Authors: Brooke St. James
God inched his way into my heart.
I was still the same Bailey I'd been all along, which was a relief since somewhere in the back of my mind, I thought that person wasn't cut out for a life devoted to God. Once I adjusted to being alone, I found it easy to revert back to my same old fun-loving self. I started hanging out with some friends from work on a regular basis. They even started a company slow pitch softball team, saying we couldn't lose since they had me as "a ringer". We had fun, and I got to meet lots of new people from other departments.
It was during one of these softball games that I began to worry about Heath Stephenson. He was my long time admirer whom I thought was content to stalk me on social media, but apparently, he'd been showing up to the company softball games. I didn't even realize it until one of my friends pointed him out in the stands and said he came to every game, and she had no idea who he was there with.
Before she said that, I would have never even noticed him, but once she brought him to my attention, I knew at a glance that it was the same guy. He was in his 30's with a dark beard, wearing a cap from the University I attended. There was no doubt in my mind that it was him, and I got a sick feeling in my stomach the instant that sunk in.
I finished that game without another glance into the stands. I had hitched a ride with some friends from work, and we all went to dinner before they brought me home.
I investigated Heath a little bit that evening. Other than his name, he had no personal information on his accounts. He also never posted anything. I looked back to several of my photos and read his comments, trying to decipher whether or not I should be alarmed. Nothing seemed threatening, which is why what happened next was so shocking.
I was driving down the highway, headed toward my parents' house for the weekend when a car crossed the center line and forced me into a head-on collision. I only remember brief flashes of the accident and the medical treatment that followed. I knew I'd been airlifted and brought to a hospital, but I was in and out of consciousness and had no idea what was going on.
I remember the first time I woke up in the hospital with coherent thoughts. I heard my parents' voices in the room before I could actually open my eyes. They were whispering to each other about whether or not my dad should go get them something to eat or if they should just eat in the cafeteria again. I remember thinking it was odd that my mom would say the word
again
as if they'd already eaten in the cafeteria once before.
What cafeteria were they talking about? Where was I, and how long had I been here?
I needed some answers, so I began pushing myself to wake up, sit up, open my eyes, move my feet, anything.
"Honey, honey, she's waking up," my mom said excitedly. "Call the nurse."
I managed, with great difficulty, to crack open my eyes and saw my mom standing over me, smiling with tears in her eyes.
"Hey baby," she said. "You’re gonna be all right."
I tried to nod, but I could feel that my head only moved a fraction of an inch. Some medical staff entered the room with my father, and the next several minutes were spent with them bustling about my bed, checking my vitals and asking me questions.
Once the room was quiet again, my parents sat down at my bedside. My room was full of flowers and balloons, which made me wonder how long I'd been in there. I started to ask, but the more pressing question on my mind was why I couldn't move my arm. It was wrapped in bandages and situated in a sling of some sort that was attached to the side of the bed.
"Don't pull at that, Sweetheart."
"What happened?"
"You were in a car accident."
"What happened to my arm?"
"You've already had surgery on it, baby. It's mostly your hand. They're taking good care of you."
I blinked as I stared down at the huge bandage incasing my arm and hand.
Surgery?
"How long have I been here?"
"Two days."
We were all silent for several long seconds while they gave me a chance to let that sink in.
"Did you know a man named Heath Stephenson?" my dad asked, breaking the silence.
"Honey, I think we should give her the chance to wake up a little bit before we ask her about that."
They exchanged a married couple glance, after which I could tell my dad resolved to drop the subject.
"I know him," I said. "Why?"
"He did this to you," my dad said, gritting his teeth. He was whispering, but I could tell he was angry.
"You need to calm down, Carl."
"What happened?" I asked, my voice coming out in a faint whisper.
"He's lucky he died, or I'd kill him myself," my dad said.
"Carl Black, now, you just calm yourself down. Bailey's just waking up. She doesn't need to be bombarded with this right no—"
"What happened?" I asked again, looking at my mom.
She sighed. "Some detectives came in yesterday. I'm sure they'll be back to talk to you once they hear you're awake." She breathed another long sigh. "Apparently, this wasn't an accident, sweetheart."
"Was he trying to kill me?" I asked, still feeling confused.
My dad let out an angry groan at the sound of my question. He stood up and began pacing.
"I guess he was trying to kill himself, and hurt you in the process," my mom answered calmly. "The police found a letter with his intentions in the car with him."
We sat in silence for what must have been four or five minutes—long enough that my mom sent my dad to Chick-fil-A to get them a sandwich. I didn't know what to ask, and I didn't even know if I wanted the answers to my questions.
"You're gonna be just fine," my mom said, finally. "We've been really impressed by the doctors and staff here. They're taking good care of you."
"Where are we?"
"The UC Medical Center," she said. "You were airlifted from the scene of the accident. Someone saw it happen and called the authorities right away. Your father and I came as soon as we got word."
"What's wrong with my hand?"
"I guess it was crushed by the steering column. They had to do surgery. You didn't have any internal bleeding, though, which is obviously a huge blessing. You did hit your head. You have a concussion. That's why you're all bandaged up." She gestured and my head, which I realized had a huge bandage around it. I reached up with my right hand to touch it gently.
"Careful not to pull out your IV," she said. "Your sister was up here all day yesterday, and several of your friends have stopped by, but we pretty much just send them on their way and tell them you'll be in touch when you get back on your feet." She motioned to all the flowers. "You have a lot of people who love you and are praying for you, sweetheart."
