Here I Am (4 page)

Ciara arrived at a luxury high-rise overlooking the East River, paid the fare, got out of the cab and walked toward the entrance of the apartment building. As the doorman opened the door to the lobby, she was met with a blast of cool air.

“I'm Ciara Dennison. Mrs. Wainwright is expecting me.”

The tall, slightly built man smiled. “I'll let her know
you're here and escort you to the elevator.” He reached for the intercom receiver under the lobby desk and punched in several numbers. “Ms. Dennison is on her way up.” Ciara followed the doorman past a bank of elevators to one in an alcove. He inserted a card key in the PH slot. “It will take you directly to the penthouse.”

The doors closed before Ciara could thank him. The car rose smoothly and swiftly, making her ears pop from the rapid ascent. The car slowed, and then stopped. The doors opened to a panoramic view of the East River bridges linking Manhattan to other boroughs. A profusion of flowers in vases and urns crowded a round mahogany pedestal table between the entryway and great room. For some reason she expected no less from a multimillionaire celebrity athlete.

She was met by a tall, slender woman with hair several shades lighter than her gray eyes. Leona Wainwright was the epitome of casual chic: white silk blouse, black linen slacks and low-heeled Ferragamo shoes. The requisite diamond studs graced her earlobes and a wedding band adorned the ring finger of her left hand.

Leona's eyebrows lifted when she stared at Ciara Dennison. The woman at the agency had said she was tough as nails, but there was nothing about the nurse in the artist's smock that looked menacing. She was younger than Leona had expected and her flawless, dark brown complexion made her appear even younger. The large, clear brown eyes staring back at her behind a pair of glasses reminded her of a cat's. Her hair was brushed off her face and secured in a tight bun. Nurse Dennison had come highly recommended, and Leona realized she was her last hope.

She extended her hand. “Good afternoon. I'm Leona Wainwright, Brandt's mother.”

Setting a duffel bag on the floor, Ciara shook her hand, finding it soft and cool to the touch. “Ciara Dennison. And before you say anything, I'd like to meet with my patient—alone.”

Leona knew immediately that Ciara was very different from the other nurses. Both had been so awestruck by their patient's celebrity that they hadn't assumed a take-charge position. “Please come with me.”

Ciara followed Leona through the expansive entryway that led into a great room. A curving staircase off to the left led to another level. “Is he on this floor or upstairs?” she asked.

Slowing her pace, Leona glanced over her shoulder. “He is in a bedroom on this floor.” She didn't tell the nurse that the second floor was usually off-limits to everyone. The only exception was when her son hosted parties in the rooftop solarium. She turned down a wide hallway and walked into one of three bedroom suites set aside for guests.

“I'll wait out here for you.”

Ciara nodded and then walked into the room. Brandt Wainwright lay in a hospital bed positioned near the floor-to-ceiling windows, eyes closed, with a sheet covering his lower body, the rise and fall of his bare chest in an even rhythm revealing the steadiness of his breathing. The bedroom was furnished in a traditional style, in contrast to the post-war architecture of the apartment.

She approached the bed. The rapid pulse of the large vein in his neck indicated that he wasn't sleeping. Her
gaze lingered on his face. He hadn't shaved and a full day's growth covered his jaw and chin. Ciara wasn't into sports, but only someone completely cut off from civilization wouldn't recognize the NFL's golden boy.

His hair was a mess, indicating it hadn't been combed or brushed. It was also oily, which confirmed it needed to be shampooed. Reaching out, she placed a hand on his shoulder. His skin was cool to the touch. But before she could withdraw her hand, Ciara found her wrist trapped between Brandt's fingers.

“Do you usually shake someone's hand even before you've been introduced?” she said, meeting his angry gaze. His eyes were a startling shade of sky blue. “Get out!”

“I'm afraid that's not going to be possible. After all, you are holding on to my wrist.”

Brandt released her hand. “I've let you go. Now get out!”

Ciara took a step backward, far enough to evade his long reach and folded her arms under her breasts. “I'm not going anywhere, Mr. Wainwright. In case you haven't been counting, I happen to be your third nurse and that means you've just about struck out.”

“Wrong sport,” Brandt drawled, flashing a sardonic grin.

She inclined her head. “I stand corrected. Maybe I should've said the clock just ran out, sport! Game over.”

He stared at the nurse in the tie-dyed smock that overwhelmed her slender frame. His gaze shifted downward to a pair of leather clogs. At least the dark blue scrubs fit. He wasn't exactly sure of her age, but
he guessed she was anywhere between twenty-five and thirty.

Brandt had decided on another approach. He knew growling like a wounded bear wasn't going to intimidate this nurse. “Please don't take it personally, but I don't want or need someone taking care of me.” His tone was soft, almost soothing.

