hit him. It had been just twenty-four hours since Bailey stopped by the hospital to tell him goodbye. A full day of wondering and remembering and missing Bailey more than he could put into words. But none of that changed the reality of his situation: He was sitting bedside with Cheyenne Williams, pleading with God to save her life.
The machines around her whirred and beeped and reminded him that Cheyenne was alive. But everything else was tenuous … her condition, her prognosis. Her future.
Cody moved to the chair beside her bed and looked around the room. A sofa sleeper clung to one wall, the place where Cody had stayed most nights since the accident. Someone had to be here if Cheyenne woke up. When she woke up.
Cody’s eyes fell on his guitar. He brought it hoping music might help bring Cheyenne around. He wasn’t very good at it, and he could play only a couple songs. But they were songs that spoke of God’s faithfulness, His mercy, and grace. If Cheyenne could hear … if any part of her was still connected to the world around them, then these songs would help. Cody believed that. Besides, he had told her that he was playing the guitar a little. They’d texted about it the day before her accident. Cody still had the conversation on his phone. He pulled it out of his pocket and thumbed through his text messages until he found the conversation with her.
So you’ll play for me … one of these days?
At the time, he laughed at the text, and his response hadn’t promised anything: I better practice first.
Don’t practice … just play … all music is beautiful, Cody.
It was Cheyenne’s last line … all music is beautiful … that convinced him to bring his guitar to the hospital. Other than a few times when he’d gone home to change clothes and shower, or when he was teaching or coaching, he was here. Last night — after Bailey’s goodbye — he’d even slept here.
Because if he went home with the box of things Bailey had given him, if he looked through the box and remembered every good and wonderful thing about being with her, he might never come back. Why be here when Cheyenne woke up if he didn’t have feelings for her, if he wasn’t going to be here through her recovery and maybe afterwards?
Instead he stayed and kept reminding himself of what Tara had told him. Tara, who once long ago dreamed about having Cheyenne as a daughter-in-law. He could still see the earnest look in her eyes when she pulled him aside that evening after dinner. Maybe God saved you from Iraq for Cheyenne …
Cody stared at the beautiful girl in the bed, at her peaceful expression and the way her body lay so perfectly still. Maybe Tara was right. It was all he could think about, and so he hadn’t gone home last night. He’d stayed right here beside Cheyenne, sleeping when he needed to and praying, of course. Always praying.
Cody stood and stretched. Tara would be here soon. She had called and told him she’d be by for a few hours after church. This ordeal had to be so hard on her. She’d lost her son to the war in Iraq, and now the young woman who would’ve married him was fighting for her life.
The room was quiet other than the sound of the machines. Cody walked to his guitar and picked it up. If she wanted to hear him play, he would play. And never mind that he wasn’t all that good.
He sat back down at her bedside and found the right chords. The song was an old one, something he’d heard in chapel every now and then while he was serving overseas. The music filled the room, and Cody was surprised. It didn’t sound half bad. “Great is thy faithfulness … Oh, God my Father … there is no shadow of turning with thee …”
The doctor had explained that Cheyenne might not remember him. She could have amnesia or any number of traumatic brain injury symptoms. Her list of damaged body parts was long and frightening. The impact of the truck hitting her broadside as it ran the red light had slammed her head against the inside doorframe. The swelling in her skull had stopped, but there was no way to tell just how damaged her brain might be.
In addition, she’d suffered a lacerated liver and internal bleeding. Emergency surgery her