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He turned his head far enough to look at the waiting wheelchair. It might as well be forty feet high, for the effort it would take to get back into it.
“Quite a climb,” she said, guessing his thoughts with uncanny accuracy.
He grunted in agreement. “Hard to believe I used to climb mountains for fun.”
He’d loved the adrenaline rush of pushing his body to the utmost as he scaled a sheer rock face, the euphoria of reaching the top and knowing he’d conquered it. Now he couldn’t even get himself into a chair.
“Just rest a few minutes.” Mary Kate sat back on her heels as if she could use the rest, too. Her hair clung in damp ringlets to her neck, and while he watched she stretched her arms overhead as if trying to relieve taut muscles.
Her willingness to wait for him made him perversely eager to get back into the chair. “Let’s do it.” He shoved himself up onto his elbows. “No sense in wasting the day lying around.”
“Eager to get back to daytime television?” She maneuvered the chair into position and locked the brake before squatting down next to him.
“Not much else to do.” He’d been mildly embarrassed when she’d come in and found him watching reruns of sixties comedies.
“Let your friends come by and see you,” she said promptly. “Check some books out of the library. Take up a hobby.”
“Stamp collecting?” He let her pull his arm across her shoulders. Once he’d have enjoyed being that close to her. Now it just reminded him of his own helplessness.
“You still have a woodworking shop in the room behind the kitchen. I notice your mother never cleared that out.”
“No, thanks.”
It had been his father’s shop originally, not his. He’d hung around, watching, until his father finally saw his interest and showed him how to cut a curve and sand down an edge. After his dad left, he’d kept up with it for a while, maybe out of some stupid belief that his dad would come back and be proud of what he’d made. He’d learned, eventually. He hadn’t bothered with it in years.
Mary Kate double-checked the chair’s position, and he felt her muscles tighten. “Ready?”
“Ready.”
Together they managed to haul his useless body into the chair, but by the time he was settled they were both breathless.
“Good work,” she said.
He shoved her hands away, hating that he had to rely on her strength instead of his own. “Don’t patronize me. I’m not one of your kids.”
A flicker of anger touched her eyes and was gone. “I don’t patronize my kids.”
So he could hurt her. Disgust filled him. What kind of a man was he? He didn’t want her pity, but he also didn’t like feeling that she was unaffected. So he sniped at her. Not very pretty, was it?
Mary Kate straightened, seeming to throw off her reactions. “Let’s talk about where we’re going to put all the equipment that’s coming on Saturday.”
He shrugged. “I don’t care. You decide.”
She walked through the archway to the dining room. “I was thinking we might use this room. All we’d have to move out are the chairs and table. The sideboard wouldn’t be in the way.”
He wheeled after her into the room, his attention caught in spite of himself. “I guess that would work. I’m not likely to be hosting any dinners for eight.”
“Or even one, judging by the condition of your refrigerator.”
“Just stay out of my refrigerator,” he said, knowing she was right. He was subsisting on peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, for the most part.
“Where do you plan to put the table and chairs?” He wouldn’t sell the dining-room furniture his mother had kept polished and shining.
Mary Kate touched the smooth surface. “I think it’ll be okay in the garage.”
“How do you plan to get it there?” He slapped the arms of the wheelchair. “I’m not exactly in shape to move furniture.”
“My brothers offered to—”
“No.” He cut her off before she could finish the offer of charity. “Hire someone to do it. I’ll pay.”
He felt her gaze on him, but refused to return it. He wasn’t going to have guys he’d played football and basketball with coming in here, trying to make polite conversation and avoid looking at his wheelchair. Or worse, telling him how sorry they were while they stood there on two good feet.
“Fine.” She gave in quickly.
He glanced around the room, picturing it filled with exercise equipment. “Are you sure this equipment rental is going to be covered? I don’t want to be presented with a big bill for stuff I didn’t want to begin with.”
She turned away, seeming to mentally measure the room for the equipment. “It’ll be covered,” she said shortly. “One thing—we might have to let your car sit out once we put the furniture in the garage.”
He shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. I ought to sell it, anyway. I won’t be driving again.”
“You don’t know that.” She swung toward him, her eyes darkening with concern. “Luke, you can’t just give up on things. Nobody can tell how much you’re going to recover.”
