5. Winona #2
He laughs again, bending forward for me.
“I’m sorry,” I say while I pull the pillow out from behind him, fluff it, and push it down lower.
Then I say, “Lean back.”
He does.
“I’m just used to working with normal people,” I say, by way of explanation.
“I’m normal,” he says, a note of amusement in his voice.
“You aren’t. Have you seen yourself?”
“I’m an athlete.”
“Right. Well …” Words escape me. “Is that better?” I step back, putting intentional space between us.
“Actually, yes.”
“Don’t sound so surprised.”
He nods.
“Did you eat lunch?” I ask.
“I wasn’t hungry.”
“Let’s see,” I tap my finger to my chin. “In one of my classes on pain management, they taught us that there’s a direct correlation between hunger and pain. Did you know that?”
“No.”
“Yep. It’s true. Pain can make people reject food. So can your meds, I think. Yes. That’s right. They can. Also, did you know that eating can help you reduce pain?”
“Really?” Declan looks either skeptical or curious. I can’t tell which.
“Yes. That’s what they said. Especially sweets. But you need nutrients more than sweets, so let’s get you some food.”
“Claudette probably left something in the kitchen.”
Claudette? Is that a girlfriend?
Declan must sense my question because he adds, “She’s our cook. She makes meals for me and delivers them three days a week.”
“You have a cook?” The question is basically rhetorical.
I almost wonder if I said it out loud until he answers. “Yes. We have a cook.”
He has a Claudette. I have … Chef Boyardee. Not exactly the same, though they both prepare meals for us that we don’t have to cook ourselves.
“Okay,” I say, dusting my hands together. “Well, great. Let’s see what Claudette whipped up for you. Are you in the mood for anything in particular?”
“I’m not hungry.”
“And yet, you’re going to eat,” I say, feigning a confidence I don’t completely feel.
He’s bringing out something commanding in me. Maybe I sense his need for a rudder while his ship is veering left and right. I don’t question it. He’s rolling with my approach—for now—so, I’ll just keep doing what I’m doing.
I walk out of the room and head back toward the front door. One of the doors I passed on the way in must be the kitchen.
“Wrong way,” Declan shouts after me. “The kitchen is further down the hall to your left.”
“How many rooms does one house need?” I ask, mostly to myself.
His soft chuckle resonates through the hallway.
At least I’m making him laugh.
I find the kitchen. It’s also massive. I’m sensing a theme here.
It’s also gorgeous. The island alone is the size of my bed.
I picture tap dancing on it for some weird reason.
I won’t. At least not today. But someone should.
There are no refrigerators. Just sleek, black cabinets everywhere—and contrasting white counters.
And a stove that looks too expensive to even turn on.
I leave the kitchen and walk back to Declan. “Where does your family keep their refrigerators?”
He chuckles softly. “In the kitchen. Why?”
“Well …” I cross my arms, squinting at him to see if he’s bluffing. “I couldn’t find them.”
His chuckle turns into an actual full laugh, but then he winces again and grows instantly somber. “The refrigerator front is covered in matching cabinetry—to complete the aesthetic.”
“The aesthetic.” I nod. “So, one of those cabinets is hiding a refrigerator?”
“Two, actually. We have a Sub-Zero refrigerator and a french door refrigerator/freezer. And then we have several other freezers in the basement.”
There’s so much to unpack in all that, I can’t even. “Sub-zero? For a refrigerator?” I ask. “You’ve probably run into problems with that.”
“Not really,” he says. “Why?”
“Water freezes at thirty-two degrees. At sub-zero, all your food will be frozen.”
He laughs again. And then winces. I’m starting to regret being funny—even though I’m not trying to be.
“Sub-Zero is a brand.”
“Oh! So they call themselves subzero, but the temperature isn’t?”
“Exactly.”
“Well, that’s as confusing as football. No wonder you picked them.”
He laughs again and I turn to hunt for a refrigerator. It only takes me three tries to guess the right cabinet.
“Found it!” I shout in toward Declan.
His voice comes through a hidden speaker in the kitchen and I jump. “You can use the intercom instead of yelling.”
“The intercom?”
“See that speaker with buttons along the wall by the door?”
“Oh. Yes.”
“That’s the intercom. Press the speaker button to talk.”
“And my voice will go throughout the whole house?”
“Downstairs. To talk to someone upstairs, you pick the room number.”
“Fancy,” I say, pressing the button and repeating “Fancy!”
“Hello?” I say, testing it again. “Declan O’Connell, this is your conscience speaking.” I pause. “Do not use the word fine.”
Declan doesn’t need to press the intercom. I hear the soft sound of his laughter filter through the hallway and into the kitchen.
The inside of the refrigerator looks like someone with serious OCD organized and cleaned it.
And I’m not talking about the kind of OCD everyone says they have these days when they’re feeling particular about something.
I’m talking about someone who would lose their center of gravity if a single cat hair landed on their slacks.
They have rows of neatly lined-up water bottles of several types: mountain spring, sparkling, alkaline, and smart. Smart water. Does it make you smarter? I guess I’ve never had that.
Next to the water are bottles of green drinks and purple drinks and burgundy drinks each bearing a printed label that says things like Kale Smoothie.
That one’s a definite no.
The next few shelves have stacked tin casserole dishes in varying sizes, all with white cardboard tops and printed labels with the name of the dish and the cooking instructions. I look those over and decide on a few offerings.
I walk over to the intercom. “Attention, Declan. Here are your menu options. You could have a kale smoothie, though I don’t know why you would.
Also, there are beet smoothies and blueberry-acai smoothies.
I’d go with that last one if I were you.
You have vegetable lasagna, chicken stroganoff and beef tips with mashed potatoes. What sounds good?”
He answers me. “If you just want to reach me, push that button that says FR. That’s the front room. That way your voice doesn’t go through the whole downstairs.”
“Oh. Okay.”
“And I’ll take a kale smoothie and a serving of lasagna. Are you joining me?”
I have eaten with patients before. Sometimes I bring my own food.
When I’m caring for elderly patients, or when I’ve had a child in my care and the family invites me, I’ve joined them for meals.
Declan’s situation feels different—more formal.
I mean, the man has an intercom and his refrigerator is swankier and better organized than my … anything.
“Do you want me to join you?” I ask.
“Are you hungry? Have you eaten?”
I haven’t eaten. But I don’t want to tell him that. “I’ll have dinner when I get home.”
“Join me,” he says, his voice soft and, for some inexplicable reason, irresistible.
“Okay. Thanks. But I’m not drinking kale. Ever.”
He laughs again. “Okay. Help yourself to blueberry-acai, then.”
“I might need smart water.”