5. Winona
Winona
Those who keep speaking about the sun
while walking under a cloudy sky
are messengers of hope.
~ Henri Nouwen
A loud buzz echoes around me in the massive entryway.
White brick extends two stories high and all around me, all the way up to the oversized lantern-style porch light that’s hanging from a chain overhead.
The entrance to Declan’s house is as big as the bathroom I share with Cass—minus the toilet and shower.
It would be odd to have those out here. Though I wouldn’t put it past them.
Rich people do weird things. Maybe some of them have porch potties.
I peer in through the beveled glass on the double front doors. Everything inside looks like a kaleidoscope. I can’t make out any real details.
Blowing a piece of hair off my face, I straighten the strap of my messenger bag onto my shoulder.
The circular driveway behind me leads around to three double-car garage doors and then over the tidy planting of trees to the side of the house and out past the private gate at the end of the driveway.
The other properties on this street are barely visible from the porch.
Some people actually live opulent, luxurious lifestyles right here in Waterford.
“The door’s open,” Declan’s deep, resonant voice comes through the doorbell camera.
I get a slight chill. It’s definitely not the air, which is fighting to hang on to summer, but slowly becoming more and more like fall.
I’m nervous.
I’ll admit it.
Declan O’Connell. Famous football player.
Known wherever he goes. A man who not only plays at the top of his game, but who comes from the O’Connell family—renowned for their developments across Tennessee, North Carolina and Alabama.
He’s a man who enters every room like he owns the space—intense, powerful, driven—the exact antithesis to me.
I realize I’ve been standing still on the porch for too long when Declan’s voice comes through the speaker again. “Winona, are you coming in or staying on the porch?”
“Sorry! Yes. Coming in. Not staying out here.”
I open the double-high doors and walk into Declan’s house.
My eyes rove over the interior. So much white. The slick floors that look like they might be marble, the beveled paneling on the walls, the crown molding, the curving staircase—all white. Only the mahogany banister going up the side of the stairs breaks the pristine palette.
This place feels more like a castle or a museum than a home.
I’m Annie entering Daddy Warbucks’s house, wide-eyed and full of awe.
The soles of my tennis shoes squeak as I walk through, passing three shut doors to the left of me, and walking alongside the staircase until I reach an open archway to my right.
Cass and I live with old, original hardwood.
We’ve thrown a bunch of rugs down here and there.
It’s hodgepodge and simple—just the way I like it.
My house feels like a barn compared to this place.
It’s not a barn, of course.
No animals.
Though, there has been a stray cat hanging around, and I do sneak food out to the side of the house so it doesn’t go hungry.
It keeps coming back now. Cass says not to name it.
Once you name it, you own it. I think there’s more to ownership than naming something, but I didn’t argue with her.
And I’ve kept the name to myself. Sir Walter McMeowson.
It suits him. He seems like an old man who could command a boardroom before he fell on hard times.
And his tabby markings look a little like he’s wearing a suit and bow tie.
I come to a stop just before entering the room, standing still and out of Declan’s line of sight.
Three deep breaths. One. Two. Three.
There, I’m okay. It’s just a house. And Declan’s just a patient.
“Are you out there?” he asks.
I jump in a startle and squeak out, “Yes!”
My face flushes and I turn the corner, straightening my spine and facing him.
Declan is on the couch, his leg elevated on some therapy pillows, his dark brows drawn in—all sorts of things are scattered around him—drink cups, pill bottles, remotes, his phone.
“So, wow …” I start in. And then I can’t stop.
“Two gates. That’s a lot. Plus the private gate at the end of your driveway.
I always wondered what the gates were for.
Especially since you could crawl under them if you really wanted to.
Not that I want to. I don’t like crawling.
I’m more of a walker, myself. Upright. Two feet.
Not here, of course. I drove here. In my car.
Right through the two gates. Well, three to be exact.
” I pause, sucking in a breath. But my brain just keeps feeding my mouth with words.
“Not through the actual gates. They opened. I didn’t hit them.
And this house. It’s big. A lot of house for a family with three kids.
Of course, your dad likes big things. But they’re not here now—your parents. ” I look around. “Are they?”
Declan stares at me. The dip of his brows has lessened. His eyes are slightly narrowed, but there’s a twitch in the left side of his lips as if he’s trying not to laugh. Did I almost make him laugh? I’m mortified.
