Chapter 7
The hospital must have had a facelift in the intervening years because it doesn’t look the same. But my bones remember. I enter on shaky legs, trying to convince myself that my memories are not welcome today. I envision shrugging them off my back as I walk through the automatic doors.
Caleb meets us in the lobby soon after we arrive, taking Abby into his arms as she dissolves into more tears. He rocks her gently back and forth, and she settles, wiping her eyes with the back of her hands when he pulls away.
“They’re doing X-rays. She may have broken her wrist and a few ribs. We’ll know for sure soon. But she was alert and lucid during the ride.”
“Good.” I sigh. “That’s good.”
“She really is going to be fine, Abs,” Caleb says, low, soft, patient, so dissimilar to his tone with me.
Abby scans the waiting room nervously, leaning into our small circle as if she’s about to tell us a secret. “But Dev’s grandparents both died last year. One right after another. And you know how Grandpa and Grams were. What if she gives up because she doesn’t want to live without him?”
Caleb hooks his palm around her nape, pulling her in for another hug. “She won’t,” he whispers. “It was just a fall. Bones heal.”
I step back out of respect for their privacy and so I don’t break down as well.
This moment—this entire day—is why I haven’t visited.
But it’s also revealed all the reasons I should have.
I missed my chance to make peace with Sonny, to decide whether I should.
But I can’t miss my chance with Mom. There may not be another one.
After a moment, I walk back over to them. “I want to see her. Can I go back?”
Caleb glances at me for the first time, his face hardening. “Yeah. Just get me when the doctor comes.” His curt words land in stark contrast to the warmth he lavished on his daughter.
“Thanks again, Eden,” Abby says. “I’m sorry I talked too much.”
I squeeze her shoulder. “You talked just the right amount.”
I find the room down a narrow hall. Mom is asleep when I peer behind the curtain. A nurse looks up from the IV drip and smiles as I slide into the red plastic chair at the bedside.
“We just gave her something for the pain. She’ll likely be asleep for a while.”
“Thank you,” I say, but he’s already slipping out, and my voice is so thin I’m not sure he heard me.
I wrap my hands around the bed rail. The width and curve are so similar to a ballet barre that I release it and tuck my hands under my thighs.
Mom’s wrist is in a brace, and a few bruises are already blooming on her breastbone, visible above the neckline of her hospital gown.
She looks almost childlike, the blankets tucked around her slight frame, emphasizing her frailty.
I should have come sooner. I should have figured out how to forgive her, but it would have meant exonerating—or condemning—myself.
I never could figure out how our culpabilities intersected, whether we absolved or indicted each other by facing the truth of our own crimes.
But I’m thirty-five. And I’ve lived more of my life without her than I did with her loving hand to lead me.
I’m ready to fix this. I don’t know if forgiveness is possible, but acceptance must be.
And I have to hope it’s enough to heal us both.
Her love was the richest of my life. If it had been tepid to begin with, maybe we could have found our way back to normal. We would have gone on to have the relationship Cassie has with her mom—formal, forced. Or the relationship Jeff has with his—obligatory, reserved.
But indifference was never an option for us. I loved her fiercely. And afterward, I hated her violently.
When I was in third grade, a new girl moved into town and took over my life one friend at a time.
I told Mom I was too sick to go to school.
Mom fed me soup and brought me tea, allowing me to languish under a soft blanket and watch the Disney Channel.
But, of course, I hadn’t fooled her. She was patiently waiting for me to talk.
I finally confessed over afternoon ice cream, and Mom told me no one could steal my life without my permission.
I think Mom’s been waiting for me to be ready to talk for two decades. But it doesn’t matter whether I’m ready. Time is working its hand on her, and she may not be able to resist it much longer.
Three hours later, we learn Mom fractured three ribs and two bones in her wrist and required five stitches along her shin where it caught the edge of the brick landing.
She’s bruised and broken, but there’s no sign of concussion or internal injuries.
She should be okay, but they’re keeping her overnight for observation.
Caleb and Abby meet us upstairs when Mom is admitted into a semiprivate room. The second bed is empty, so there’s space for all of us, and Mom’s current nurse isn’t a stickler for rules.
I watch the clock. It’s old and original. The stark white face, bold black numerals, the numbing sound of the second hand nibbling away the hours. The sound is a flashbulb memory. A marker of all my time eaten up by injury here. I steer my focus away.
Abby does all the talking while Mom enjoys a drug-induced sleep, waking only briefly to say she’s just fine and doesn’t know what all the fuss is about.
I sit beside Mom in a plastic chair, and Caleb leans against the far wall, arms crossed over his broad chest, baseball cap slung low on his forehead, glaring at me.
I think Cassie would call his look smoldering, but she reads too many romance novels.
And I read too many mysteries, so I suspect the look is actually murderous.
“Hi.” A young woman in black slacks and a midnight-blue blouse pokes her head through the doorway.
Around her neck is a name tag dangling from the hospital-issued purple lanyard, but she’s not in scrubs.
Administration, I assume, and here for payment.
It dawns on me that I have no idea about Mom’s insurance situation.
