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“You didn’t tell Samuel that, I hope.”
“I suggested that he drop it in the recycle bin on his way back home,” Wyatt said.
“I raised you with better manners than that.”
He smiled. He did consider dropping the pathetic plant in the recycle bin himself on his way to work. Even a tempered truth had less cruelty than false hope.
His mother eyed him. “Where’s the cactus?”
“Sitting beside the other neighborhood plants begging for resuscitation and prompt care.” His mother had a plant-based ER in her nursery. The neighbors and her so-called friends were obviously taking advantage of his mom’s green thumb skills. Her greenhouse wasn’t the local garden center at the hardware store or inside one of the city’s impressive parks with multiple staff to attend to it. She was one person, living alone, among her plants. In his opinion, her garden and greenhouse had gotten more than a bit out of control. She needed to say no more often.
“What kind of cactus is it?”
“The cactus kind.” Wyatt dropped his keys and cell phone on the window ledge and crossed his arms over his chest.
“Really, Wyatt. If you asked for details about a gunshot victim downstairs, you’d hardly accept bullet wound as an appropriate response.”
Bullet wounds and his patients were not even in the same stratosphere as a dying cactus. Especially a cactus that could be replaced with a trip to the local home improvement store and a five-minute walk through the garden center. Wyatt sighed, picked up his mother’s tablet and searched cactus images on the internet. “Maybe this one, if its shoots weren’t all shriveled up.”
“Ask Samuel if this is his great-grandmother’s Christmas cactus that he told me about,” she said.
“If you get on email, you could ask him yourself,” Wyatt suggested.
His mother waved her hand. “This is quite personal. You don’t talk to your patients’ family members through email when they come into the ER.”
He wasn’t adverse to the suggestion, especially given some of the family members who’d confronted him in the past few months. But again, plants and patients hardly belonged in the same sentence. “It’s a cactus.” Wyatt stressed the word because it needed repeating. A replaceable cactus.
“Yes, but it’s been in his family since his great-grandmother settled in the city. The plant has deep, meaningful roots.”
He once had meaningful roots in the city, too. But that was the problem with roots—when they died, it hurt all the more. At least the neighbor needed to grieve only the loss of a plant, not his family. What was wrong with him? He blamed Mia Fiore for stirring up the unnecessary emotional pot inside him. “Tell me what to do with Granny’s cactus.”
“Bring me a stem.” Helen powered off her notepad. “In the meantime, look for the cactus food. It’s on the third shelf to the left of the door of the greenhouse.”
In the meantime, he’d be working in the ER, looking for nitroglycerin to treat chest pain and injecting alteplase to dissolve blood clots in the brain or giving morphine to decrease crippling kidney stones. “That’s the only neighborhood plant SOS from yesterday.” Wyatt injected lightness into his tone. Still, his mother looked crestfallen at the news, as if rescuing neighborhood plants gave her a reason to live. “Mom, we need to discuss...”
“Discuss these applications for the foundation,” she finished for him and pulled out a stack of papers from the drawer in her bedside table.
His level of frustration soared. Two months ago, before her fall, his mom had decided to give away the family money to local charities through her newly formed foundation. They’d already talked about that. Right now, they had to discuss assisted care and her living arrangements after her discharge. Once he knew she was safe, he could return to Africa and the medical aid program he’d started there. The one that depended on his return to expand into more remote locations. “You were going to cancel the ad and put the foundation on hold for now.”
“You decided that, but I decided differently.” The warning rapped through her voice like marbles striking a tile floor.
She’d approached helping Trent the very same way, agreeing to Wyatt’s suggestions but then doing exactly what she’d wanted, and look how badly that had turned out. If his mom had only accepted his brother’s addictions and risked revealing the truth of Trent’s condition to friends and family by admitting his brother to an in-patient rehab center, Trent might be alive today. Wyatt straightened, met her gaze and smoothed the boyish plea, as if he was six again and wanted a puppy, out of his voice. “But we already talked about this.”
“No, you told me that I’d be stopping the foundation funding like you instruct your patients on medicine and follow-up appointments. I doubt you use such an overbearing tone with them.” She smoothed the clear tape over her IV line port. “But I’ve reasons, good ones, for continuing to disperse funds from the foundation.”
Doing it because he didn’t want her to was not a good reason. Nor was her insistence that her days were limited. Her days hadn’t been limited since they’d cleared the infection from her femur bone and replaced her hip for the second time. “These applicants need to be vetted. You don’t even know if they’re real organizations or not.” He swiped the first application from the pile and scanned the messy handwritten form from Project Save the Leprechauns. “It’s nothing more than a mad money grab.”