Ciara wasn't fooled by his sudden change in tone. “Whenever I take care of a patient I can assure you that it's never personal. You have a choice, Mr. Wainwright. Either you let me take care of you here or you can go to a rehab facility.”

He snorted. “That's not going to happen.”

Her eyes narrowed behind the lenses of her black plastic frames. “You think not? If I walk out of here and file my report with the agency my recommendation will be that you see a psychotherapist and go to an inpatient rehab facility. I'm also certain you don't want to remain on injured reserve next season. And I'm sure you've been cautioned about blood clots. We'll begin by showering and washing your hair. If you want, I can help you shave or you can continue to look like Grizzly Adams.”

Brandt sat up straighter. “Did anyone ever tell you that you have a very unusual bedside manner?”

Ciara's expression did not change although she wanted to laugh. “So you noticed. Do you like it when I talk tough?”

He lifted a broad shoulder. “That's something I have yet to decide. One thing for certain is you did get my attention.”

“Now that I have your attention, Mr. Wainwright, what do you plan to do?”

“Do about what, Nurse Dennis?”

“It's Dennison. And there's no need to be so formal.”

“How shall I address you, miss?”

“Ciara will do.”

“Since we're becoming so familiar with each other, then I insist you call me Brandt.”

Ciara felt as if she'd scaled one hurdle. Brandt was talking to her instead of yelling at her. “I think it's best that you shower and wash your hair first.”

His hand went to his face, absentmindedly scratching his beard. He'd grown the stubble to conceal the bruises on his face from the impact of the air bag. He wasn't certain whether they'd faded, but not having to shave was one less thing he had to concern himself with. Getting out of bed and into the shower was not only difficult, it had become all but impossible.

Brandt's mood changed like quicksilver. “I can shave myself.”

“Good,” she countered. “I've been known to have a problem with the blade getting a little too close to the jugular.”

“Don't tell me you're auditioning as a stand-up comic.”

“Very funny, Brandt,” Ciara drawled sarcastically.

“You're the one with the jokes. Let's just call a truce.”

“You're in no condition to negotiate. Your mother is paying top dollar for me to be your nurse until you're able to take care of yourself. I'll help you with the day-to-day stuff and follow up with the therapist as you
progress. I'm required to write up daily reports and give you pain medication, so it's in your best interest to cooperate.”

B
randt continued scratching his face. There was something about Ciara Dennison he liked. There was fire under the dowdy exterior. When he'd yelled at the other two nurses, they'd scurried away like frightened mice. The last one had turned on her heel so quickly she'd almost lost her footing.

What everyone, including his mother, had failed to understand was the feeling of helplessness. Without having the wheelchair at his disposal, he was unable to get out of bed and make it to the bathroom before embarrassing himself. The ultimate humiliation was having to use a bedpan.

During his two-week stay in the North Carolina hospital, he'd believed he would never leave alive. He'd drifted in and out of consciousness from the sedative, unaware of any visitors. When the head of orthopedics
recommended his transfer to the hospital's rehabilitation unit, Brandt knew it was time to leave.

He'd returned to New York City, not to a hospital or rehab facility but to his own home. After his personal physician and a leading specialist reviewed his medical records, they approved his convalescing at home with round-the-clock nursing care and physical therapy three times a week for a period of three to four months.

“Are you going to stay here 24/7?”

Ciara hesitated, debating whether to lie or tell the truth. She decided on the former, because she had to know for certain that Brandt would become a cooperative patient. “No. I'll alternate with another nurse. Twelve hours on, twelve off.”

“I don't want another nurse.”

Ciara took a step closer to the bed, her expression reflected surprise. “You want me to work a twenty-four-hour shift?”

“Will that pose a problem for you?” Brandt asked.

“Not really. But I hadn't planned to work around the clock.”

“Well, tell your man that he's going to find something other than you to occupy him while you're at work.”

There was no way Ciara was going to admit to Brandt Wainwright that she didn't have a man, husband or boyfriend. After dating Victor Seabrook for two years, she'd decided to not get involved with another man—at least for some time.

“Let's not get personal,” she warned softly. “After I help you get cleaned up, I'll have your mother call the agency to change my hours. Then, I'm going to have to return to my place to pick up enough clothes to last for at
least a week,” she said, lying smoothly. Her carry-on bag contained enough clothes and toiletries to last several weeks.

Unaware that Ciara had skillfully manipulated him into doing something he hadn't wanted, Brandt said, “I have a cleaning service that comes in several times a week. They do laundry. If you need them to take care of anything for you, then leave your clothes in the laundry room.” He reached for the sheet, uncovering his legs. He'd changed from wearing boxer-briefs to boxers in order for them to fit over the casts. “I need you to bring the wheelchair closer to the bed so I can go to the bathroom.”

