’s young years. But lots of things in the Wakefield family’s lives were changing.

Other guests included Aunt Charlcy, Uncle Raymond, and their daughter Lindi. Lindi’s little five-year-old girl, nicknamed Tootie, captured Angel’s heart anew.

“She’s the spitting image of Aunt Charlcy,” Angel declared, in awe of the cutie-pie, Tootie, who climbed up in a chair as close as possible to Angel’s wheelchair, her tiny black patentleathered feet dangling far above the floor. A little-old person by nature, Tootie divined Angel’s every need, sliding deftly from her seat to scamper off for refreshments or drinks to replenish Angel’s supply.

“But with a milder disposition, thank the good Lord!” Lindi countered Angel’s observations, then burst into laughter when Aunt Charlcy shot a mock-glower her way from the sofa across
the room. Uncle Raymond lounged beside her, absorbing multiple conversations from all sides.

Then Charlcy, too, burst into laughter. “We
can
thank the good Lord for that, huh, Raymond?” When he looked puzzled, she clarified, “That my little cookie-cutter-image Tootie’s disposition is much sweeter than mine.”

He reared back and angled her a mild look. “Now, sugarbabe, I wouldn’t touch that with a ten-foot pole.” He winked lazily at Angel and resumed eavesdropping on several nearby conversations.

Lindi, a replica of her father, seemed content with her husband, Chuck, a nice-looking, shaved-head, gold-ear ringed guy, who was quite attentive to his two females. Chuck’s automobile-detailing business now flourished. He had several employees working for him. Angel again breathed a prayer of thanks that, despite Lindi’s earlier trouble-riddled years, her cousin had gotten it all together.

“Thanks for visiting me in the hospital, Lindi,” Angel said when Lindi gave her a big hug. “Having Tootie entertain me was some great medicine, I’m glad you decided to move closer to home. I really missed you all those years you were in Atlanta.”

“Pshaw. I got tired of never seeing family.” Lindi, tall and lithe and spunky as all get out also had a soft side. As she mellowed, the family solidarity leaning was emerging and Angel was happy to see it.

Lindi perched on the arm of the sofa as she chatted a moment with Angel. “We’re just fifteen minutes from Mama’s place – in Boiling Spring, actually.

“Imagine.
Us.
Seeing each other every day.” She laughed boisterously at that, sounding so much like Charlcy that Angel’s eyes grew moist. Funny how things like that hit her now.

“Mama likes it,” Lindi whispered, cutting her eyes toward her mama who was talking with other family members. “But only because she’ll get to see more of Tootie.”

“Aaw, that’s not so,” Angel said as Lindi moved away, still laughing. Angel knew that, despite Aunt Charlcy and Lindi’s personality clashes, they were tight.

Angel cut her gaze to Tootie, who was hanging on to every word. “Say, you wanna take a spin with me?” She wiggled her eyebrows and reaped a wide-eyed, ear to ear smiling face.

Tootie was aboard Angel’s lap before she could say scat and off they went, round and round the house interior, from room to room, even up the elevator to a second floor, rambunctious tour. Folks scooted out of the way, laughing and cheering them on, eliciting Tootie’s froggy belly laughter until she was exhausted, till she nearly fell asleep in Angel’s lap later when they parked again in the guest of honor space in the downstairs living area.

Angel, too, was tired. But it was the good kind. The
living
kind.

Guests, including teachers and school friends, lingered until Angel felt herself crash and began to yawn. Then they dispersed, each pausing to give her a sound hug and words of encouragement.

Pity bled through at times. Not often, but it was there.

During those instances, outwardly Angel received their well-wishes with graciousness.

Inside, she recoiled.

She could handle most things.

But not pity.

The very next day, Angel began a journal. It was a gut thing, to keep the laptop handy and feed in happenings, both
the good and the not-so-good. The journal was
her
thing. For her eyes alone. It began her list of things
she
now controlled in her life, under the heading of
self-reliance.

This list was the most important thing in her life. Except for her faith and determination. But then, the iconic journal encompassed both. It defined who she was. And who she would become.

Her days began around eight-forty-five a.m. Though Mama stood by, keening to help, Angel insisted upon navigating herself into the kitchen and putting together her own breakfast, most of the time whole-grain cereal with fresh fruit and milk.

The new motorized chair was fantastic, turning on a dime, easily maneuverable in, out, and around any space. It was
the
conversation piece during younger friends’ visits.