He shrugged. “They can research all they want, but when they ask questions, I don’t have to answer them.”
“You’re going to lie to them?”
A vein throbbed in Owen’s neck, and his hands pressed against his knees. “Withholding information and avoiding their questions isn’t lying.”
Lightning cracked so close she swore it hit only a foot away. The resulting thunderclap shook the shed so hard the water in the bottle on her desk swayed.
“I encourage you to be more forthcoming with your parents. They’re your major support team, and since you’re living with them, they need to be aware of possible pitfalls around the house. For example, are managing the stairs difficult? Could be you need to set up a bed downstairs to reduce the risks of falling.”
“You sound like a damn medical pamphlet. Are you saying they should set up a hospital bed for me in the dining room the way they did for Grandma Crawford after her stroke?” Tendons bulged in his hands gripping the chair arms, and his face paled. Sweat dotted his upper lip.
She winced, wondering if she’d been too honest. “I was just mentioning an issue you could be struggling with.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard the safety talk, but you forgot the rugs. We had to remove anything Grandma Crawford might trip on. If Mom thinks there’s a chance I’ll fall, she’ll safety check the entire house. Not only will she do what you’ve talked about, she’ll install handrails by the toilets like in the handicapped stalls.”
“I know you think your mom’s overprotective, but not all those things are bad ideas. For traumatic brain injury patients, any fall could cause further trauma.”
The rain hammered a staccato beat on the tin roof as thunder continued to rattle the walls. “How could I forget about my brain injury when most days I struggle to remember what I did five minutes ago? Then there’s how hard it is to follow a conversation. Do you know some days it’s so difficult to organize my thoughts I’m worn out before I finish my morning coffee?”
“I can’t begin to understand how hard this is for you, but there are some realities you need to face—”
“Moving in with my parents is tough enough, but I’ll be damned if I’ll let people treat me like an invalid.”
“You don’t have to tell me how hard it is living at home.” When the words leapt out, Carly longed to snatch them back.
“Last I heard you were renting a place in town. What happened?”
The automatic question, the type people asked out of common courtesy and curiosity without thinking, sliced through Carly. Considering the efficiency of the Service gossip network, how had Owen failed to hear about her messy breakup, especially when for months folks referred to her as Carly, the poor broken-hearted dear?
Ignoring Owen’s question, she returned the conversation to his concerns regarding being treated like an invalid. “I believe people treat us the way we allow them to. If you don’t act like an invalid, they won’t treat you like one.”
“From the quick step you did, I’m guessing you don’t want to talk about moving home.”
“I don’t discuss my personal life with clients.” Not that she’d been tempted before but that was better than the truth: that she’d forgotten Owen was a client. Comfortable and sharing in association with Owen, not a bright idea. “I wouldn’t have mentioned the fact, but I wanted you to know I understand how difficult it is moving back home once you’ve been on your own.”
Hoping her comment paired with her I’m-in-charge-director-tone would end the discussion, she moved on. “Are there any particular physical issues you’re struggling with and want to assess in hippotherapy?”
“Nothing that isn’t in my paperwork, unless you can get my parents to quit hovering.”
“Give them time. You’ve just been released from the hospital. They’ll loosen up after you’ve been home a while.”
“Dad might, but not Mom. When I say she shouldn’t fret, she says it’s her job to worry, and no matter how old I am, I’ll always be her child. Hell, I can see it now. I’ll be sixty-three, and she’ll be calling to see I’m eating right and getting enough sleep.”
Pain over losing her mother swept through Carly with incredible force. “Some people would give anything to have that problem.”
Owen shifted, tugged at his collar, and swiped his palms on his jeans. “Damn, Carly. I’m sorry. You’re right. I’m lucky to have Mom around to worry about me.”
“I hadn’t meant to say that out loud.” She clasped her hands together on her desk to keep from fidgeting. “This isn’t how a client’s first appointment usually goes.”
Even after college when she’d first started working as a speech and language pathologist, she’d never had one stray this far off course. But here with Owen, she could check off another subject on her sure-it’ll-be-as-fun-as-an-IRS-audit-reminiscing-with-you hit list. If this trip down memory lane lasted much longer, she’d need a shot of whiskey with a tequila chaser.
Determined to regain control by reassuring Owen in hopes they could move on, Carly said, “From here, I promise not to share information, even in general terms, with your parents. In fact, if they ask me any questions, I’ll refer them to you.”
“Thanks.”
The tightness in her body relaxed, allowing her to concentrate on the forms in the manila folder on her desk. Lifting the top one she said, “This is a release—”
“Before your forms, I want to ask how long it’ll take for you to fix me so I can return to active duty.”
