2
Wade Donoven attempted to de-claw his left hand. Tingles traveled across his palm. He’d lost count on his physical therapy reps. If he were honest, he’d receive a D for deficient. He swiveled in his black leather office chair and glanced at the clock on the wall. One minute after five on a Friday evening. He doubted a service call would come in this late to Donoven and Sons Electric. With the weekend beginning, Nashville would be plugged-in and ready to serenade patrons. No customer would be worried about changing a tricky fuse. Even if a call came into the office, he was useless. The doctor hadn’t released him to drive on his healing right leg, and his left arm had a twitchy mind of its own. Darn auto accident.
He rotated and faced his abnormally tidy desk. Would he ever get back to normal? Be the mover and shaker business owner and not the tragic accident victim. Soon. Please, God, soon . How embarrassing at thirty-two to be temporarily living with his parents and relying on them to drive him around the city. The cost of shared-ride companies had consumed too much of the medical allowance from his insurance company. His parents would have to suffice as chauffeurs for now. Limiting the amount of money the insurance paid out was a top priority. He didn’t want Donoven and Sons to be dropped because an uninsured motorist demolished their work van. Who was he kidding? The driver demolished him, too. Widening his palm, he fought the pull of his traitorous muscles to clamp his hand into a fist. Minimal nerve pain accompanied his success.
Francine appeared in the doorway to his office. “I’m heading out.” His office manager tied the belt on her coat. “Mike should return soon. The Morgans decided to replace their panel.” Sure, they did. Dad had a way of maximizing his service calls to save on repeat travel costs. Francine gripped her purse and forced a perky smile. “There’s leftover subs in the mini fridge if you get hungry.”
“Thanks. I appreciate it.” He might check out the sandwiches later if his dad took too long finishing the wiring. His stomach rumbled at the thought. Eating was something he could do one-handed.
“I’ll finish the work orders on Monday before I leave.” She bit her lip. “You sure you’ll be okay while I’m out for surgery?”
Whether he was or wasn’t, he couldn’t have Francine cancel her knee replacement. He’d handle her office duties until the doctor allowed him to go on service calls. He needed hand strength to grab a steering wheel and a flexible right foot to push a gas pedal. Maybe filing papers would rehab his stiff left hand. Even if a boat load of invoices buried his body, he wasn’t going to let Francine worry about the business sinking in her absence.
He stood, balancing on his cane. “I’ll be fine. Work is what the doctor ordered.” No one needed to know the doctor prescribed light duty. Too much lighter and he’d dry up and blow away. “You just focus on getting rid of your pain and healing well.”
“You’ve come a long way since the accident. By the time I return, you’ll be good as new. We can race each other to the copier.” She gave him one of her cheery, customer-engaging smiles and limped toward the main doors of the building. “Take care, Wade. Enjoy the weekend.”
“You too, Fran.” Good as new? He hoped so. He wouldn’t be using a cane for support and rehabbing an arm if a distracted driver hadn’t blown a light, slammed into his work van, and sent him careening into a utility pole. He’d been trying to surface from this nightmare for seven weeks. He didn’t do useless well.
His stomach growled. Fran had planted the idea of food into his brain, and now it lodged in his psyche. A snack wouldn’t spoil dinner. Fuse box work took time, and his dad didn’t finish jobs as fast anymore.
Using the cane to absorb the weight his right leg couldn’t, he hobbled through the hall and toward the reception area. The odor of onion permeated Fran’s workspace. Had she checked the fridge before offering him leftovers? Just like Fran not to get his hopes up if another employee had grabbed the subs. He opened the mini fridge with his index finger and slowly grabbed a wrapped sandwich, forcing his fingers to stay in place around his meal. Shutting the door with his foot, he took a step toward Fran’s desk. Even clean, the long countertop resembled a party store. Colorful Post-its stuck to her computer and small stuffed animals stared at her chair. Not very professional, but no one could match Fran’s friendliness or keyboarding skills. Well, he’d come close to her words per minute before the crash.
He leaned against the long solid desk, hooked his cane on the countertop edge, and placed the sandwich a safe distance from Fran’s work area. When he unwrapped the sub, an aroma of pepperoni and salami filled his senses. His mouth watered on cue. He wished Dad was here to enjoy the peppery spice. He hated that his dad had to pick up the slack in the business. Cole was coming into town for a few days to help with some projects, but he didn’t trust his brother’s dependability. With a new girlfriend and bid work out in Sperry’s Crossing, Cole acted like coming to Nashville was a hardship. Poor baby.
Halfway through the foot-long, he decided to save the rest for later. He re-wrapped the sandwich the best he could with his right hand and grabbed his cane. His left hand cradled the sub. He took a step toward the mini-fridge and another. The cane tip slipped on the smooth tile flooring. His support vanished. His right leg buckled. He reached to grab hold of the counter, but his claw of a left hand seized, maintaining a grip on the sandwich like it was a prized baseball. He cursed as his back hit the cold floor tiles and a bruising ache settled in his skull.
Only after staring at the fluorescent lights on the ceiling for a moment did he realize his claw oozed oil. Oil that had dripped on the floor. Spicy-scented oil.
“Should have gone with the mayo, Fran.” He laughed because if he thought too hard about being taken down by sandwich dressing, he would cry. Cry at all the pain, the rehab, the hospital bills, and the feeling like a failure. He was a hindrance to himself. To his parents. To everyone who worked at Donoven and Sons. How could he run a company when it took twice as long to get things done? No, ten times as long. Some work he couldn’t even do. God, why did this happen to me? I am so done with it all.
The door from the garage slammed.
“Wade, you here?” His dad’s voice boomed in the empty office space.
Closing his eyes, a tear slipped out. No Dad. I’m not . The real Wade Donoven isn’t here.