“I’m Tanya, a social worker here at the hospital.
I would like to speak with Nicolette’s attorney-in-fact. ”
“That’s me. I’m Caleb Connell.”
“Wait,” I say as Caleb steps away from the wall, arm outstretched with the manners he reserves for everyone but me. “Why do you have power of attorney?”
Tanya glances between us, her expression morphing from professional warmth to trained impartiality as she accepts Caleb’s proffered hand.
“You are not an attorney, Dad,” Abby whispers.
“Do you have somewhere we can talk?” Caleb asks.
“I’m her daughter,” I say. “I need to be updated as well.”
Tanya looks to Caleb, and I recognize the subtle request for assent.
It’s the way a donor would check in with the highest-ranking man in the room to confirm whether what I’ve said is true, even when that man couldn’t recite any of the information I’d fed him in advance.
Caleb nods, and I’m relieved he didn’t take the opportunity to keep me in the dark, but I hope he doesn’t expect me to thank him for doing what’s right.
“Sure.” Tanya smiles. “Of course.”
“Stay here with Grams,” Caleb says to Abby, softening the command with a quick kiss on the top of her head. She’s chewing on her bottom lip and picking at her cuticles again. “And press that if she needs anything.” He points to the call button.
Tanya leads us past the nurses’ station and down a few corridors.
The linoleum transitions from sage to daffodil to eggshell before she gestures for us to enter a tight, white, windowless room.
I sit in one of the four chairs crammed around a small table, but Caleb opts to stand, leaning against the wall, which makes it feel as if he’s hovering over me.
“I understand Nicolette had a fall.” Tanya takes the chair across from me, setting an accordion file on the table.
Caleb says, “She’s usually pretty good about asking for help. But she was rushing to see her daughter and—”
“So it’s my fault?” I snap, turning to glare at him.
“Didn’t say that,” Caleb mumbles.
Tanya leans forward. “With her condition, her balance may be deteriorating, and the shifts could be so subtle she doesn’t realize she needs help until it’s too late.”
“She’s stubborn,” Caleb says.
Tanya offers a soft smile. “That’s not surprising. People with degenerative illnesses are losing control of their bodies. Resistance often comes in the form of stubbornness about what they can control.”
“She’s refusing medication,” I say, irritated that we’re litigating the accident instead of discussing ways to stabilize her condition.
Tanya’s expression is compassionate, but I recognize it to be the trained countenance of a professional. “I encourage you to speak with the attending physician. Unfortunately, I can’t provide medical advice.”
“Right,” I say. “But you could speak with her about it. She might need a professional to help her get over her anxieties about treatment.”
“I thought you wanted to speak to her yourself because you didn’t trust I had,” Caleb says to me. “And now you’re off-loading the responsibility so you don’t have to deal with it after all?”
I whip my head toward him, my worry turning to rage. “I thought a neutral party might be helpful since you coerced my mom into signing over power of attorney.”
“Coerced?” Caleb barks.
“How do I know you don’t have something to gain if my mom doesn’t take life-prolonging treatment?”
“Are you kidding me? You show up here after—”
“Why don’t we all take a seat.” Tanya’s voice is stern, and I’m impressed with her command of the room, even as I seethe at Caleb’s nerve.
Caleb yanks on the chair, pulling it away from the table before he settles. It’s way too small for his frame, and I almost want to laugh at how ridiculous he looks. He’s a giant in a child’s chair. But then I remember he’s an ass. And nothing about him is funny.
Tanya takes a deep breath, one of those intentional inhales used by yoga teachers, and I suspect she wants us to imitate her. But I don’t. And Caleb sure as hell won’t.
“Caring for an ill relative is difficult. Even the most tight-knit families struggle with these critical decisions.”
“We’re not family,” Caleb says, and I’m offended, a little hurt, even though he said the words before I could.
“We’re only related by marriage,” I say, and then add, “distantly.” I don’t know if you can be distantly related by marriage.
But at this point, I want to put distance between us in any way I can.
I’m an only child. I never assumed I’d have to make medical decisions for my mom in partnership with her second husband’s handsome jackass of a nephew.
“Well, either way, you both are invested in Nicolette’s care and want what’s best for her, so she must be well loved. As she recovers from the injuries, she will need full-time care, either in a rehab center—”
“She doesn’t want that,” Caleb says. “She wants to be at home.”
Tanya folds her hands and rests them on the table. “That’s good that you know her wishes. Is there someone who can care for her? At least until the bones heal?”
“I can,” Caleb says, just as I blurt, “I’ll do it,” without thinking about what I’m offering, without intending to enter an irrational competition with the most infuriating man I’ve ever met.
“Great! A partnership is perfect for this scenario.” Tanya puts a chipper punctuation on the rash agreement.
What have I done? How many months will it take for her to heal? How can I possibly survive in Grand Trees for that long? How can I commit to staying and caring for Mom indefinitely?
Caleb turns an icy glare on me, ready to battle me for this, and I straighten my shoulders. Something about his indignation compels me to fight back, even though I’m not sure I want what we’re fighting over.