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Sandra’s skin prickled awake, reminding her she wasn’t dead. Reminding her how long it had been since it had been more than prayer with her at night.
Walter suddenly turned back to the bowl on top of his dresser. His back rigid.
Realization dawned. He wasn’t sick. He was getting rid of the alcohol in his system. Detoxing. “You haven’t been drinking,” she said.
“I want you to leave,” he gasped, his hands shaking as he wiped his mouth. “And you said that’s what would get it done. So leave me the hell alone.”
“Hey! My mom’s here to help!” Lucy cried, stepping into the room as if to do battle, and Sandra put her hand up, stopping her daughter.
This is my fight, she thought, suddenly protective of the man in front of them.
“I don’t want help!” he cried. “I want you out of here.”
“Leave him alone,” she said, backing out of the room, taking her daughter with her. Sandra shut the door, and both she and Lucy just stared at the wood grain. The silver doorknob.
“I don’t like him talking to you like that, Mom.”
“He’s going through detox, honey. He’s sick.”
“You think he’s going to be better when it’s over?”
“I don’t know,” she answered honestly.
“Let’s hope that ad Jack placed starts bringing some nurses,” Lucy muttered, and then she leaned in to kiss Sandra’s cheek. “I’m going to bed.”
She watched her daughter disappear into the shadows of the hallway and turned back to look at the door. From the other side she heard Walter swearing and thumping around.
Not drinking.
She touched the grain, wide and rough under her fingers. Suddenly she felt like she had a fight on her hands. Her mother would tell her to pray, to find peace in God’s words. A.J....well, A.J. wouldn’t say anything, would he? He’d kept his opinions and his secrets to himself.
She unwrapped the shawl from around her shoulders, folding it up in her hands. She’d followed her mother’s advice for a number of years. It got her out of trouble as a kid, led her to A.J., so handsome and so devout. So many secrets.
Prayer had seen her through the loneliest years of her marriage. She’d found peace. She’d found affection and companionship and a love for her girls so profound she felt touched by God’s grace.
But she wasn’t going to pray this time around.
She was going to fight.
On Wednesday morning Lucy sat back in the dining room seat and watched Mia engage in a losing battle. It was sort of fun. Mia didn’t lose many battles and she was getting all hot under the collar.
“What if we offered you more money?” Mia asked Gina Burshot, a registered nurse with hospice care experience. None of which mattered, because Gina had no interest in the job. Not since meeting Walter.
Gina slung her bag over her shoulder and put her shoulders back. “Let me make this clear,” she said. “There is nothing you could offer me that would make me want to care for that odious old man.”
Lucy snorted and then quickly composed herself when Mia glared at her.
“Thanks, Gina, for coming in and I’m sorry...again.” Mia led Gina to the front door and then came back into the kitchen. She braced herself against a ladder-back dining room chair and sighed. Heavily.
“What did he do?” Lucy was almost afraid to ask.
“Threw that bowl he’s been throwing up in at her.”
“Was it full?”
“Full enough.”
Lucy groaned and, frankly, if she hadn’t been jailed by this situation she would have laughed. Walter was not going down without a fight.
“I’ll go let Jack know what happened. Maybe he can talk to his father.”
“Right.” Like that would do any good. Lucy stood up from her chair. “Hey,” she said, as her sister started to leave. “Remember Ben’s coming over Thursday.”
“Yeah, about that…what exactly are you going to do with him?”
“You don’t have to be so skeptical.”
“Well, how many kids do you know?”
“None. But I was a kid.”
“Yeah. A well-adjusted artist with two living parents. Ben’s a nine-year-old car thief orphan.”
Lucy stood, her back straight, her pride slightly inflamed at Mia’s doubt. Largely because Lucy shared that doubt. Had her own huge misgivings about this arrangement. But she believed very strongly in the ancient proverb: fake it till you make it.
“We had a connection. He just needs someone to listen to him,” she said. “I can do that.”
“Yes. Of course you can. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” Lucy grinned. “Trust me, I know it’s weird. But Jeremiah needs some help and…well, I’m not doing anything at the moment.”
“Not doing anything? You’ve been giving Thomas Matthews a ride home from the bars every night.”
Lucy lifted her hand. “Everyone’s opinion on my taxi service has been duly noted. Let’s move on.”
Mia stared at her and finally rolled her eyes. “Well, you’re right about Jeremiah. He does need help.” Mia patted her back pocket and pulled out a pen. “Hey, I need to write Mom a note. Can I borrow your notebook?”