Ciara walked around the bed and pulled the wheelchair closer before applying the brake, while Brandt braced his hands on the mattress and pushed himself into the chair. The muscles in his chest, arms and abs were magnificent. She had to remind herself that her patient was a professional athlete, and being in peak physical condition was a major factor in his earning an astounding amount of money for throwing a ball down a football field. He earned as much for one game as most people earned in ten years. She had little interest in sports, especially in jocks with overblown egos.

“Where's the bathroom?”

Brandt pointed to a door on his right. “It's over there. I don't need you to watch me.”

Releasing the brake on the chair, Ciara pushed him toward the en suite bath. “I'm not going to watch you. I just want to make certain you make it inside.”

“I've made it okay before you got here, and I'm certain I'll make it after you leave.”

“Why don't you try dialing down the tough-guy talk, Brandt. You don't frighten me.”

“What does frighten you?”

She pushed the chair into a bathroom that was larger than the kitchen and dining room she shared with her roommate in a two-bedroom renovated apartment in West Harlem. There was a free-standing shower, double sinks, a soaker tub with jets and a dressing area. The doors to an antique cupboard were removed to reveal shelves filled with an ample supply of towels and bathrobes.

Ciara wanted to tell Brandt he didn't frighten her in the least. In fact, she found his outbursts rather amusing. There was no doubt he was an imposing figure on the gridiron, but she wasn't a professional football player, and whether or not she was scared of him was irrelevant.

“I'm not afraid of anyone or anything,” she stated confidently.

Brandt smiled for the first time in weeks. “I'm impressed.”

Pushing him closer to the commode, Ciara positioned Brandt where he could easily get out of the wheelchair. “Are you certain you'll be all right?”

“Yes. I'll let you know if I require your assistance.” His words were dripping with sarcasm.

Ignoring his comments, she turned on her heel and walked out of the bathroom, closing the door behind her. Standing next to the door, she exhaled deeply. Going toe-to-toe with Brandt Wainwright was exhausting—it always was that way with a stubborn patient. Dealing with difficult patients always took a lot out of her.

As a psychiatric nurse she knew exactly what Brandt was going through. As an athlete his physical limitations were even more devastating. And although his inability to walk was only temporary, to Brandt it was torture. For most patients in his situation, the feelings of helplessness were often followed by anger and depression. Ciara had to intervene before he succumbed to his emotions. She was certain he would walk again, even if she doubted whether he would be able to play ball again.

His readiness to play football was something she would leave up to the team doctors. Her responsibility was to help with his recovery so that the physical therapist could get him up and walking again. Brandt opened the bathroom door and wheeled the chair into the bedroom. She lowered the bed, making it easier for him to get back into it.

Ciara noticed beads of perspiration on Brandt's forehead and that he'd gritted his teeth when he fell back to the pile of pillows. “Would you like something to help the pain?” She knew he was hurting.

Brandt tried willing the pain to go away, but it'd persisted. It was as if someone was driving hot spikes into his legs. Once he'd left the hospital, he'd resisted taking painkillers, even though he'd been told there was no honor in suffering in silence.

“Please.”

 

Leona arose from the padded bench outside the bedroom where she'd sat waiting for Ciara Dennison to emerge. She hadn't heard Brandt shouting at Ciara, so she prayed things had gone well between him and his latest nurse.

“How did it go?” she asked as Ciara stepped into the hallway.

“Well, Brandt needs to wash his hair, but that's going to have to wait until later. Right now he needs his pain medication.”

A sigh of relief escaped Leona. She'd sat praying Ciara Dennison would succeed where the other nurses had failed. She was also surprised Ciara had asked her for Brandt's medication. Whenever she'd asked her son whether he needed something for pain, he'd refused to take anything.

“It's in the kitchen. I'll get it for you.”

Ciara took Brandt's pulse as she waited for his mother to return with the painkillers. It was within normal range.

She'd gotten over one hurdle when she had managed to get him to agree to her being there. But she wasn't ready to declare victory just yet. She didn't like getting into his face, but apparently it had worked—if only temporarily.

Ciara waited until Brandt was asleep before she left the bedroom. “He's asleep,” she told Leona who popped up from the bench. “Is there some place we can go and talk?”

“We can talk in the kitchen. I could use a cup of chamomile tea to calm my nerves. Would you like coffee or tea?”

Ciara gave her a sidelong glance. “Tea would be nice, thank you.”

“After tea, I'll give you a tour of the penthouse. All of the bedroom suites on the first floor have connecting doors. Brandt installed an elevator between the pantry
and the kitchen, so you don't have to climb the stairs. If you take the suite next to his it will give you easy access whenever he needs you.”

“Does he sleep through the night?” Ciara asked, following Leona into a spacious kitchen finished in an antique white with a coffered ceiling, paneled-door refrigerator, black granite countertops, an eight-burner commercial range and double ovens. The kitchen opened to a formal dining room with the same coffered ceiling.

