because of busy schedules and her limited free time. Maybe he thought time wasn’t so precious now that Gramps was gone and the confines of their relationship not so rigid.
Yet she’d barely seen him since the day of Gramps’s funeral.
“I don’t mind,” she assured him, sending a smile his way to let him know she wanted to spend whatever time they could together. Later, when they were in private, she’d reassure him that every moment they spent together was precious.
“But I do,” he stunned her by saying. He cast a quick glance at Glenda and Mrs Guess, then continued. “You’ve been clearing out your grandfather’s things all day. The last thing you need is to get stuck at the hospital for hours on end. I’m taking you home.”
Bewildered, Liz nodded her agreement, knowing there must be a good reason he didn’t want her with him.
* * *
“Adam? Is something wrong?” Liz asked the following night. Concern filled her voice and he could just picture her twirling a strand of hair around her finger while she asked.
Adam closed his eyes and gripped his cellular phone all the tighter.
From his caller ID he’d known the caller was Liz. So why had he answered? He should have just avoided the call altogether.
Avoiding Liz was what he’d done for the past twenty-four hours. Why stop now?
But he’d eventually have to talk to her, tell her that he was…was what? No longer a whole man? Not healthy? Not sure exactly what was going on with his body, but that he’d be seeing the neurologist for a spinal tap and the other tests in the morning?
On Monday the specialist had agreed with Larry. He believed Adam had MS.
Which was why he’d wanted to spend yesterday with Liz, but gripping that walker in his palms had messed with his head, had panicked him. All he’d been able to think was that if he had MS, the day might come when he wouldn’t be able to walk without a walker. Or worse. The day might come when he wouldn’t be able to walk at all.
Each time he’d looked at Liz, all he stood to lose had constricted his throat, made it difficult to breathe, made him afraid she’d see the anxiety in his eyes.
Then, while examining Mrs Guess, a searing pain had stabbed the right side of his head, making him wonder if he’d black out from the intensity.
Even in her distress over losing her grandfather, Liz was too smart to miss that something was wrong with him. She’d noticed yesterday. He couldn’t keep hiding his symptoms from her. Others perhaps, but not Liz. She knew him too well.
He should have told her the moment he’d started having the blurred vision, the pinpricks in his fingers, the tiredness. He should have told her the night her grandfather had died. Before then.
Instead, he’d pretended that everything was fine, not letting on that he was having symptoms of any kind.
He’d thought he was saving her pain by delaying, but the more time that went by the more he wondered if he wasn’t making things more difficult by keeping his symptoms, his fears to himself.
He should tell her now.
He opened his mouth, intent on telling her the truth. “I’m just busy.”
That wasn’t what he’d meant to say. Not even close.
“OK.” She didn’t sound convinced. He didn’t blame her. His unusual behavior confused her. Hell, he was pretty confused himself.
Silence buzzed over the line, acutely broadcasting that change was eminent whether he wanted it or not.
“I looked for you after I finished my shift. They told me you’d already left for the day. Are you coming over? I could order take-out.” Her voice held hopefulness.
“Not tonight,” he managed to say. What if he had another episode of pain? How would he explain it to her? “I had a long day and am tired.” True. He seemed to always be tired these days. “I’m flying to Alpharetta in the morning and want an early start.”
A lame excuse and they both knew it. An avid pilot of his own Cessna, a scheduled trip had never stopped him in the past. And why had he lied to her? He was going to Jackson, to see the specialist, to find out the truth behind his symptoms.
Which was why he’d lied to her.
He didn’t want her to worry, didn’t want her sympathy, didn’t want her to possibly be tied to another invalid. Liz deserved a life.
“If you’re sure, then…” She hesitated, making him want to tell her how much he needed her, just to have her wrap her arms around him and tell him everything would be OK, that she’d be there for him no matter what those damned tests showed.
The crux of it was Liz would be there for him in a heartbeat. If he let her. But he wanted better than that for her. Lots better.
Be strong, man. You’ve got to see this through, find out for sure what’s going on before involving Liz.
“Sorry, Liz, but I’ve got to go.” He hung up before she could say anything more.
But mostly before he could say anything more.
The next morning Adam sat in a Jackson Neurology Clinic exam room, staring at a framed Norman Rockwell print that hung on the wall opposite him.
Too bad real life wasn’t as idyllic as Norman Rockwell presented it.
When the neurologist walked into the room, Adam knew by the expression Dr Winters wore that the test results hadn’t been good.
By now he should be used to that expression. Hadn’t every bit of news he’d gotten thus far been bad?
The neurologist pulled up his stool, glanced down at the piece of paper containing words that would forever change Adam’s life, and then glanced up. “There’s no good way to put this and we pretty much already knew what the conclusions of the tests were going to be, so I’m going to be blunt. You have MS.”
Adam’s ears roared. His blood boiled. His skin crawled. He gritted his teeth. He clenched his tingling fingers. Still his body threatened to explode from the impact of those words.
He had MS.
“You’re sure?”
“Yes. The analysis of the cerebral spinal fluid shows protein, cells, and increased antibody production. Antibodies containing oglioclonal bands. Unfortunately, that in combination with the demyelization revealed on the MRI are conclusive even if the evoked potential testing hadn’t been positive.”
There was that damned expression again.
“But they were positive, too, weren’t they?” Because all his tests pointed in one direction. A direction he didn’t want to go, but had no choice but to take.
He had MS.
The specialist nodded. “I’m sorry.”
All night he’d lain