Hearing her say the word "praying" made my thoughts turn to God. I wondered where He was during all of this. I wondered how I wound up in a hospital bed during a time when I was seeking Him the most. I was lost in thought when someone tapped on the door. Whoever it was didn't wait for a response before entering the room.
"I heard somebody woke up," the man said as he came to stand at the foot of my bed. He was young, but he was wearing a white coat and carrying a clipboard that I assumed contained my charts. "I'm Dr. Crawford," he said smiling down at me. "And you're the famous Bailey Black. We met in the operating room, but I'm sure you don't remember much of that."
I smiled and shook my head. I had the strangest urge to sit up and adjust my hair, but that was probably because he looked like a Ralph Lauren ad.
"Dr. Crawford did the surgery on your hand," my mom explained.
"I assisted in the surgery," he clarified. "I'm in my last year of residency. I get to fly solo quite a bit, but you did a number on that hand. Dr. Ross did most of your surgery. He's one of the best in the country. He's the reason I came to school here."
"So why'd they send the second string in here to check on me?" I asked.
He cracked up laughing at that.
"She's, I'm sorry, Dr. Crawford. She's… you'll have to excuse her. She's still waking up," my mom stuttered.
"He knows I'm kidding, Mom," I assured her. I shifted my attention to him again.
He was still smiling at me as he came around to the side of my bed. "You mind?" he asked gesturing to the foot of my bed. I shook my head, telling him I didn't mind if he sat there. He took a seat, set the clipboard on his lap, and then turned to face me.
I took in his face. He had high cheekbones. I let my eyes drift from his cheek, down his jaw to his chin. He had a dimple in his chin. It wasn't a deep one, but there was one there, and I followed the curve of it for a few seconds before staring at his full lips. He was clean-shaven, and the lines of his face were soft and curvy but masculine. I was mesmerized. I got stuck looking at that little indention at the top of his lips, right under his nose. It was perfectly shaped. There was absolutely nothing I'd change about this man's face. It was a work of art. My eyes met his. Now that he was sitting close, I could see that they were light brown, with touches of gold—almost amber colored.
What in the world was I thinking staring at him like this?
I must have still been loopy from the pain medicine or something. I cleared my throat, and stared off to the side, looking blankly at the monitor that was blinking and beeping next to my bed.
"I had to work with the softball and baseball teams at two local high schools during my first year of residency," he said. "I remember hearing your name. All those girls on the softball team wanted to be just like Bailey Black."
I laughed and shook my head as if he was just trying to flatter me.
"I'm serious," he said. "You were a bit of a celebrity."
"Complete with stalkers, apparently," I said, letting out a humorless laugh.
"I'm sorry about that," he said. "I heard about what happened. I guess it's good that you won't have to worry about him anymore, though."
"I guess so," I said. "Everything's still sinking in."
"I'm sure it is." He smiled and reached back to touch my ankle in the comforting way a doctor would. I felt a distinct sensation at the point of contact and a surge of anticipation. My heart began to race, which would have been fine had I not been hooked up to all of those wires. I was sure the beeping sound coming from the monitor sped up when he touched me, and I hoped against hope that it wasn't obvious enough for anyone else in the room to notice. I cleared my throat again just in case.
"Are you still playing ball?" he asked.
"Not really. I was playing slow pitch with the people at work just for fun."
"What do you do for exercise?" he asked.
"I got hooked on kettle bell conditioning while I was in college. I go to a gym down the street from my apartment."
"Kettle bells are awesome," he said. "I use them too."
I found myself looking at his arms and chest and trying to imagine what he looked like without a shirt. He had good posture, and I could tell he was fit.
"Are you kidding me?" I said to myself—at least I thought I said it to myself, but I must have said it out loud because he answered me.
"About what, kettle bells?"
"No, I mean, yes. Wait, did I say
'are you kidding me'
out loud?"
He chuckled. "Yes you did."
"Well I meant to think it," I said.
He shifted slightly on the bed so he could face me more fully. He stared at me with an expression that made me think he was amused and maybe even intrigued.
"She's still a little loopy," my mom said.
"Sure she is," he said, smiling and not taking his eyes off mine.
I couldn’t stop staring at him. His dark hair was cut short on the sides but longer on top. It was combed off of his face in a neat, polished style.
"I'm sure you're anxious to discuss your hand," he said.
"I guess that's why you're here," I said, not taking my eyes from his.
"I
am
an orthopedic surgeon."
"I
did
have orthopedic surgery."
He smiled and continued to stare at me for a few seconds before clearing his throat and focusing his attention on my chart. "Are you in any pain?" he asked.
"If I am, I haven't started to notice it yet."
"That's good. Just let us know if something changes. Some discomfort is normal, but we'll try to keep you as comfortable as possible."
He showed me my x-rays from before and after surgery and explained exactly what everything meant. There were wires and pins holding my bones together. I felt light-headed when he first started to explain everything, but he made it seem like such an every day occurrence, that I lost that sensation and was able to focus on what he was saying and appreciate it in a clinical way. I asked him lots of questions, which he answered patiently and intelligently.
I officially loved Dr. Crawford, and it had nothing to do with the fact that he had a perfect face, hair, voice, body and sense of humor—nothing to do with that at all. I judged him strictly on his doctor skills, and those alone made him totally loveable.