6. Declan
Declan
Care about what other people think
and you will always be their prisoner.
~ Lao Tzu
I wake, squinting into the darkness. My leg throbs, the pain louder after six hours of spotty sleep. I rearrange my body, but I can’t get comfortable.
The room disorients me for a brief moment. Where am I?
Oh. Yeah. The downstairs guest room.
When I had the full use of my legs, I slept in the master bedroom upstairs, but for now, I’m grounded to sleeping on the main floor until I get my cast.
The sound of shuffling in the kitchen carries through to me. Someone’s here.
I rub my eyes, shifting my weight and groaning. Reality slowly dawns on me. My brother spent the night.
“Patrick?” I shout.
He’s in my doorway in under ten seconds, brows drawn in, mouth in a straight line. “Declan?” He looks me over. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. In pain, but okay. I forgot you were here. What time is it?”
“Five thirty.” He walks toward my bathroom. “I have to go into work. I can call off if you need me, though.”
He emerges from my bathroom holding pill bottles. “It’s time for your meds.”
“I could have told you that,” I say, smiling at him through the twinge shooting up my thigh. “And I think Winona’s coming by this morning. I’ll be fine until she gets here. You can go to work.”
“Do you want me to stay here until she arrives?” Patrick’s brows lift, making him look like he did so many years ago when he’d knock on my bedroom door asking if I wanted to go outside to play.
I hate this.
It’s not like I’m ungrateful. Some people don’t even have insurance when injuries happen.
I have a team of the best professionals at my disposal, a home health nurse—well, a nurse’s aide, which seems like an odd position considering there’s no nurse here to aid—and a family who checks in on me and sets aside their lives to be at my beck and call.
I’m not used to depending on anyone.
People depend on me.
Having to ask someone to stand by so I can inch my way toward a knee scooter just to go from my bedroom to the family room is so far outside my comfort zone, I don’t even have words to express my frustration.
I squeeze my eyes shut, pinching my forehead with my pointer and thumb.
When I open my eyes, my brother’s face is etched with concern.
“I’m sorry, Patrick. This isn’t … I’m not very good at this.”
“At being injured?”
“At dealing with limitations.”
“I can imagine,” he says. “You get a pass to be moody.”
“I don’t want to be moody.”
I sound slightly petulant, even to my own ears.
“Well then, what am I going to do with the pass?” he teases. “Give it to Dad?”
“Please, no.”
We both laugh. Our father would never be classified as moody. Overbearing? Yes. But his emotions run in one straight line. Always in check. He never loses control—of himself or the world around him.
Patrick crosses his arms, waiting for my answer as to whether I’m relocating into the front room.
I consider staying in bed. Then I picture Winona coming into my bedroom, having to help me transfer to the scooter so I can spend the day on the couch.
“I think I’ll move while you’re here,” I tell him.
“Now or later? I was just making coffee and hunting through the fridge to see what Claudette left for you.”
“You’ve been here less than twenty-four hours and you’re already raiding the fridge.”
“Can you blame me?” he asks.
“Not a bit. And I’ll move now. I’ll have a cup of coffee too.”
“How long has it been since we’ve sat together over coffee?” Patrick asks offhandedly.
“Too long,” I admit.
“Well, let’s rectify that,” Patrick says.
He pulls my scooter away from the wall where it was parked for the night. I sit up, inching slowly toward the edge of the bed. At least I still have my upper body strength.
Patrick puts the brake on the scooter and rifles through the drawers in the dresser where Mom stashed a bunch of loose-fitting clothes and underwear for me.
He chuckles, holding up a pair of boxers.
“What are those?” I ask.
“Mom’s idea of a joke, I think.”
Our mom is a stereotypical wife of a wealthy businessman with all her functions and fundraisers. Underneath the prim and proper exterior, she hides a playful sense of humor that comes out at the oddest times.
The boxers in question are bright red with a rubber duck motif. Patrick tosses them at me. Then he sends a pair of loose gym shorts sailing in my direction followed by a well-worn Thunder T-shirt.
I shift so my leg is straight, lifting my body and maneuvering until I’m dressed.
Patrick respects my need to get this done on my own even though it feels like it takes an eternity.
He stands still, studying a painting on the wall like an art critic while I tilt to one side, supporting my body weight with one arm and tugging my shorts on, then pivoting to do the same maneuver on the other side.
“I’m decent,” I tell him once I’ve managed to pull everything on.
He steps closer to the bed and I use his shoulder to stabilize myself while I transfer to the scooter.
“Being an athlete has its perks,” he says.