“I’ll just …” I shake my head. “Can we have a do-over?”
He tilts his head just the slightest, focusing on me more intensely. Then he simply says, “Suit yourself.”
I back out of the room and consider making a run for it. I could leave. The home health agency has other nurses. I’m sure they’d all love to work here. Declan wouldn’t have to see me again. And, more importantly, I wouldn’t have to face him after that humiliating word volcano.
I take another three long breaths.
No.
I’m not a quitter.
Besides, I need the money.
And he needs care.
I turn the corner and say, “Hello, Declan.”
“Hi, Winona,” he answers in his deep, almost scratchy voice.
I recite my introduction—the one I’m supposed to give new patients, not the one I just gave which involved a full play-by-play verbal tour of his well-protected neighborhood.
“I’m here to help you with your basic care needs. A registered nurse will come once a week to check on you as well. My job is more day-to-day.”
“I didn’t know you were a nurse,” he says.
I’m not sure if he’s being polite or questioning my qualifications, which, after that spray of incoherent architectural analysis, I wouldn’t blame him for in the least.
“I’m not a nurse—yet. I’m in my final year of schooling. One more semester to go. I’m certified, though. CNA.”
He nods. Then he winces slightly.
“Are you comfortable?” I ask.
“I’m okay.”
I pop my hand on my hip. I may have come in like a herd of baby goats on crack, but I know patient care. And we’re going to get a few things straight right off the bat.
“Declan,” I say, staring him in the eyes and realizing my mistake a moment too late.
No one should look directly into those eyes. They’re green with orange flecks today, but still rimmed in dark brown with an intensity that ushers up memories of my mom telling me not to look straight at the sun.
His brows raise as if to show he’s listening, but beneath that I sense a silent show of defiance.
He doesn’t want to be here. I get it.
“We’re going to lay out some ground rules,” I say. My hand still propped on my hip.
“Ground rules.”
“Yes. Ground rules.” I steel my features so he knows I’m serious.
“You may not want to be here. Scratch that. You don’t want to be here.
And you’re going to be in pain at times.
I’m here to help you, but I can only help you if you tell me what’s wrong.
So, when I ask, Are you in pain?, I want you to give me a number between zero and ten.
Zero is pain free. Ten is this pain is the worst you’ve ever felt. Understood?”
He nods.
“So, when I see you wince and then I ask you if you’re in pain, the answer is definitely not, ‘I’m fine.’ Got it?”
“Yes.”
This time, his smile makes it onto his face. It’s not a full smile. But it’s something.
“So, let’s try this again. Are you in pain, Declan?”
“About a four.”
“Okay. Good. Thank you.”
I walk toward his scattered mess of pill bottles, drinks, a kleenex box, remotes and other this-and-that.
I lift each bottle, reading the labels and checking them against my phone where I’ve pulled up the med sheet Riverview has on file for Declan.
“When is the last time you took the oxycodone?” I ask.
“Four or five hours ago,” he says, glancing at his phone and adding. “Five hours.”
I go through each of the meds, asking the same question.
“Okay. Well, good news. You’re an hour away from some relief.”
“Good news would be that I’m due for my next dose.”
“True. I can rearrange you if another position would be more comfortable,” I offer.
“I’m fine. You don’t need to rearrange me.”
“We’re going to get past you telling me you’re fine.” I wave my hand toward his ankle. “One of us is fine. That would be me, if you’re wondering. You are not fine. You will be. But you aren’t. So let’s delete that word from the list.”
“The list?”
“The list of words you use when you tell me what’s going on with you.”
“What if I am fine?”
“You aren’t. If you are fine …” I pause, wondering where all this boldness is coming from, and then I just lean into it. “... inform your face.”
He actually chuckles. Then he winces.
“I think that pillow isn’t low enough to support your lumbar region. Here.” I walk over to him, pushing at his shoulders so he’ll bend forward.
“Wow,” I say before my mouth consults my brain.
His muscles aren’t even flexed and the feel of him under my hand is like pushing on the tire of a Mack truck.
He smells good too—which he shouldn’t. I’m sure they gave him the customary shower before discharging him from the hospital, but he smells like leather and soap—a woodsy soap with spicy undertones, and … I clear my throat.
Declan blows out a light puff of amused laughter.
“It’s like trying to move a wall,” I say, envying my friends who actually have filters between their thoughts and their vocal cords.