Second Chance Dad (4 page)

“You're on my schedule for Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays at four-thirty—”

“
Three
times a week?” A pained look crossed his face.

“For starters. We'll cut back gradually as time goes on.” She looked at her watch. “But we've already used up a good part of your time and I can't stay late today, so maybe we can start your assessment on Monday instead.”

A wry look flashed in his eyes. “Big plans, tonight?”

“With the two most important men in my life.”

He blinked at that. “Good. Then you can be on your way.”

He gripped his cane and slowly crossed the distance from the outbuilding to the cabin, the stiff set of his shoulders and awkward gait belying his effort to walk with an even stride.

Her heart caught at what that effort cost him, and she had to stop herself from moving to his side to help. “You won't be sorry, Dr. McLaren. This is the first day of a new life for you. I promise.”

 

He was already sorry, and that rust bucket of an old car of hers hadn't even made it down the lane to the highway.

If it hadn't been for that humiliating incident at the grocery store, he would not have capitulated.
Ever.

He'd certainly fallen before on his home turf. Had felt weak and helpless and useless.

But that incident in public, with a gaggle of shrieking teenagers surrounding him and a motherly store clerk murmuring comforting platitudes in his ear
more suited for a three-year-old with a scraped knee, had been the final straw.

He deserved an eternity of penance for what happened to his wife. He had probably deserved to die with her. But to be on the floor, helpless and pathetic and dizzy, the object of pity, wasn't something he wanted to experience ever again.

And then there was Sophie herself.

Today, her expression of concern and gentle insistence had made him want to rebelliously refuse. Yet something about that sprinkling of freckles over her pert nose and the hint of humor dancing in her eyes had made him want to get to know her a lot better, too.

Because of that and more, he was back to wavering; not wanting her coming back here for deeper reasons than he wanted to think about.

But he didn't have her cell number, and calling the Home Health office meant risking the chance of having Grace answer the phone. He certainly wasn't taking
her
on again.

The cell phone on his belt vibrated. Lifting it, he read the screen and sighed, debating about answering. But failing to answer would only spur more calls and eventually, a harried trip from Sacramento by his only sibling, followed by more hovering and overt concern than he could handle.

“Josh,” Toni exclaimed. “When you didn't answer last night and early this morning, I was starting to
panic. I told Tom that I was going to have to book a flight if I didn't reach you by this afternoon.”

Tom, a quiet, friendly guy with the energy level of a ninety-year-old, was the exact opposite of his overly anxious wife, and had probably been trying to calm her down with little success. How the man managed to live with such a whirlwind of energy was truly a mystery.

“I'm fine, Toni. Phone reception is just iffy here.”

“But when you didn't answer—”

“What do you think might happen? I'm perfectly independent. In good health. Content.” None of it was true, but allaying her worries meant keeping her where she belonged—at home—instead of having her descend into his life again for a weekend or longer. He loved her. He knew she loved him. But in this case, distance was the best antidote to an awkward situation.

“I worry so about you, Josh…all alone, so far out of town. What if you fell? Got hurt?”

It would be what I deserved
, he thought grimly.

“That isn't going to happen.”

“I still want to bring you back here to live with us.

I could take you to that rehab clinic downtown—they have wonderful results. My friend Angela's mother had a stroke, and they—”

“I have a therapist here.”

She fell silent for a long moment. “You what?”
Her voice grew cautious, laced with doubt. “You have a…physical therapist? In Aspen Creek?”

He gave a short laugh. “The medical care in Wisconsin is excellent, you know. We do have rehab available.”

“But I thought you'd refused to go through with it. You said…they couldn't do you any good.”

“I felt it was a waste of my time and theirs. But I've now got scheduled appointments.” He winced at the admission. “Three times a week, with home health. The therapist comes to the cabin.”

“Well, I'll be,” she breathed, her voice tinged with awe. “That's the best news I've heard in ages.”

“Yeah, well…you don't have to worry now, okay?”

“You—you'll keep me posted? Let me know if there's anything I can do?”

