Without a daughter to send on yet another guilt trip when she already had a passport filled with destination stamps.
Natalie swallowed. She really was a rotten daughter. Her mom might not be a grateful patient, but she deserved her daughter’s respect and the best care she could give her. It was the least she could do.
“What have you been watching today?” Natalie indicated the TV with a wave of her hand.
Elaine barely looked back from it to answer. “Season three.”
“How many seasons are there?”
“Ten.”
“Then you’ll be binge watching 24/7 through next Wednesday.”
“It’s not like I have anything better to do.”
“Maybe you could cook dinner, then. Since you have so much free time and all.” Natalie forced a smile.
“And maybe you could try it from a chair like mine.”
Natalie swallowed. Was a flippant reaction better than none at all? She didn’t know why she was so determined to spark her mother into action—any type of action—when Elaine appeared determined to set a record for how long someone could bask in self-pity.
Would it be easier if she finally gave up hope that Elaine would one day return to that funny, interesting mom she used to be instead of the shell that remained after the accident? It was as if her mother blamed the world for her unlucky lot in life. Or was it only Natalie she blamed?
“Bad day at work?”
Natalie startled as much from the odd question as from the surety that she’d been caught entertaining disloyal thoughts. She couldn’t remember the last time her mother had asked her about her job. Or her life.
“Just a busy day, I guess.”
“Your work is too stressful.”
She studied her mother for several seconds. Did she care about what was going on in her daughter’s life, after all? Was she just unable to show it?
“I have a challenging case,” she said finally.
She didn’t even know why she’d mentioned it. She never talked about work at home or about the clients.
“You just wish you’d finished music school so you could be living a stress-free artist’s life now.”
Natalie chuckled. This wasn’t the first time her mother had joked about her earlier career choice. “Stress-free? Except for wondering whether I’d be able to pay my bills.”
“You’re probably blaming me again for making you change your major. You probably hate me every day.”
Natalie blinked as she realized she’d walked right into her mother’s trap. Usually she was better at reading the signs and changing the subject, but now she could only backpedal.
“You never made me change anything, Mom. You know that. I just realized how much I enjoyed helping people.” She massaged her mother’s shoulders, hoping one day Elaine would buy her story. Hoping she would, as well.
I’m more concerned about getting back to work so I can help people.
Her breath caught as Shane’s words slipped, uninvited, into her thoughts. She turned her head, hoping her mother hadn’t noticed. Why couldn’t she stop thinking about this guy? It couldn’t matter that he was the first man who seemed to really see her when she’d felt invisible for so long, the first one to challenge her, even if only to call her on her bull.
He was a cop, after all.
How could she betray her mother by bringing thoughts of a police officer into their home? It didn’t matter that this guy seemed different from those other officers. He wore a badge. They were all the same.
“So you’d better help put dinner on, or at least one of us is going to starve to death.”
“Wonder which one.” She smiled, but when Elaine didn’t return it, she added, “Better get to it, then.”
“What are you making? Hope it isn’t chicken again.”
Natalie’s cheeks ached from the effort to keep smiling. “It’s chicken, but I think you’re going to like this new recipe.”
“Probably not.”
Natalie waited to shake her head until she’d rounded the corner into the kitchen. Since she’d stretched the truth about having a new recipe, she grabbed her phone and searched for chicken dishes. A series of colorful food photos covered the tiny screen. Orange chicken. Chicken à la king. Surely there was something her mother would eat. Now, to eat it without grumbling, that would be tougher.
If only she had the guts to call her mother on her childish behavior the way her client had blasted her on hers earlier. Shame washed over her again. How could she have acted so unprofessionally?
Sure, he didn’t know what she dealt with outside the clinic, but she never shared that with any of her clients. She shouldn’t have brought her personal baggage to work with her this time, either. Even if it felt heavier than usual today. This was her life, the responsibility she had accepted almost from the moment the doctors had informed her that she would walk out of the hospital but that her mother would never walk anywhere again. At the time, she’d believed this was the worst news she could receive. No one had warned her then of the real tragedy: that Elaine Keaton would never really live again.
As she combined orange juice, lemon juice, rice vinegar and soy sauce for a makeshift orange chicken in a saucepan, she couldn’t help wondering why her mother couldn’t be more like Shane. In attitude only. Sure, his prognosis was more promising than her mother’s had been, but why couldn’t she have been as determined as he was to make the most of her situation?
She shouldn’t have been comparing them at all. Their cases were too different. Anyway, Shane was a stranger, and her mother had been there for her all of her life—at least until the accident. Then it had been her turn.
“You owed her that much.” Her words seemed to spill into the kitchen of their own accord, but she immediately recognized them as truth.
For the past eight years, she’d understood that her focus had to be on her mother’s care. She couldn’t allow one hour with a client—one she’d begged not to work with—make her question her mother’s post-accident life. Or hers.
While she waited for the chicken to brown in the olive oil, she searched on her phone for scholarly articles on spinal cord injuries. The sooner she found out what was keeping Shane from walking, the sooner he would no longer need her help, and she could get back to her life.
* * *
SHANE MANEUVERED HIS wheelchair across the parking lot of the Brighton Post Building the next evening, stopping outside the rear entrance. If he hadn’t already been convinced that it was a mistake to stop by the post after their visit with Kent at the hospital, the barrier beneath the steel door ahead of him would have changed his mind.
“Why aren’t you going inside?” Vinnie asked from behind him.
