7. Winona #2
“Well, have your people order you one, okay?”
“I’ll get right on that,” he says.
And he does. He picks up his phone and I don’t know what he does, but a minute later, he sets it down and says a mini-freezer will arrive this afternoon.
“Where were you before this?” he asks.
“At Sycamore Assisted Living.”
“Assisting nurses?”
“No. I was … helping some of the residents there with a few things.”
Declan studies me. Then he says, “Nice.”
I put my hands on my hips, not sure how to present the next piece of our care plan to him.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” he asks.
“It’s … well … you need a shower.”
“I do. Can you smell me from there?” He actually sniffs his own armpits.
“No. But, unless I’m wrong, you haven’t had a shower since you got home.”
“I took a shower at the hospital—the day I was discharged. And I’ve … well … anyway. Yes. I need a shower.”
“And … I’m supposed to be the one to give it to you.”
“A shower?” he asks, seeming as horrified about our predicament as I am.
I’ve given patients sponge baths and showers—old women, pregnant women on bedrest, even old men. But Declan? He’s the first young man I would—hypothetically—have to bathe.
Oh. Fantastic. Just fantastic.
“Well, let’s get this over with,” he says, pivoting and moving his leg off the couch.
I stand still, girding myself. Would it be unprofessional to close my eyes?
One step at a time, Winona. First, you have to waterproof the splint.
“Stay there,” I tell Declan. “I have to wrap your splint.”
He nods. I get the cast protector and bend over Declan’s lower leg, placing the plastic sheath around his splint so no water seeps in.
I stand and catch him watching me.
“That should do it,” I say.
I wheel Declan’s knee scooter over to him and he transfers onto it.
Then I trail behind him as he wheels toward the bedroom where he’s been sleeping.
Neither of us says anything. We’re going through the motions, avoiding eye contact.
My heart is beating like one of those mechanical monkeys with a tin drum. Declan stops just short of the door.
“You know what?” he says.
And I hope he’s going to say he can go a few months without bathing.
Of course, he can’t. Hygiene is an important aspect of health and healing. But so is not having a heart attack—and I just might have one if I have to actually go through with this.
“What?” I manage to answer him.
“I can’t use this bathroom. It has a tub and it’s small. We can take the elevator upstairs to the master. There’s a large shower up there.”
Oh goodie. And … an elevator? He has an elevator?
“Your elevator?”
“Get it over with, Winona. You’re going to mock my paneled kitchen appliances and my elevator all in the same day?”
“No. I wouldn’t dream of it.”
I was going to mock him. Yes. I was. But he took all the fun out of it by calling me out.
Who has an elevator in their house?
Declan. That’s who.
I almost forgot we’re heading to his shower when he mentioned the elevator.
We walk further into the house than I’ve been so far, down the main hallway.
I stare at the metal sliding door, painted the same white color as the walls and framed in beveled molding.
“You actually have an elevator.”
“Patrick and Maeve and I used to have so much fun on this thing.” His voice holds a note of nostalgia. “Of course, Dad would ban us from using it at times.”
“Yeah. It happens,” I say.
He gives me a side-eye.
“What?” I ask, laughing lightly. “You don’t think everyone’s dad put limits on the elevator use? Cass and I never used ours. Not once.”
He just shakes his head and smiles. “Do you want to do the honors?”
“Um. Is that even a question?” I push the button and the doors open. I’m giddy, but I don’t show it—at least not much.
Declan’s just staring at me.
“I’ve been on an elevator before,” I assure him.
“I figured you had.”
“Just not in a house.”
I step on and keep an eye on Declan to make sure the wheels of his scooter make it over the crack where the door will slide shut. Then I look at the panel. There are options for one, two and three.
“There are three stories?”
“The back of the house has three stories,” he says. “The third floor is a theater and rec area. The master is on two.”
Oh yes. The theater and rec room. Next thing he’ll be telling me he has a private zoo.
I push the button for the second floor and the doors slide shut, leaving me alone in an elevator with Declan O’Connell. And for the first time since I started working for him, I’m acutely aware that he’s a famous professional athlete. One I’m about to give a shower.
I stare at the panel of numbers, my nerves zinging. When the door opens, Declan wheels out ahead of me.
We’re back to not speaking.
He rolls down the hallway past a few other doorways until he reaches a set of double doors at the very end of the hall. I rush ahead thinking he might need my help with the handle, but he swings the door open and wheels into the room.
