6. Declan #2
I get it. No one is more disappointed in this turn of events than I am. Somehow Dad makes me feel culpable—as if I could have done something to prevent this.
The weight of his thin lips, narrowed eyes and stiff shoulders forms a ball in the pit of my stomach. I set my coffee on the side table.
My parents eventually settle into side chairs.
Dad fills me in on his vision for the community college.
Mom stands and putters around the kitchen, finding some of the sous vide egg bites Claudette prepared for me.
She comes back with eggs and a bowl of fruit and yogurt for me and another bowl for Dad.
While we eat, Mom tells me about a charity luncheon she’s hosting for a women’s shelter in Nashville.
“I’m glad to donate,” I say. “Just let me know how much.”
“You’re always so generous, Declan.”
“Financially responsible too,” Dad says.
I do get a tax break for my donations, but that’s not why I give. Doesn’t he know that?
A few hours after my parents arrived, there’s a ping on my phone from the security app. Someone’s at the door. I pick up my phone and swipe the app open. Winona’s on the porch, punching the code into the keypad to let herself in.
“Who’s here?” Mom asks. “I thought Darlene came on Mondays.”
I don’t have time to tell Mom it’s not our cleaning lady because Winona rounds the corner, almost coming to a skidding halt when she sees my parents. Her hair is wild, sticking out in a few places. She looks rattled, but she hasn’t lost her trademark carefree attitude.
“Did you hire a new staff?” Mom asks.
“I’m the nurse’s assistant. Minus the nurse. So, I assist … no one. But I do assist Declan. But he’s not a nurse, obviously. He’s a patient. For now. And I am assisting … him.” She smiles broadly, her eyes wide, staring at me.
Mom’s eyes are equally wide.
Dad’s are narrow.
“You’re the home health aide they provided?” he asks.
“That’s me,” Winona says with a curtsey. She mocks holding a skirt out, bows her knees and honest-to-goodness curtseys.
Dad’s brow drops and he studies her.
“So, I’ll just get to it,” Winona says, hooking a thumb over her shoulder as if there’s something in the other room she needs to tend to. She looks me in the eyes and raises her brows. “Did you have your kale smoothie yet?”
“No,” I say, barely containing my amused grin.
The effect she’s having on my father is priceless.
“But I did have my meds—just after five thirty. Patrick gave them to me.”
“Good. Great. Okay. Well, I’ll get that smoothie,” she says, turning and scurrying out of the room.
She returns a minute later with the drink, her hair smoothed back and her breath coming evenly.
She leans near me and whispers. “Sorry about that.” She bends just a little closer—close enough that I smell wildflowers and clean linen, like a sheet in the breeze on a spring day.
Her words come in a whisper. “They caught me off guard. I had a long morning already. I tend to talk a lot when I’m nervous. ”
“No problem,” I say.
I wonder what her long morning entailed.
“Nothing sticking my head in the fridge couldn’t cure,” she adds.
I smile.
“Do you just say everything that comes into your head?” I ask.
She pauses, leaning back and looking up briefly. “Yes. I think so.”
I chuckle.
“You’re doing better,” she says, standing back.
She looks at my parents. “He winced every time he laughed yesterday.”
Dad nods his head once, succinctly—it’s clearly a brush-off.
Winona doesn’t notice. She smiles widely at Dad and then my mom, who smiles a kind smile back.
“What do you know about Declan’s treatment?” Mom asks.
“He’s in the splint for two weeks. Then he’ll get a hard cast. They’ll start therapy. He’s got the cold compression and meds for now—until he gets the cast. He needs to elevate his leg and stay still for now.”
She stares at Mom.
Mom stares back.
Then Mom says, “Okay. Well, I’m glad you’re informed.”
“Not as glad as I am,” Winona answers her. “Imagine me trying to care for him without any information.”
I chuckle under my breath.
The doorbell chimes in its succession of bell-like tones that reverberate through the hallway.
Winona jumps just the slightest. I smile. It is a pretty ridiculous doorbell.
“It’s a regular Grand Central Station in here,” Dad says.
I pull up the app. Marcus Delaney, our starting quarterback, Jaxon Pierce, our safety and one of my closest friends, and Lincoln Walker, one of our running backs, are taking up the entire entryway of my house.
“Come in,” I say through the speaker on the doorbell camera while I press the buzzer so the door unlocks.
“Heeeeyyy!” Linc says when he walks into the family room. “Oh, hey, Mister O’Connell. Mrs. O’Connell. Good to see you two. Declan, my mama sent you a pie and some soup. She said it will fix you right up.” He holds up the two items, one in each hand.
“If only,” I say. “Please, tell her thank you.”
“I had to talk her out of bringin’ them herself. You know Mama Walker.”
“I do.”
“I’ll take those for you,” Winona offers, walking toward Lincoln.
“And who are you?” Delaney asks, taking Winona in as if she’s one of the women my mom sends my way regularly, not a hired home health aide.
“I’m Winona. Who are you?”
He chuckles. “I’m Marcus. But my friends call me Delaney.”
“How’d they come up with Delaney as a nickname for Marcus?” Winona asks. “I could see a few more logical choices—Mark, M, even Cus, though I don’t think that one’s very complimentary.”
Delaney chuckles. “It’s my last name.”