8. Casey
8
Casey
My blood was pounding, rushing in my ears as my blood pressure spiked unexpectedly, catching me off guard. It took me a moment to get myself under control, stowing the sensitive emotions back under lock and key where they belonged when dealing with my clients.
I cleared my throat awkwardly. Peter was obviously curious about my impassioned outburst, but before he could ask any questions I didn’t want to answer, I forced my fists open and brushed my wet hands off on my jeans. “Now… how about that dinner,” I suggested, all smiles again as I turned back to the kitchen, headed for the fridge.
His gaze followed me, but I shoved my face into the fridge, letting the air cool my heated cheeks. “How do you feel about omelets?” I asked over my shoulder.
Under normal circumstances, I was an open book—except when it came to this, because my parents were those unlucky ones I mentioned. A perfect storm of small decisions had led to that car accident, taking my father’s life, and while my mom might’ve survived the crash, she would never walk again. Even then, through all her pain and grief, she had managed to pull herself back up. I knew Peter had it in him; I just had to get him to see that.
“I told you, I don’t need your help. I don’t want you to cook for me,” he grumbled, as if I hadn’t just found him passed out under a dangerous mix of pills and booze.
I straightened up and turned to narrow my eyes at him in a playful threat. “Well, I’m hungry, so it’s happening. You can either tell me what you like or eat what I give you.” I grinned manically. “So… how do you feel about omelets?” I repeated.
He shook his head, but I swore I saw his lips twitch. “Gods, you’re so damn stubborn.”
“Thanks! Although I prefer the word persistent .” I leaned into my usual bubbly persona as I pulled out a carton of eggs, a block of cheese, and whatever vegetables I thought would work in an omelet. Thankfully, someone had stocked the fridge with groceries, though I had a suspicion it wasn’t Peter.
I kept waiting for him to ask, to pry into the most tender parts of my past, but the longer he let me babble about my day, the more I was able to relax.
Although maybe he simply wasn’t asking because he wasn’t listening. I’d seen the way his eyes kept darting over to where the pill container sat on the counter. He wouldn’t be the first to look for relief in the bottom of a bottle, and he wouldn’t be the last, though I’d never known for it to do anyone a lick of good. Even on a good day, it was like playing hide-and-seek with reality, but he would have to emerge from the fog eventually, and when he did, reality would be right there waiting for him, ready to bite him in the ass. On a bad day, though… there was a chance he wouldn’t wake up at all.
“How about some music,” I suggested, pulling out my phone and setting up my music app. I didn’t expect an answer, which was just as well, because I wasn’t going to get one. Peter didn’t make the best company right now, but I didn’t mind. I was good enough company for us both.
I bopped around the kitchen as I chopped up the onion and shriveled mushrooms. I sang, too loud and wildly off-key, as I cracked eggs into a bowl. Not once did Peter tell me to be quiet, and he didn’t tell me to leave again, either. I even caught him tapping his finger to the beat.
“Come on, Peter. Sing with me!” I held the spatula up like a microphone, belting out lyrics that I knew were completely wrong. “‘ Saving his wife from this warm sausage tea! ’”
It certainly got the intended reaction, and Peter was appalled. “Those are not the words,” he said indignantly. “That doesn’t even make sense! Come on, everyone knows the lyrics to Bohemian Rhapsody. You’re butchering a classic.”
“Feel free to show me how it’s done,” I teased, offering him the spatula microphone, and he clammed up quick, crossing his arms over his chest as though angry with himself for taking the bait in the first place. “Suit yourself.”
I couldn’t help smiling to myself. The real Peter, pre-injury Peter, was still in there somewhere. I’d seen glimpses of him when he let his guard down. He would be forever changed by what he’d been through, but this version of him—hurt, angry, betrayed, and lonely—was not who he was meant to be. I couldn’t wait to meet the new Peter.
For now, he’d been wallowing for so long, he couldn’t find his way out. He was sinking deeper into his injury, giving in to the pain and the painkillers to avoid all the big, scary feels. What I needed to do was throw him a lifeline.
Whistling, I dished up two omelets and carried the plates to the small dining room around the corner. This room was obviously rarely used, probably not since before his injury. There was a thick layer of dust over the table, so I went back to the kitchen for a cloth. Peter, meanwhile, sat in the wheelchair and watched me walking back and forth.
I sat down in my chair at the table with a contented sigh and dug in. It was a simple meal, but I groaned as if it were the best thing I’d ever eaten. “So good,” I moaned, unashamed of how erotic it sounded. If that was what it took to get Peter’s attention, so be it.
There was a squeak of the leather seat as Peter tried to peek around the corner, then I heard him sulkily say, “Aren’t you going to come get me?”
“Why would I do that?” I asked, not looking back at him.
He was a stubborn one, but I hadn’t been doing this job for as long as I had without learning how to out-stubborn the best of them.
I heard his long huff as he wrestled with his pride. “ Please can you come get me?” he tried, thinking his lack of manners was the issue.
“There is a difference between being hurt and being injured, Peter, and while I am sorry for the pain you’re experiencing, you can’t start healing until you learn the difference.”
Tough love was the hardest approach to take, but I knew it was often the only thing some people would respond to. He expected to be coddled, but he would very quickly find out that I didn’t play that game. Recovery was hard, but he needed to be an active participant in his own health.
