Page 32 of Tangled with the Tight End

“The nurse's aide can do that when she gets here,” I tell Mom.

“It’s better to get it going as soon as you’re up,” she says.

Dad watches on. I keep my eyes on Mom, but answer his question. “A lot depends on the way I recover. They’re hopeful I might make the last game.”

I glance over to catch Dad shaking his head.

His face is all business when he says, “Well. Let's hope the rehab goes faster than projected. You’ll do your part to make that happen, I’m sure.”

I’d appreciate an ounce of sympathy, but Dad’s reaction to failure or weakness is always tinged with disappointment.

I get it. No one is more disappointed in this turn of events than I am. Somehow Dad makes me feel culpable—as if I could have done something to prevent this.

The weight of his thin lips, narrowed eyes and stiff shoulders forms a ball in the pit of my stomach. I set my coffee on the side table.

My parents eventually settle into side chairs. Dad fills me in on his vision for the community college. Mom stands and putters around the kitchen, finding some of the sous vide egg bites Claudette prepared for me. She comes back with eggs and a bowl of fruit and yogurt for me and another bowl for Dad.

While we eat, Mom tells me about a charity luncheon she’s hosting for a women’s shelter in Nashville.

“I’m glad to donate,” I say. “Just let me know how much.”

“You’re always so generous, Declan.”

“Financially responsible too,” Dad says.

I do get a tax break for my donations, but that’s not why I give. Doesn’t he know that?

A few hours after my parents arrived, there’s a ping on my phone from the security app. Someone’s at the door. I pick up my phone and swipe the app open. Winona’s on the porch, punching the code into the keypad to let herself in.

“Who’s here?” Mom asks. “I thought Darlene came on Mondays.”

I don’t have time to tell Mom it’s not our cleaning lady because Winona rounds the corner, almost coming to a skidding halt when she sees my parents. Her hair is wild, sticking out in a few places. She looks rattled, but she hasn’t lost her trademark carefree attitude.

“Did you hire a new staff?” Mom asks.

“I’m the nurse’s assistant. Minus the nurse. So, I assist … no one. But I do assist Declan. But he’s not a nurse, obviously. He’s a patient. For now. And I am assisting … him.” She smiles broadly, her eyes wide, staring at me.

Mom’s eyes are equally wide.

Dad’s are narrow.

“You’re the home health aide they provided?” he asks.

“That’s me,” Winona says with a curtsey. She mocks holding a skirt out, bows her knees and honest-to-goodness curtseys.

Dad’s brow drops and he studies her.

“So, I’ll just get to it,” Winona says, hooking a thumb over her shoulder as if there’s something in the other room she needs to tend to. She looks me in the eyes and raises her brows. “Did you have your kale smoothie yet?”

“No,” I say, barely containing my amused grin.

The effect she’s having on my father is priceless.

“But I did have my meds—just after five thirty. Patrick gave them to me.”

“Good. Great. Okay. Well, I’ll get that smoothie,” she says, turning and scurrying out of the room.

She returns a minute later with the drink, her hair smoothed back and her breath coming evenly.