“As does being a firefighter,” I retort.
We’re both in peak condition—our jobs demand it.
I follow Patrick into the kitchen, insisting I can stay upright on the scooter while he makes our coffee. I down my pain meds and wheel into the family room, transferring to the sofa.
Patrick sets my mug on the coffee table within my reach and takes a seat in the stuffed chair next to me, sipping his coffee. “So, how long do they say you’ve got to be homebound?”
“I switch to a cast in about a week and a half. Six to eight weeks of keeping that on. That means I’ll start rehab by the end of October if all goes well.”
“Can you play this season?”
“I might make the last game if I’m lucky. And then if we’re in the playoffs and the big game …” My voice trails off.
“Maybe Daisy and I will have news by then,” Patrick says with a soft, almost hesitant smile.
“News?”
“We’re trying to make you an uncle … again.”
“Ahhh … That kind of news.”
I smile, well aware he’s shifting the topic to keep me from focusing on losing my season during a year when I’m at the top of my game. But also, he chose this moment to tell me.
“I’m happy for you, Patrick.”
“Daisy is …” he trails off, a note of awe in his voice.
“Will you ever get over the fact that she loves you the way she does?”
“I hope not.”
I sip my coffee, closing my eyes and imagining we’re just hanging out on an early morning before work.
“Why don’t we do this more often?” I ask him.
“I get busy with the podcast … work … my marriage.”
“And I get busy with football.” And nothing else.
“Let’s make a point of doing this more often,” he says.
“I’d like that.”
We talk about the podcast and I even end up speculating about the Thunder and the season ahead—without me.
Before I’ve even finished my coffee, the sound of voices outside the door carries through to us.
I pull up the security app and check the doorbell cam.
“Mom and Dad are here,” I tell Patrick.
“Were you expecting them?”
“No. Mom said she was going back to Nashville. I guess she went and came back … with reinforcement.”
“I think this is my cue to head out.”
“Oh yeah,” I joke. “Go ahead and put those two good ankles to use and run away while you can.”
Patrick laughs. “You want me to stick around?”
“No. You go to work. And tell Daisy thanks for letting you stay the night.”
“She loves you,” he says. His tone softens.
“I love her too.” My voice goes slightly raspy.
Early morning. Meds. Who knows what’s causing that rough catch in my throat.
I take another sip of coffee.
We aren’t a demonstrative family.
Efficient. Successful. Prominent.
Not affectionate.
I know my parents love me.
That love is so entwined with their pride in my accomplishments it’s like a vine on an old tree. The two have grown into one living, mangled presence.
Mom’s heels click on the marble floor of the foyer.
“Declan?” she asks, coming to a stop when she sees Patrick.
“Oh. Patrick, you’re still here.”
“I’m just heading out. He’s all yours.”
The expression I send my brother says, Thanks a lot.
His says, Best of luck.
“Your foot isn’t even elevated,” Mom says.
“Have to follow your doctor’s orders,” Dad says from the doorway.
Patrick passes Dad, saying goodbye to all of us.
Mom’s already moving into action, grabbing pillows and gently lifting my leg. I try to help her, but the pain increases, so I reluctantly let her fuss.
“What brings you to Waterford?” I ask.
Mom might have decided to drop in on me again, making the drive from Nashville just to check in on me. But Dad? He’s not one to take a day off to see me unless he’s got an agenda. He’s always working on a development project, far too busy for a leisurely day off.
“Your father wanted to see you,” Mom says. “And we’re also going to tour the Home Mart and the practice facility to check on things.”
Dad headed up the development of the big box store on the outskirts of town. Less than a year later, he managed to convince the town to approve the building of the Thunder practice facility.
“I’ve got a meeting with the dean at the community college.” Dad crosses his arms.
“Expanding?” I ask.
“It would be beneficial to them to add on another few buildings—expand what they offer.”
He shifts the topic, staring at my now-elevated leg. “What’s the timeline?”
Meanwhile, Mom has prepped my cryotherapy cuff and busies herself attaching it outside the splint.
“The nurse's aide can do that when she gets here,” I tell Mom.
“It’s better to get it going as soon as you’re up,” she says.
Dad watches on. I keep my eyes on Mom, but answer his question. “A lot depends on the way I recover. They’re hopeful I might make the last game.”
I glance over to catch Dad shaking his head.
His face is all business when he says, “Well. Let's hope the rehab goes faster than projected. You’ll do your part to make that happen, I’m sure.”
I’d appreciate an ounce of sympathy, but Dad’s reaction to failure or weakness is always tinged with disappointment.