“Nobody?” Anger surged through him suddenly—at her, at God, at himself for surviving. “I can, Mary Kate. I can tell you exactly how much I’m going to recover. Do you want to know?”
She took a step back, as if alarmed by his anger. He should stop, but he couldn’t.
“I’m going to be in this chair forever, and nothing you or anyone else does is going to change that.”
What was she going to do about Luke? The question revolved in Mary Kate’s mind like a hamster on a wheel as she cleaned up the kitchen that evening after supper. The children’s voices rose and fell from the living room, where they were engaged in a board game. A game that seemed to involve argument, by the sound of things.
She frowned at the raspberry jelly that had dried on the bottom rung of one of the pine kitchen chairs. It was beyond her understanding how the three of them could make such a mess in the house when they were gone most of the day. It would be summer vacation in a month, and how she’d manage then, she couldn’t imagine.
Just like she couldn’t see what to do about Luke. The depth of his bitterness continued to shock her. She knew as well as anyone the important role played by the patient’s attitude in healing. Luke’s anger and isolation would poison any chance of wholeness if someone didn’t do something to change it.
And, it seemed, either through chance or perhaps through God’s working, that she was the one who was in a position to change that.
Did You put me in this situation? You must have a reason, but I don’t see it. Seems to me I’m that last person who can help him deal with loss. I’m still struggling with that myself.
She wouldn’t change Luke by encouraging him with words. His irritation when he felt she spoke to him as she’d speak to her children was proof of that.
And speaking of her children, the noise level in the other room had risen dramatically, followed by the clatter of a game board being upset. She tossed the dishcloth into the sink and stalked into the living room, trying to get a handle on her impatience.
“Hey, what’s going on in here? Who threw the checkerboard?”
She knew the answer to that without asking. Shawna, who never lost control, looked smug, while Michael’s eyes were suspiciously bright. He folded his arms across his chest, his lower lip jutting out.
This didn’t look like the right time for scolding. In fact, this wasn’t usually her time at all. Kenny had always taken the evening chores with the kids when he’d been off duty. This had been his time to play with them, roughhousing on the carpet despite her protests and supervising baths and bedtime.
She’d scolded him once, when the roughhousing had led to a broken lamp and Michael was in tears over her reaction.
“Let it go.” She could almost hear Kenny’s voice, soft and steady. “A broken heart is worth crying about, M.K. Not a broken lamp.”
Now she had the broken heart, too, but she wouldn’t cry. Not in front of the children. Their world had been torn apart by their father’s death. She didn’t want to make them afraid by letting them see fear or grief in her.
She sat down on the rug, pulling them close to her. “Forget about the game. Tell me about school today. How was it?”
She happened to be looking at Shawna’s face when she asked the question, and she saw the quick flicker of hurt in her eyes. She blinked, and it was gone. She stroked the red curls away from her daughter’s heart-shaped face.
“Shawnie? Is anything wrong?”
“Everything’s okay, Mom.”
Michael wiggled, as if he’d say something, but Shawna shot him a look and he stopped.
“Are you sure?” She didn’t want to give her children the third degree, but something had dimmed Shawna’s brightness for a moment.
“I’m sure.” She smiled. “I got a perfect score on my spelling test.”
“That’s great.” She hugged her, storing away the sense of something wrong to think about later. “What did you do at Grammy and Grandpa’s?”
“We had a snack,” Michael said. “And then we played outside, and Grandpa played ball with us for a while and then we practiced riding our bikes.”
“Did you stay right where Grandpa told you to?”
“Yes, Mommy.” That was accompanied by a huge sigh. “We always do.”
Ridiculous, to worry about them when they were in Mom and Dad’s care. And that neighborhood was certainly safe enough—still the kind of place where everyone knew everyone else and looked out for them. Even so, she couldn’t seem to stop.
Don’t worry. Pray. Mom had a small plaque with those words hanging in her bedroom. With six kids to raise, she’d probably done plenty of both.
“Well, shall we read a couple of chapters in our book?” They’d been working their way through some of the children’s classics, and even Shawna, already reading well, seemed to enjoy being read to.
“Not now, Mommy. Now we want to hear about the soldier.” Michael snuggled against her.
