her through this. “I’ll give you twenty-four hours. We’ll see how it goes. But you and Martha need to be looking for a backup plan.”
She felt the tension in her mother relax. “Thank you, Jule.”
Embarrassed by the simple gratitude, Julia separated and trudged up to the door. “Twenty-four hours,” she reminded her.
To do a favor for an old family friend?
Or to survive a sentence from hell?
MAC WAITED A GOOD ten minutes after his mother’s goodbye before leaving the sanctuary-slash-prison of his bedroom. At least he thought it was ten minutes. His internal clock seemed to have gone haywire in the same instant the toxic flames and lacerations scarred his throat and tore the sight from his eyes.
Ten minutes. Five. Twenty.
What did time matter to a man who served no useful purpose?
The dull ache behind his left eye was a constant reminder of all he had lost. And no amount of scientific or medical training could bring back the competency of a man who had lived by his senses, his powers of observation, his ability to see something once and identify its attributes. He was a man of science, a man of thought and reason. He’d never worried about how to get from point A to point B. How to find the toilet across the hall. How to pick out socks that wouldn’t clash with his jeans.
He’d never thought about living without his sight.
Mac swung his bare feet off the edge of the bed and slipped into the beaten loafers that had become his uniform of late. He inhaled a deep, fortifying breath and stood, steadying himself by grabbing on to the headboard. He waited for the waves of dizziness to pass, knowing damn well these vertigo attacks were a result of panic and disorientation, and had no bona fide physical cause.
Only when his shadowed world stopped spinning did he move. Three steps from the bed to the dresser. He trailed his fingertips along the scarred oak top, sticking a moment where the old varnish had pooled, sliding past the spot where there was no varnish at all. His hand hit a smooth, hard object and glass clinked against glass.
Tempting defeat, he turned his hand, lifted the glass to his nose and sniffed. Nothing. Plain water. Maybe the other…
His stomach rumbled in protest at the lone leftover doughnut he had scrounged for breakfast. Despite his abysmal welcome, he hoped against hope that his mother had left a sandwich for him to eat. Restoring the clutter on his dresser, he reached for the door.
Two steps more across the hall to the bathroom. He followed the wall until he hit the dining room. Then he was in no-man’s-land as he buffeted from chair to wall to sideboard. When he stubbed his toe on the break in the carpet beneath the archway, he knew he’d reached the living room.
He clutched at the molding that framed the arch and paused to get his bearings. He needed to learn the number of steps into the kitchen, or move the bookshelves and recliner so he could simply follow the perimeter of the wall without breaking his foot, his face, or any of those knick-knacks his mother had entrusted to him over the years.
As if thoughts of his mother triggered the response, guilt reared its ugly head. He’d never realized how much temper simmered inside him. He’d always prided himself on maintaining an even emotional keel. But since the explosion, he’d learned he could be a beast. Reactive. Out-of-control. And his mother, meddling saint who had raised six boys and one girl under her roof, didn’t deserve to bear the brunt of his sour moods. Once he had some food in his stomach, he’d call home and apologize.
And make Ma promise not to spring any more surprises on him.
Feeling even that small bit of mastery over his life once more, Mac extended his arms as feelers and braved the booby-trapped path to the kitchen.
One step. Two steps. He butted his shin against the recliner and stopped, rotating his arm like a compass needle in his search for the clear path. His outstretched fingers hit the floor lamp and knocked it at a tilt. He caught it and straightened the shade, experiencing a silly little rush of triumph that he hadn’t destroyed it. With a trace of positive energy whispering through him for a change, he moved with more confidence, stepping to the left to avoid the obstacle.
He plowed into something warm and soft and solid, with two hands that latched on to his wrist and elbow to catch him from recoiling backward.
“Mac?”
He wrenched his arm away from the firm grip and smacked the lamp with his fist, sending it crashing to the floor.
Jules.
“I thought I told you to leave.” The condemnation in his scarred voice sounded harsh, even to his own ears.
“You never got around to that. You were rude to your mother, and then you stormed out.”
The teasing retort came from below, and he realized she had squatted down to pick up the lamp. “Bent, but not broken.” Her voice sounded nearer. Had she stood? “No wonder it looks like a demolition derby in here. Didn’t you get a cane to walk with?”
“I don’t need a cane.”
“Right.” Her clear, low-pitched voice danced with a smug humor. “It would be easier to just rent a bulldozer and trash the whole place in one fell swoop, instead of wrecking one little corner at a time.”
A flood of indignation surged through him. How dare she joke at his expense! Did she have any idea how embarrassing it was to flounder around his own home like a fish out of water? He couldn’t even hold a decent argument with her, not knowing whether he was talking to her face or her belly button.
“What are you doing here?” he demanded.
“Helping out a friend.”
Right in front of him. Mac turned his scarred visage on her. “I didn’t ask you to come.”
“I was talking about your mother. She needed my help.”
Ouch. An appropriate comeback escaped him. Jules had been one of the neighborhood kids. Hanging out at his dad’s shop or in the rooms upstairs they called home. Of all those adolescent interlopers who interrupted his work and study time, she had been…which one? He thought his way through the maze of comings and goings that had been a part of their everyday lives back on Market Street.
It had been useless to try to concentrate on his books when Cole and his buddies descended upon them. They’d gather around the kitchen table and raid the fridge and play cards, or perch in the living room to watch sitcoms on TV. Accepted as one of the guys, Jules had always been at the center of their laughter.
Her sassy wit hadn’t dulled over the years.
Mac wondered if anything else about her remained the same.
But he filed away his curiosity to return to later. A more pressing question needed to be answered as a fist of concern gripped his heart. “Is Ma holding up okay?”
A faint rustling sound answered him. “If dark circles under her eyes and new wrinkles beside her mouth are normal, then, yes, I’d say she’s doing fine.” That tart voice was a shade more distant. She’d moved.
“I owe her an apology.”
“Probably.”