“No worries, sis. One of these days I'll be so good that I'll drive on down to see you. Maybe we can go hiking in Yosemite, like when we were kids.” It was a lie—an impossibility. He regretted leading her on. Yet he knew it was what she wanted to hear, and at least this time, his words held a grain of truth. He
was
starting rehab, even if didn't expect to continue for more than a few sessions.

He'd long since given up, and soon Sophie would, too, just like the others.

“I love you, Josh. I'll call again next week, okay?”

“Sure. Love you, too,” he added out of habit, though there was so little warmth left in his heart that the words rang false, even to him.

 

Sophie studied the last prescription bottle on the windowsill above the kitchen sink, then put it back and gripped the edge of the sink with both hands.

“I thought you said you'd been taking your meds,” she said evenly, trying to keep the frustration out of her voice. “Some of these bottles have the same number of pills since I counted them two days ago.”

The wooden legs of his chair screeched against the hardwood floor as Gramps pushed away from the kitchen table, stomped across the room and disappeared into the living room.

She heard a squeal of hinges and a thud as he sank into his favorite old recliner and pushed back to elevate the footrest. The television blared to life.

She followed him into the living room with his medications and a glass of water. “You need to take these,” she said, handing him the pills. “The little green ones are for your heart. And the Lasix is—”

“I know what it's all for. I just don't need to follow that quack's advice, every single day. He prob'ly gets a kickback on all of this stuff.”

“No, he doesn't.”

“Anyways, my dad lived to a hundred. He didn't start going to a doctor till he was ninety-nine and he
died within a year. If he'd just stayed home, he probably would've lived to a hundred-ten.”

Sophie already knew his speech by heart. She'd even heard Eli reciting the words at home sometimes because he'd heard them so many times. “Please, Gramps—just take your pills so your heart doesn't have to work so hard. I want you to be here the day Eli graduates from high school. Don't you?”

As always, the old man's expression softened at the mention of his great-grandson's name. He grudgingly downed the tablets and capsules. “There. I hope you're happy.”

She gave him a kiss on his whiskery cheek. “I am, whenever I come to see you. I'll go clean up the dishes, okay?”

He nodded, his eyes fastened on the TV screen, where someone was winning a trip to Jamaica on
Wheel of Fortune
.

Eli, curled up on the couch with a book on the history of Harley-Davidson motorcycles, didn't even look up when she tousled his hair on her way back to the kitchen.

Sophie eyed the messy counters, where peanut butter and jam lids had been left off their jars and the bread wrapper unsealed. A half empty glass of milk sat there, too, though it was anyone's guess for how long. The faint scent of sour milk filled her nostrils as she drew closer. The floor needed sweeping and scrubbing, and if there was time she'd need
to vacuum the living room once his favorite show was over.

And, come to think of it, there was bound to be laundry to take home…assuming Gramps had thought to shower and change his clothes since she'd been here two days ago.

She poured some detergent in the sink and started running the hot water, stacked up the dirty dishes from the past two days, then turned to grab a saucepan from the stove.

The acrid stench of charred food filled the air when she lifted the lid. She grabbed a knife and poked at the petrified mass inside. Whatever it was—canned chili? The casserole that she'd dropped off for him?—had turned hard as granite.

The wonder was that he hadn't managed to set his kitchen on fire. “I thought you were only going to use the microwave from now on,” she called out.

He probably couldn't hear her over the decibel level of the television, but he likely wouldn't answer anyway. And if she pushed too hard, he'd be all the more cantankerous. It was a fine line.

If he started refusing her assistance, he'd be in a nursing home by year's end, and that would probably kill him. He still fiercely defended his independence and swore he'd never give up his little house.

Biting her lower lip, she moved to the arched doorway leading into the living room and considered the gruff old man staring at the TV between his
slippered feet. Illuminated in eerie blue light from the screen, he looked as if he'd been cast in marble, the deep, shadowed valleys of his wrinkled, sagging flesh cut in slashing strokes bracketing his mouth.

He was frustrating. Stubborn. Gruff. But after the Lord, she loved Eli and Gramps more than anyone else in the world. As soon as the next commercial came on she knelt at his side. “You could have caused a fire, reheating those leftovers. I don't want you using the stove any longer. Promise?”

“Hhhmph.”