“Soldier?” she repeated blankly. “Do we have a book about a soldier?”
“Lieutenant Marino,” Shawna corrected. “We want to hear about him. Did you know that he’s on our bulletin board at school? And that he got medals?”
She should have realized. The children’s elementary school had taken on a project of supporting local people who were serving in the military. Naturally Luke would be included.
Her heart clutched as she thought about Luke now, in a wheelchair. How did you tell children about the terrible cost of war?
“He wrote a letter to me,” Michael said.
“He did not!” Shawna, who’d been leaning against Mary Kate, shot upright. “That’s a big fib.”
“It is not. He did write to me. He wrote a letter and it said ‘To Ms. Sumter’s boys and girls.’ And I’m one of Ms. Sumter’s boys, so he wrote to me.” His face was very red.
“Of course,” she soothed. “He meant his letter for each one of you.”
“Well, I don’t think—” Shawna began, but subsided at a glance from her mother. “We want to know about him. Is he very hurt?”
She’d always tried to tell them the truth, even when she had to simplify it for them. “He was hurt when a bomb went off near where he was working. It hurt his legs badly.”
“Did they have to cut them off?” Michael asked in a matter-of-fact tone.
She squeezed him, wondering where some of his ideas came from. “No, they didn’t, but his legs don’t work very well yet. That’s why I have to help him, to teach his legs how to work again.”
“But what if they don’t get better?” His little face puckered up.
“They will.” She said it with all the sureness she could muster. If I can help it, they will.
Maybe it was time for a distraction. She tickled Michael’s chin, and he giggled. “You didn’t tell me what you did in school today.”
He shrugged, turning away, the laughter vanishing. “We worked on the model town today, that’s all.”
“I see.”
She saw only too well. The model of the city of Suffolk was a tradition for the first-grade classes and the children worked on it all year. When Shawna had been in first grade, Kenny had helped her make a model car for the display. Michael had been so excited about it that Kenny had started one with him. Shortly after that, Kenny was diagnosed.
Two months later he’d been gone. How could it happen that fast? Somehow one always thought of cancer as a long, slow battle. Not this time. They’d never finished the car.
She hugged him. “Listen, would you like me to help you make something for the display?” Her carpentry talents were limited, but maybe she could get a kit.
“No, thank you, Mommy.” His politeness was heartbreaking. “Do you think we could go with you someday and meet the soldier?”
“I’m afraid not, honey. He’s been sick and he doesn’t want any company.”
“Maybe when he’s better,” he said.
“Maybe.” She could just imagine Luke’s reaction if she turned up one day with her children in tow.
Still, seeing someone besides her might be a good idea. Not the children—that was too chancy. But if the idea that was flickering at the back of her mind worked out, maybe she could push Luke into seeing a couple of his old friends, whether he thought he wanted to or not.
Chapter Three
Luke shoved the pillow out of the way and levered himself onto his elbows to look at the bedside clock. Nearly nine. He had to get up. Today the exercise equipment was arriving, along with Mary Kate and some helpers to move the dining-room furniture. It would be the busiest time this place had seen since he’d come home, thanks to Mary Kate’s persistence.
Of course, he could try hiding in his bedroom until they’d been and gone. Let M.K. take care of all of it. But if he did, it would be like her to barge into his bedroom and find him in his pajamas, unshaven. He hadn’t let her catch him looking that bad since the first day. He had a little pride, after all. He’d get up.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed, helping them with his hands, and pulled the wheelchair closer. Mary Kate probably wouldn’t be fazed at all by finding him in bed. After all, her specialty had always been helping every lame duck who crossed her path.
And now he was the lame duck, wasn’t he? Gritting his teeth, he maneuvered the switch from bed to chair, faintly surprised that it seemed a little easier than it had a few days ago.
That warm, nurturing spirit of Mary Kate’s had probably been come by naturally. From what he remembered, her mother was exactly the same. And Mary Kate, the oldest of the Flanagan brood, had mothered the rest of them unmercifully.
His mind drifted through those growing-up years as he got ready to face the day. He’d been buddies with Gabe, a year younger than he and Mary Kate, and to some extent with the next younger brother, Seth. Sports had done it. The three of them had been involved in every athletic activity Suffolk High offered.