“I'm not certain.” Leona gestured to a quartet of stools at the cooking island. “Please sit down.”

Ciara sat, giving the older woman a questioning look. “Why don't you know?”

A rush of color suffused Leona's face. “Since the accident I've been unable to sleep, so my doctor prescribed a sleeping aid. I always make certain Brandt is settled before I take the pill.”

So if he were to fall out of bed or need something, you wouldn't know it until the following morning.
Ciara shook her head as if to banish the thought. Throughout her nursing career, she had been taught that it was always and only about the patient.

“Is he eating?” she asked, changing the subject.

Leona filled a kettle with water and placed it on the stovetop range. “His appetite is improving.”

“What do you mean improving?” Ciara asked.

“During his hospital stay he'd refused to eat, so they fed him intravenously. Since his return, he has been picking at his food.”

“Who cooks for him now?” she asked, continuing her questioning, and watching Leona as she moved
comfortably around the kitchen, opening cabinets, drawers and removing china and silver.

“I ordered frozen entrées.”

Resting her elbows on the countertop, Ciara cupped her chin in the heel of her hand. She decided to reserve comment on the frozen meals. Her mother, Phyllis Dennison, was a registered dietician and abhorred processed food. If it wasn't made from scratch, then it didn't end up on Phyllis's table.

“The pantry and refrigerator are stocked, so if you want to make something for yourself, then please feel free to do so,” Leona continued as she placed a bottle of honey and a sugar bowl on the countertop. “If you prefer ordering takeout, then just call the building's concierge. You do cook, don't you?” she asked without taking a breath. “I'm only asking because most young women nowadays are so busy with their careers that cooking isn't as much a priority as it was years ago.”

A hint of a smile played at the corners of Ciara's mouth. “My mother is a registered dietitian at a nursing facility and my roommate is a chef. Thankfully I've learned to prepare more than a few dishes.”

Leona dropped several teabags into a teapot and added boiling water. “Good for you. I have some scones that go very well with tea. Perhaps you would like some?”

“No, thank you.”

She wanted to tell Leona Wainwright that she was on duty and sharing afternoon tea with her patient's mother was not a part of her job description. However she had to go along with it. Private nurses were well paid—and in Brandt Wainwright's case, extremely
well paid. Ciara estimated her stint with Brandt would probably last two months, give or take a week. Once the casts were removed and he could bear his own weight, then her assignment would be over. After that, her plans included taking two weeks off to visit with her mother in upstate New York before returning to Manhattan for her next case.

Leona poured the tea into fragile, hand-painted china cups, adding a teaspoon of sugar to hers, while Ciara opted for honey. The two women sat sipping tea in comfortable silence until Leona said, “I hope you don't get the wrong impression of my son. I've never known him to be so rude—”

“There's no need to apologize, Mrs. Wainwright,” Ciara interrupted. “I'm more than familiar with—”

“Please call me Leona. I always think of my mother-in-law as Mrs. Wainwright.”

Ciara smiled over the rim of her cup. “Okay. As I was saying, there's no need to apologize. Brandt's anger and frustration aren't unique to his type of injury. I've had patients who've gotten depressed and refused to eat, talk or even try to do their rehab.”

Leona leaned closer, her brow knitting in concern. “What did you do?”

“I recommended a psychiatric evaluation. Some are prescribed antidepressants, but it was usually enough to get them to open up about their feelings of helplessness or loss of independence.”

“Do you think that's what wrong with Brandt?”

“I'm a psychiatric nurse, not a psychiatrist. Your son is a professional athlete, and that means that his body is integral to his self-image. The fact that he can't use
his legs would affect him more than someone who sits behind a desk for seven or eight hours a day. I don't think Brandt is as depressed as he is frustrated that he needs help with his most basic needs.”

“I pray you're right, Ciara. Seeing Brandt in physical and emotional pain is more than I can bear right now.” Leona's eyes filled with tears.

Ciara's hands tightened around her cup to prevent her from reaching out to comfort Brandt's mother. She wanted to remind her that her son had survived a horrific accident that could've ended his life. And the fact that he did survive meant he would recover. Whether he'd ever be able play football again was another matter.

“Brandt's going to be all right, Leona. It's just that he's going through a rough time now. Give him another few weeks.”

“I'm trying to be patient, but every time he lashes out I don't recognize him. Of all of my four children he is the free spirit, the most fun-loving. When he told me he wanted to be a professional football player, it was the darkest day in my life. I had visions of him being carried off the field or spending the rest of his life in a wheelchair paralyzed from some freak accident. Little did I know that he would still end up in a wheelchair.” Leona sniffled, then dabbed at her nose with a napkin. “I'm sorry about becoming weepy. I'm usually not so emotional.”