“I
mean
it,” she said with a teasing grin. “That's why I brought over the set of microwave containers. You could put the leftover pizza from tonight on a plate and just nuke for a short time, at lunch tomorrow. You don't need the oven.”

He didn't answer.

“And another thing—I'm working full-time now, so I can't drop in during the day like I did when I was in school. But Margie could—”

“She don't need to stop in here, with all that fluttering around. Treats me like I was three.”

“She means well. You know she does.”

Margie had taken well to her stepgrandson, but she and her father-in-law had been like oil and water from day one. It was no surprise that the two of them usually ended up at odds now that he needed more help yet resented the loss of independence it represented.

“And don't be sending your dad over here, either.”

That was yet another rocky relationship, made worse by her father's critical personality and Gramps's impatience with any sort of interference from his only son.

He silently stared ahead and aimed the remote at the television to increase the volume.

Back in the kitchen she studied the stove, then pulled it away from the wall a few inches and reached behind to pull the plug. Gramps would forget. He'd use it anyway. And then he might just burn the whole house down with him in it.

S
ophie hovered at the door of the children's area in the bookstore, watching Eli and Cody Mendez sitting cross-legged on the carpet with a stack of books between them.

The motorcycle books were definitely Eli's, she thought with a touch of affectionate exasperation, while Cody had gathered an eclectic collection of books on dogs, cowboys and vintage Star Wars toys.

They weren't playing together. Not even conversing, but seeing Eli with the son of Elana Mendez, the part-time bookstore clerk, made Sophie's heart warm.

Lost in his own world of an obsession with motorcycles and with his weak social skills among his peers, he rarely played with other kids. She could often see the way they distanced themselves when
he started reciting complex statistics and facts about his favorite topic.

But Cody, who walked with a pronounced limp and who had been on the run with his mother from her abusive ex-husband until they'd found a stable life in Aspen Creek, had his own unique issues and was as close to being a friend as Eli had ever had.

“They were both really good about staying quiet during our book discussion. You can leave him here for a few hours if you'd like,” Beth said, looking over her shoulder as she made a fresh pot of coffee at the table in the back of the store. “Elana works until noon, so Cody will be here.”

“I hate to impose.”

“Are you kidding?” Beth chuckled. “He's company for Cody, and he'd be studying those books until midnight if you let him. Two of the books are brand-new to the store, so he hasn't seen them. I ordered them with him in mind.”

Sophie gave her friend an affectionate hug. “I do need to take Gramps grocery shopping and get his laundry started,” she admitted. “And it will be hard to tear Eli away.”

Beth's eyes filled with sympathy. “How is your grandfather doing?”

“Independent as ever…or he thinks so, anyway.” She shuddered, remembering the pan of chili that had scorched on the stove. “But he's not yet to the stage where we can make him give up his home.”
“So what's going to happen when your dad and stepmom move to Florida—will they take him along?”

“
That
would sure be interesting. Dad isn't patient with Gramps, and Gramps still resents Margie. Big-time. If the three of them were all more forgiving it would be a lot better for everyone. But I guess we know that isn't likely to change.”

“So you'll take over completely when they go south. Lucky them.”

“Honestly, I'm already doing it for the most part except for home repairs. And I'm glad to do it.” Sophie stepped farther away from the door to the children's area and lowered her voice. “Gramps may be a crotchety old guy on the surface, but he was the only one who stood by me when…well, you know. There's nothing I wouldn't do for him now.”

Even now the old hurt sometimes resurfaced, along with the memory of her father's tirade when he'd told her to never show up on his doorstep again.

At twenty she'd been pregnant, alone and terrified, with no money and no place to turn until Gramps had welcomed her into his home.

When she'd married Rob a year later, her father had grudgingly acknowledged the marriage and his grandson, but he'd never really forgiven her.

“My mom is working on selling her gallery out in California. I sure hope she'll be moving back soon.”
Beth eyed an end cap display of books on gardening and straightened one, then touched the soil in a potted fern on the same shelf. “I worry about the day when she needs help and I want her to be close.”

Sophie smiled. “Your mom is one very cool lady.”

“Colorful.”

“And fun…sort of like a retro-hippy with all the bangles and pretty scarves. I love that she's such a free spirit.”

