7. Winona #3
I can’t help myself. I pick that one up and look at the one underneath it.
Uncommon by an author I’ve never heard of, Tony Dungy.
The subtitle catches my eye: Finding Your Path to Significance.
Is Declan finding his path to significance?
It seems like he must have found it being a pro football player.
Under that is a spiral-bound book that says Tennessee Thunder Playbook on the cover.
I place the books back the way I found them and walk over to the chair in the corner. I sit there a while, staring out the windows at the treetops in the back yard. Eventually, the water turns off. There’s a lot of shuffling around and then Declan calls for me.
“Winona!”
I jump up, bursting through the bathroom door, ready for whatever situation he’s gotten himself into. What was I thinking, leaving him alone to shower himself?
Declan’s wrapped in a towel around his waist, his dark hair slicked back and one hand bracing the edge of the shower.
“I can’t reach my scooter,” he says.
“Oh! Yes. Of course.” I grab the scooter and maneuver it toward him, keeping my eyes on the floor and then the wall and basically anywhere but on him.
“I’ll take it from here,” he says, turning in the opposite direction of his bedroom.
“Where are you … ?” My question dies on my tongue when he pops open a door at the far side of the bathroom, revealing a closet bigger than my bedroom. There’s a kitchen island in the middle of the closet and clothes are hung more neatly than they are in the boutiques on Main Street.
“Wow,” I say in a hushed voice.
Declan’s head pivots. “What?”
“You even have an island in there. Are you hiding refrigerators in your bathroom?”
He laughs out loud.
Sinews and damp skin flex with his laughter.
I glance away and think nurse-ish thoughts. Band-Aids. Neosporin. Aspirin.
“I’ll just be … out … here. Out. In the other room. Not this one.”
“Mm hmm,” he says with another laugh. “I’ll get dressed and be right out.”
I back out of the bathroom, literally walking backward for some unknown reason—until I bump my hip on the counter and shout, “Ow!”
“Are you okay?” Declan asks.
“Yeah. I’m okay. I’m great.”
My face heats with a blush. I turn and head to the bedroom.
It takes a little while, but Declan emerges wearing grey sweatpants and a Thunder T-Shirt. His hair is still damp.
We take the elevator back downstairs together and I get Declan situated on the couch with his cold compression on.
“Hungry?” I ask.
“Actually, yes.”
“Good.”
I head into the kitchen to see what his options are and come back to recite them. He picks roast beef and sauteed veggies with mashed potatoes.
“Join me?” he asks.
“To eat?”
“Yeah. Are you hungry?”
I am hungry. I ran straight from the nursing home here. “Okay. Sure,” I say.
I heat two servings of food and carry them back into the family room on a tray.
Declan’s already got the TV back on with three guys sitting behind a long desk talking about sports.
I sit in the chair next to Declan, eating my food and watching the show.
It’s like watching a movie in a foreign language with no subtitles.
He’s so riveted to it, I don’t interrupt him to ask questions—not until he’s finished eating.
Then I ask, “Does it help? Watching that?”
He’s quiet for a moment and I almost take back the question. But then he says, “It does help in one way. I feel like I didn’t drop completely off the face of the earth. I’m still in touch.”
“But?”
His eyes narrow as if he’s trying to make sense of me. Then he says, “But … it also reminds me I’m out for the season.”
I nod, picking up his plate.
“You didn’t fall off the face of the earth,” I assure him with a soft smile.
“Yeah,” he says. “You’re right.”
I rinse the dishes and check in with Declan again.
“You’ve got everything?” I ask him.
“I’m fine, Winona. Don’t worry about me.”
“I’m not. I just want to make sure you’re set before I go.”
“I am. And … thanks—for today.”
“You’re welcome. Just doing my job.”
Just doing my job? Ugh.
“Well, I appreciate it,” he says.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” I say, turning to leave.
“See you tomorrow,” he says.
My shift actually officially ended almost an hour ago, but I stayed on until Declan seemed to be settled.
I don’t like the idea of him being alone in that big house, but he seems to be okay with it.
He got in and out of a shower without me.
I’m sure he’ll handle whatever he needs until tomorrow when I come back.
About an hour or so after I get home, Cass walks in the door from her day at work.
“You’re home!” she says, smiling widely.
“I am. I did my jobs and now I’m wiped out.”
“I’m making spaghetti,” she says. “Want some?”
“No thanks. I ate.”
“At Declan’s?” Her voice is dreamy.
She’d probably pass out on the spot if I told her about the shower scenario.
I squeeze my eyes shut as if that will erase the images of Declan in a towel.
I’m a nurse and he’s my patient. I’ve established this with myself a ridiculous number of times.
For some reason, my unhelpful brain has resorted to cavewoman status. All she says is Man. Muscles. Wow.
“Yeah,” I answer Cass. “I ate with Declan while he watched something called SportsCenter.”
“What a life you live,” she says. “Eating dinner with professional athletes.”
“Funny you should say that. Most days, I feel like I’m behind schedule.”
“What do you mean?” she asks, moving through the living room into the kitchen.
I trail behind her. “It’s like everyone else has their goals and their careers.
They’ve even found the love of their life.
I’m a single woman just now entering the last semester of nursing school at age twenty-eight and I’m doing odd jobs to make ends meet.
People don’t take me seriously.” I pause. “I guess I can see why.”
“Winona.” Cass walks over to me, bracing my arms and looking me in the eye.
Sometimes the things I hear people say about twins sound like mumbo jumbo, but I have to admit there’s something to the connection I have with Cass. A simple look from her can calm me down like nothing else can.
“Hmmm?” I say.
“You’re amazing. If you use other people’s measuring sticks, you’ll always fall short.”
“I don’t think that’s how measuring sticks work.”
She laughs, dropping her hands from my arms and walking over to the cupboard to grab a pot for the spaghetti.
“Well, it is in this case,” she says. “You can’t hold up other people’s achievements and use them to measure your worth or competence.”
“I know. I know.”
I drop the subject, asking her how her day was. My premature midlife crisis isn’t brought up again all night.
Before we head to our separate bedrooms, Cass says, “Goodnight, amazing sister of mine.”
I pull her into a hug. “Goodnight.”
She truly means it. And in some ways, she has to feel that way. I’m her sister—her twin.
And her words do matter to me.
But even as I’m pulling the covers back to climb into bed, one question rattles around in my head: Am I good enough?
And, as I flop from one side to the other, trying to settle into my pillow to sleep, another question rises up: What will it take for people to actually take me seriously?