I step in behind him.
Everything’s immaculate, white and cream—like no one’s ever been in this room before. Only, there are a few personal items on a side table near the king-sized bed—reading glasses next to a short stack of books.
Does Declan like reading?
An image of him, sitting up in bed with those dark-framed glasses on, book in hand, a drowsy dip to his eyes, the comforter tucked up around his middle … Yeah, no.
I shift my attention to the dark brown wood of the four-poster bedframe—the only shock of color in the room.
Declan wheels through the room with a comfortable familiarity.
He opens another door and wheels into that room.
I follow him into the bathroom, which is as big as my kitchen and living room combined.
Double sinks are on one wall and a massive curved tub is across the tile floor from the sinks.
In the corner is a shower that could fit four men the size of Declan.
I peer through a doorway leading into yet another room to find a toilet and a wall-mounted TV.
“You watch TV in the bathroom?”
“Only when a game’s on or if I need to hear about stats.”
“Ah. Yeah. Okay. I share a bathroom with Cass,” I blurt out. “A small bathroom. You could fit five or six of our bathrooms inside this one. And the toilet’s right there in the mix. Our shower has a curtain. No glass. Your bathroom is … wow.”
Declan just smiles as if my lack of filter is amusing.
The strong urge to run to the elevator makes my toes twitch. I’d push the button for the first floor and keep running. But, I’m here to do a job, and I will do it.
Declan needs my help.
I’m a nurse’s aid. He’s a patient.
I’m a nurse’s aid. Declan’s my patient.
Nurse’s aid. Patient.
I repeat that to myself several times and it starts to work until Declan crosses his arms, grabs the hem of his shirt and tugs it off his torso in one fluid movement.
My eyes don’t know where to look. He’s all lines and ridges and muscles. Declan’s muscles have muscles. I’ve never seen anything like him. Not in person, anyway.
Maybe I should just work with seniors.
Not that giving them baths is a picnic. It’s just not … this.
“You need the shower chair!” My voice comes out louder than I anticipated. “I’ll just go get it.”
“I’ll be here,” he says, calmly.
I turn and walk out of the bathroom, heading to the elevator and collecting the shower chair from the laundry room where the medical supply company put it when they dropped it off.
Once I’m back upstairs, I position the shower chair inside the shower and I take the shower head off the hook. A glance around the shower has my mouth popping open.
“How many shower heads does one person need?”
“Four,” Declan says with a smirk.
“Why?” I can’t help but ask.
“Two provide the spa experience. And then the detachable wands come in handy for days like today.”
“Ah, yes. The spa experience,” I say, looking at him with a look that says, Are you for real?
“My body takes a beating in football. I need all the help I can get working out the kinks and bruises between games.”
His body—which is currently shirtless—doesn’t seem like it needs help of any kind.
I look around the shower again. And then I make a suggestion. “I’ve got an idea.”
“Shoot,” he says.
“What if I put the shampoo on that little shelf there—the one at knee level. Then you could use the wand to shower yourself.”
“So, you’re not going to shower me?” Declan asks.
“Not … well … I could … it’s just …”
“I’m kidding, Winona.”
“Oh. Good. Okay then.” I walk into the shower, moving things around for him to have easy access. “I’ll just be right out there … in the bedroom. Call out if you need me.”
I place two towels just outside the shower and then I walk out, shutting the door behind me and blowing out a long breath.
A minute later, the sound of the water running filters through the bathroom door. And then … singing. Declan is singing.
He sings in the shower.
And he sounds good.
I practically hold my breath, as if inhaling would break the spell.
What is the song? Is he making it up?
When he belts out the lyric about not getting to see the northern lights, I recognize the song.
Declan sings on, and I sit, like a stealth voyeur, mesmerized by the rumble of his voice while he sings about “dying a happy man.” I’m so tempted to sing along that I lightly bite the tip of my tongue.
I love Thomas Rhett, and Die a Happy Man is one of my favorites by him.
I don’t really know how to reconcile Declan’s singing and the fact that I’m sitting in his bedroom with any part of my real life, so I close my eyes and soak up the moment. And when he changes to something old-school R& B, I open my eyes, noticing the side table next to his bed.
I feel like an intruder. But I’m also curious, so I step over and check out the stack of books. The water in the shower is still falling and Declan’s voice still carries through the door.
The top book on his stack has a plain blue cover with gold lettering. The Last Lecture.