Dust

Chapter 3

FAITH POV: "Drunk driver believed to be the main cause of the accident that left country superstars Tim McGraw and Faith Hill in critical condition. Hill's condition still remains unknown, while McGraw was released nearly two months ago. Medical personnel confirm that Hill's injuries were worse, because she had removed her seat belt moments before the car was struck." CNN blasts. This is the first time I'm hearing any of this. They haven't been very clear on the accident itself. 

It's been a month since the whole Tim event... He hasn't attempted to come in, according to Mark. I know Mark likely wouldn't tell me if he did. 

Tim sold the ranch, according to people magazine. I've been out of the hospital for around two weeks, but I have to go to the hospital daily for therapy. Mark says that the house I'm in right now was mine before Tim and I were engaged, but I know better. This house was built six months ago... And I couldn't help but notice that I haven't seen a single mortgage bill. I know Tim's paying, and I know he bought the house. Mark denies it whenever I suggest it. 

I'm enjoying solitude. It's much better than the hospital, where somebody walks in every half hour to make sure you're not drooling on yourself. 

The label I'm signed with sent me a large bouquet of roses, along with my pay from the last few months. They're filling this as Paid Leave. I guess they're expecting me back... 

Tim's been managing everything, of course, without consulting me. The nurses all tell me that he often calls and asks how treatment's going, and pays my co-pay ahead of time. I don't know why he feels the need to do this... 

"Do you remember this?" Mark holds up a picture of a little yellow house with magnolia trees in the back. 

"That's my house when I was a kid." I say. Mark nods and goes to the next picture. This is a tiny house, the size of a shack, on a huge plot of land. "That was me and Rob's house." I recall. Mark nods once more and flips to the next picture. 

"Do you remember this?" Mark asks. The picture is of a carnival. I can't tell where it is by just looking at that picture. 

"That exact carnival?" I ask. He nods. "No, I don't." I say. 

"Alabama, 1995." He says. Our routine is he'll go through a set of pictures, some from times where I remember, some from after my memory went, and he'll tell me when and where the pictures are from. Then, he'll go through them again, and again, and again... until I get tired of going through them. He flips the photo again. 

This photo shows a girl standing on the stage of a tobacco spitting competition. 

"My first performance." I speak out. He nods. 

"You remember when?" He asks. 

"I was nineteen, I think..." He flips to the next picture. This shows Tim and I at a press conference. We are smiling at each other. 

"I don't remember that..." I say firmly. He sighs. 

"Summer 1995." He says. 

"Tell him to stop." I say. Mark seems surprised. 

"To stop what?" He asks. 

"Paying my bills, and co pays, and managing everything." I say, sounding more bratty than anything. "I'm a grown woman, I can do these things by myself." 

"He's just trying to help..." Mark admits for the first time. He's been denying Tim's involvement for weeks.

"Great, but I don't need help. He doesn't have to help me." I say confidently. Mark shakes his head.