Olivia and Keeley wandered from the back room, where they'd had their book club meeting. Olivia lifted an eyebrow. “You
must
be talking about Beth's mom,” she said. “She'll sure add some zest to Aspen Creek if she comes back. I hear she's talking to a Realtor about an empty storefront on Main for an art gallery.”

“True…” Beth glanced between her friends, a smile tugging at her mouth and her eyes shining. “She does hope to relocate here. But there's another reason it will be nice to have her back.”

Keeley's mouth fell open. “Don't tell me. You and Devlin? Really?”

Beth nodded. “We've set a date. September fourth.”

Amid squeals of delight, the four women rushed together for an embrace.

“This is just so wonderful,” Olivia murmured.
“Seeing you two together is like stepping back in time.”

“Do you ever wish you two wouldn't have split up?”

Beth tucked a stray wisp of her mahogany hair behind her ear. “I wish our marriage would've worked the first time. That we wouldn't have wasted all that time being apart, and that we could've been spared the pain of our divorce. But now…it's different. Deeper, somehow. Maybe we're just more mature.”

“Well, I'm really glad that Devlin decided to move back here, so we won't lose you after you get married.” Keeley's eyes widened. “That's true, isn't it? You two will be staying here?”

“He's out of the military for good. And, lucky for me, he found he loves owning a business here. He thinks the high adventure merchandise is fun, and customers have been building steadily since he opened.”

“Lucky for us, too.” Olivia smiled. “Now we just have to make sure Sophie's job turns into a permanent position so she can say in town, too, and then our little book club can go on and on forever.”

At the reminder, Sophie's stomach did a little flip flop.

Yesterday, Dr. McLaren had finally agreed to start physical therapy. He was on her schedule at four-
thirty on Monday. But with a whole weekend to think about it, would he even let her into his house?

“I hope that happens. But if you've got an extra moment now and then, you might want to say a little prayer. I've got a couple of clients who aren't all that compliant, and one who definitely doesn't want to see me at all. If I fail…”

“Well, you're on my prayer list now, and those clients are, too,” Olivia said firmly.

“Mine, as well. Absolutely.” Keeley frowned. “Can you…um…share their names?”

Sophie shook her head. “Privacy issues.”

“Well, they're obviously people who need help and just don't realize it.” Olivia pulled a small notebook from her purse and jotted a reminder to herself. “God will know who they are.”

 

“You're here,” Josh said glumly, eyeing the persistent pixie standing outside his door with a duffel bag at her side.

She grinned up at him, then let herself in, dropped the obviously heavy bag on the floor by the sofa, and began pulling out the contents.

A metal flip chart, probably detailing his injuries, surgical reports, lack of cooperation, and the data on his humiliating failure to show progress.

A plastic goniometer—a hinged measurement apparatus for measuring angles of joint flexibility.

Assorted physical therapy exercise devices, all of
which he'd seen before. None of which had done a lick of good.

He felt his heart hardening all over again. But still, he'd given his word.

She glanced around, strode over to the old-fashioned, oak claw-foot table in the dining area at the far end of the room and pulled out a spindle back chair. “This will work fine. Have a seat.”

He made his way across the room, leaning heavily on his cane while trying not to limp. Her gentle smile and the way she stood ready to provide support made him feel like an old man. “I can get around, you know. I'm not exactly an invalid.”

“Of course not. But you could get around a whole lot better, and I'm here to help you make that happen.” She pulled up another chair, sat in front of him and flipped open the metal cover of the chart. “I just have a few questions and then we'll get started with a physical assessment.”

“My health history hasn't changed since the last time a therapist was out here,” he drawled. He leaned forward and glanced at the upside-down list of questions on the sheet. “Just draw a downward arrow through the ‘No' column there, and you'll save us both some time.”

She gave him a dry look.

“I'm serious. No chronic diseases or conditions. No meds other than a baby aspirin. No changes, no
complaints, no problems concerning any systems you could name.”

“Then tell me what your goals are for your physical therapy.”

He'd been ready for an argument over her questionnaire, and the abrupt change of topic felt like a punch below the belt. “I…don't have any.”

“Let me put it a different way. Where do you want to be in a year?”

“Right here.”

