to the hospital… She cut that thought off immediately. He had called, twice. And sent flowers.
“They think it’s chronic fatigue syndrome.”
Her father wasn’t impressed by the diagnosis. She hadn’t expected him to be. The rule growing up in the Roberts family was “suck it up and shake it off.” If there wasn’t blood or bone showing or something on fire, it wasn’t that serious. Being tired all the time? Not sleeping well? Suck it up and shake it off, girl!
“Dad, I…”
She couldn’t stay here alone. Much as it burned her to admit that fact, it had taken all of twenty-four hours before the truth became glaringly obvious. Dr. Gan had been right. She had barely been able to get out of the cab and into the house before she needed to take a nap. The thought of being alone if she passed out again the way she had in the office…
“If you were really ill, they should have kept you in the hospital.”
“I didn’t want to stay there. Hospitals are horrible.”
Her father cracked a smile at that. “True. Emma, baby, your mother and I are supposed to leave for Virginia tomorrow. We’ve been planning this trip for months. And your brothers can’t be expected to drop their lives to come and babysit you; they have lives and jobs of their own.”
“I know.”
She hadn’t expected anything else. Surprising, how much it hurt, anyway.
Her coworkers were no different. They were sorry she wasn’t feeling well, her passing out had scared the hell out of them but already her boss had left a message on her answering machine, saying that he knew she was only just home but would she be able to swing by the office later this week?
What was that old saying? Don’t be irreplaceable; if you can’t be replaced you can’t be promoted—and you can’t be out sick, either.
None of them matter now. You’re mine. All mine
The hint of laughter came back to her, and Emma winced. It was just the exhaustion, the doctor said, causing her aural hallucinations. That was all. She wasn’t going crazy.
“Your mother suggested that we hire someone to take care of you, while you’re taking leave. I’ve engaged the services of a caretaker, starting tomorrow. The agency says that they’ll do light housekeeping, make sure you are getting enough to eat, and don’t fall down the stairs.” He turned to look at her, a long, assessing stare. “Please don’t fall down any more stairs. It would upset your mother.”
Emma looked at her father, his well-cut suit and ruthlessly trimmed hair almost perfectly-matching gray. Her mother’s hair was silver—they both refused to dye their hair, wearing their decades proudly. Emma’s own brunette had started to show a few strands of white a year ago, around her thirtieth birthday. She had dyed it immediately, and hated herself for it.
“Dad, I…” She dropped her gaze, and laced her fingers together in her lap. “Thank you.” He was trying to be helpful. Her parents loved her, and wanted her to be safe. They just…couldn’t understand. She couldn’t just “shake this off.” If she could, she would have already.
“We love you, baby.”
“I know, Dad.” They did. They really did. But they were the way they were, and always had been. You stood on your own feet in the Roberts household. That wasn’t a bad thing. It was simply…exhausting, sometimes.
Emma got up, slowly, and walked with him to the door, submitting to the engulfing hug.
“Take care of yourself. When we get back, you’ll be all revved up and ready to go, the Emma we all know and love.”
“Yes, Dad.”
What else could she say?
Give. Give. It’s what you do best. And now you’re mine, all mine, and I won’t share…
Emma woke up the next morning with the sheets wrapped around her, damp with her own sweat. A nightmare, that’s all, triggered by her own morose and self-pitying thoughts before falling asleep. If she could just get up and moving, everything would be all right. The by-now familiar sensation of muscle-quiver, though, made her want to stay in bed and not move.
The doorbell chiming downstairs insisted otherwise. That must have been what woke her up. Despite temptation, a stronger sense of responsibility—she couldn’t just leave whoever it was standing out there—made her get up, pull on clothing, and go downstairs to answer the summons.
“Emma Roberts?”
Emma tugged the edge of her sweatshirt self-consciously and nodded. “Yes?”
The man on her doorstep looked at her impatiently, like she was supposed to have recognized him already and welcomed him in. She had never seen him before—she would have remembered him, no matter how tired she was. Pale, which was unusual here in southern California, and with the darkest eyes she had ever seen, like deep, still pools of black ink. The rest of the face was standard-issue handsome—squared off chin, nice firm jawline, good cheekbones, and sandy brown hair trimmed into near-military obedience. The face of a man who was good looking, knew it, and had other things on his mind.
“My name is Matthew. From HomeHelp?”
Emma stared, her brain not quite working as fast as it usually did. By now she should have been on her third cup of coffee, sorting and shoving the office into functionality. Instead, pulling on sweats and jeans had taxed her endurance to the point where she just wanted to sit down.
“You hired me.”
Oh.
“My father did. I was…I was expecting someone…”
The man—Matthew, sighed. “Female?”
“Yeah. I suppose so.”
Matthew pulled out a laminated ID and handed it to her. It told her that his name was Matthew Reiden, that he was employed by HomeHelp Nursing, Inc, and that he was certified by the California State Nursing Board as a Home Health Aid. She looked at the picture, then back at him.
“Now you know who I am. May I come in?”
“Yes, sorry, of course.” She stepped back, and let him into her home.
He walked in, and took over. “The referral form we got from the hospital said that you’ve been diagnosed with CFS?”
“Yes.” She was guarded still, waiting to see his reaction.
“And you really think that two weeks are going to be enough to let you get back to your previous levels of energy?”
His tone was flat, almost unsympathetic, and she bristled. “I’m not making it up. The doctors said—”
‘I didn’t suggest that you were, and I’m sure that they did,” he replied, placing his black case—too large for a laptop, too small to be a suitcase—on the floor. “I’m not a doctor, I’m not here to diagnose. My job’s to teach you how to take care of yourself, so that you don’t just curl up and die when it