I heard him struggling to reach the brake on his wheelchair, his gasp of pain making me flinch in sympathy. Finally, he grunted, “Fuck this,” and a minute later, he was limping his way to the dining room. He paused to lean against the doorframe, judging the distance to the table. His clothes hung off him, giving me an impression of the way he’d once been built, before he’d lost all his muscle mass. I vowed to do what I could to get him back there.
Fork hovering halfway to my mouth, I paused to watch him. It was only a few feet, but without his walker or even a cane, it might as well have been a mile. I held my breath as he tried to find his balance, bracing himself for a fall. Shuffling forward, he kept his hold on the wall for as long as he could, then all at once, he practically threw himself forward. I dropped my fork, muscles tensing as I prepared to catch him if I had to. With a clatter, he collided with the table, but he managed to stay on his feet.
Relief rushed through me, but I forced on a passive smile, even as adrenaline made my hand shake as I picked up my fork. “There, was that so hard?” I said evenly. I would make a big deal about it if I thought it would help, but he would likely see that as patronizing.
Peter was sweating as he pulled out his chair and collapsed jerkily into it. “Child’s play,” he grunted, clearly in pain, panting to catch his breath. And while he looked utterly miserable, it was impossible to miss the pride glistening in his eyes. Yes, that right there was exactly what we needed more of. He’d lost faith in himself, in his abilities. It was my job to show him everything he was still capable of. I had no doubt he could move mountains once he set his mind to it. He just needed to use his stubbornness for good instead of evil.
He picked up his fork, but before he started to eat, he peeked up at me through his dark lashes. “Thank you… for dinner and for cleaning up,” he said softly.
“You’re welcome.” I knew how hard it was to accept help, being fairly independent myself, but he didn’t need a lecture. Right now, he needed to find a new normal. So, I continued my light banter, with no pressure on him to reply. “Speaking of weird dreams,” I said, coming back to the earlier conversation, “I once had a whole dream of me just sitting at a red light, waiting for it to turn green. It felt like hours . Have you ever heard such a boring dream? I wonder what that one means.”
“That you’re a rule-follower, probably,” he said. Holy shit, that could almost be counted as a conversation. Now we were getting somewhere!
The meal was nothing fancy, but it was hearty, and from the number of frozen meal trays I saw in the garbage, it was probably a little healthier than he’d eaten in a while. We finished eating fairly quickly, but even for that short length of time, I could tell Peter was having trouble sitting for so long. These chairs didn’t have cushions, and it was likely pinching something in his hips or back. A muscle had begun a rhythmic ticking in his jaw as he ground his teeth together. Maybe I should’ve brought his wheelchair in here anyway…
Peter closed his eyes, fists clenched on the table. “Hey, Peter… are you okay?” I asked before I could stop to think about what a stupid question that was.
“No, I’m not fucking okay,” he snapped, his eyes flying open. They were bloodshot and glassy with unshed tears. “It never stops, Casey. The pain never fucking stops! Every second of every day. It’s like being hit with a hammer, over and over again on repeat. Even when it’s better, it’s still fucking awful.”
As tears spilled over, tracking down his cheeks, I reached out and set a hand over his fist. He flipped his hand over and grabbed hold, squeezing tight. “I know while you’re in the thick of it, it feels impossible to bear. It gets harder to remember what it felt like to live without the pain. You can’t think straight, can’t move, can’t breathe without it taking center stage. And I know that it can be so isolating, but Peter, you are not alone in this. Okay?”
His throat worked on a swallow, Adam’s apple bobbing, and he nodded once hard.
“Just give me one month, okay? We’ll take it one day at a time, you follow the plan I make for you, and in one month, we’ll sit right back here at this table and reassess where you’re at. Deal?”
He nodded again, this time more easily, with a hint of relief. Peter was an agent, and there was no way an agent would jump into anything without a plan. Schedules, meal plans, exercises—I would plan the hell out of his rehab.
I stayed long enough to load the dishwasher, but he was flagging fast. He needed proper sleep. When I left that evening, it was dark outside. I didn’t make him walk me to the door.
“I’ll be back to pick you up tomorrow morning,” I said, grabbing my jacket from where I’d tossed it. “And you’d damn well better open the door when I knock this time.”
He nodded, but I arched an eyebrow, waiting for an actual response. “Yes, I will answer the door,” he said with zero conviction, sighing in exasperation. I halfway expected him to throw in an eyeroll for good measure.
I frowned. “Maybe you should just give me a spare key… you know, just in case.” My eyes flitted to the pill bottle. We both knew exactly what I meant by “just in case.” Depression always came for us in the dark of an endless night.
Peter didn’t argue, just pointed and said gruffly, “There’s a key on the hook by the front door. Help yourself.”
I paused by the door, fingering the silver key. He trusted me enough to offer me free access to his home, and that meant something to me. I decided that it was time I put my trust in him too, so I left the key on the hook. I hoped like hell I didn’t regret that decision.
As I got in my car and drove home, I tried to ignore the fact that I’d never made house calls before. I’d never cooked, or cleaned, or had dinner with a patient before. The boundaries between us were already blurred, and considering I had every intention of being back tomorrow morning, I had no doubt things were about to get murky as hell.
“I hope you know what you’re doing,” I muttered to myself, though I truly didn’t have a clue.