“So it would be safe to write up a report saying that you wish to remain in an isolated cabin with chronic pain. Limited ambulation. Weakness. An inability to return to a productive life.”

Her smile softened her words, but he knew she was intentionally baiting him. He didn't respond.

“Very well,” she continued. “Those are lofty goals, but I'm sure you can easily achieve every one of them.”

She slipped out of her chair and knelt in front of his chair, then measured the angle of his knee flexion as he lifted, bent, extended and lowered each leg.

His first impulse was to launch to his feet and flatly refuse this exercise in futility, yet her gentle touch and matter-of-fact, coolly professional manner gradually put him at ease. Which was just as well.

What an abrupt departure attempt would earn him didn't take much conjecture—he'd probably end up taking a header straight to the floor.
Again.

After sending him to the couch where she continued her assessments and documentation, she watched him stand and ambulate across the room and back.

He'd started to almost enjoy their verbal sparring, but as she continued her assessment of his range of motion and strength, the light moment faded. Who was he kidding?

One bad thing about being in the medical profession was that one knew too much to believe in false hopes and platitudes. He could recite the morphology and physiological details of every nerve and muscle she was evaluating. And he
knew
how badly they'd been damaged. How little hope there was—

“
Dr.
McLaren,” Sophie repeated, a little louder this time. She waited until he looked up and met her gaze. “Here's the deal. Grace Dearborn got new orders for your therapy, since there's been such a long lull after you were last seen. It's still an ‘eval and treat,' which places the modes of therapy in my court.”

He shrugged slightly.

“I'm focusing right now on your knee. Sitting on a chair in a normal, upright position with feet flat on the floor requires a ninety-degree angle of the knee joint. Typically, people want to achieve a minimum of a hundred-twenty degrees of flexion—being able to bend the knee much more—for ease at climbing stairs. Your injured knee is at just around seventy-
five. Which means your joint isn't bending well at all.”

He nodded.

She glanced toward the front door, which led to a covered front porch and just a slight step off onto the gravel. “You don't seem to have many steps to worry about here, but what about when you're in town?”

“I manage.”

“But not well.”

He tipped his head, silently conceding the point. And how could he not? She'd seen what happened in the grocery store.

“You have a great deal of scar tissue, from the surgical repair as well as the injury itself. You also have contraction of the tendons in a situation like yours, so it becomes painful to even
try
to extend and flex the leg more fully.” He nodded.

“We sometimes send patients into the hospital for anesthesia, so a doctor can manipulate and loosen those tight tendons and the inflamed knots of scar tissue without the patient feeling pain while it's being done. But now…well, this has all gone on for too much time, so the doctor hasn't given an order for that. We'll need to take a different approach.” She eyed him patiently. “Any questions?”

“So you're planning some sort of Marquis de Sade therapy.”

“Strengthening exercises on your own. Deep
massage. And yes, it may be uncomfortable.
But
, the better you hold up your part of the bargain with the exercises you do here at home, and the more regular your PT appointment are, the better it will be.”

“Great.”

“Have you been given a portable TENS unit before? It's about the size of an iPod or a Walkman that fits in a pocket or hangs from a belt, with wires leading to patches placed in the most painful of areas. A mild electric pulse stimulates endorphins in the brain and over-rides your own pain signals. It sort of tells the brain to accept a good signal instead of the ones that arise from chronic pain.” He shrugged.

“Look, I know you do
know
all of this,” she said.

Her voice was warm and compassionate, though as always, there was also an underlying thread of steel beneath her words that surprised him, given her young age. She looked as if she might be just nineteen or twenty, though with the years of college needed for a degree in physical therapy, she had to be in her early to mid-twenties.

“I know you could describe all of this in far more technical detail than I'm using now,” she continued. “You've probably even prescribed these units to patients. But when it comes to yourself, maybe you haven't been…willing to think about the possibilities.”

Unwilling.

Undeserving.

Unable, maybe, given the enormous guilt and sorrow that had settled over his days like a blanket of suffocating impenetrable smog.

But the hint of censure and challenge in her eyes belied her tactful words, and he realized that she thought he was sitting alone in this cabin, choosing to wallow in self-pity and apathy.