“There’s nothing mad about it.” She patted her hair into place as if her perfectly set updo would keep all the dissenters at bay. “I wish to see the family money put to good use while I’m still alive. It isn’t as if you need it. You can go through the applicants and I can write the checks.”
Wyatt dropped his chin to his chest and jammed both hands into his hair. That stack contained at least a hundred more pages. He had real work: patients to care for and conference calls to attend with his partners overseas. “You want me to go through all of these?”
“Yes. I need to concentrate on my therapy.” She pulled her robe tighter across her chest. “I don’t want to disappoint the charities that are relying on my money to keep up their good work.”
“Yes, I’m sure Project Rescue the Dust Bunny is impacting the needy in the city with its wonderful deeds.” He crumpled the second application from the pile in his fist. One vetted, only ninety-nine to go.
“I promised to help fund local charities in my ad, and I’ll keep my word. I only need the best twenty from that pile.”
She was going to be bankrupt before her discharge. “I’ll do this, if we talk about the brochures I left with you.”
“I threw those out.” Satisfaction, not remorse, steadied her gaze. She never flinched, as if she was a heart surgeon wielding a scalpel.
He squeezed the crumpled paper tighter, trying to squeeze the irritation from his voice. “You cannot move home.”
“I most certainly can.” She raised her voice with the same dignity she’d raised two boys. “And will.”
“I cannot ensure your safety at home.” His cell phone rang.
“You won’t have to ensure anything. You’ll be back in Africa, where you’d clearly rather be right now.” Disdain hardened her voice, and disapproval shifted into the scowl she aimed at his phone. “It must be eight o’clock. Africa calls at this time every night you visit me.”
“I’ve already explained that my partners and I expanded our clinic before I left. My schedule and the time change make it difficult to talk, and there are things that only I can handle.”
“Yet you aren’t the only doctor within your organization. But then you must prefer the interruption. After all, there are twenty-three other hours to choose to schedule your conference call.”
Silence swelled inside the room.
She acted like he’d traded her for Africa. He’d have talked to her about his plans for his medical aid work if she’d gone to her own son’s funeral five years ago. But neither her youngest son’s funeral nor her oldest son’s departure to a foreign country had been important enough for her to leave her precious gardens unattended. Resentment ricocheted through him, nothing new there.
But the sting that hitched his breath and tightened his chest was too fresh, as if his mother’s absence still hurt. Yet he wasn’t wading into that emotional quicksand. That was the past. Not forgotten, but past. Now wasn’t the time or the place. There’d never be a time or place for that particular discussion.
He closed off his emotions. Sentiment only ever distorted the logic and rationale he’d come to depend on in the ER and every other part of his life. Was it too late to steer the conversation back to her nursery? If only there’d been another neighbor with a plant emergency. “My life is in Africa.”
“Then you should return.”
But not stay. Not ever stay. She’d never ask that of him. “When you’re settled.”
“You need to live your own life, not dictate mine.”
As if he’d returned only to boss her around. Not because they were the only family left and needed each other. Wyatt squirmed at the thought. “I came home for you.”
“I never asked you to,” she said.
The last five years their conversations had been trivial: her plants, which friends had passed away and who had moved in on her street. She wouldn’t ask when he was coming home, and he wouldn’t volunteer to return. She hadn’t even asked him to come home when she’d first fallen and injured her hip. He’d come back at the request of a distant cousin. He pushed out of the chair, wanting to push the past back in its place and get moving again. His agenda: move forward. To always keep moving forward. Perhaps then he just might outrun all the what-ifs. “A good son looks after his mother.” And Wyatt was determined to be a good son, even if his mother didn’t appreciate his interference.
“You’ve done that,” she said.
“I’m not finished.”
“I can take care of myself now.” His mother tugged on the belt around her waist, but the flimsy fabric refused to stay tied, and the satiny bow unraveled in her fragile hands, discrediting her claim.
“Not in your house.” Wyatt set his hands on his hips and eyed his mom. “Not alone.”
She wouldn’t meet his gaze, but her chin lifted. “Being alone is nothing new. Besides, I have wonderful neighbors.”
Neighbors who Wyatt believed needed nothing more than his mom’s green thumb. A distant cousin had been the one to find his mother after her fall, not one of her supposedly wonderfully attentive neighbors. He hadn’t been there either. Not that she needed him. He turned his back to all those complicated emotions. “You’re obviously tired.”
“Not especially.”
Well, he was. Exhausted. Wyatt pressed a kiss against his mom’s pale cheek. “We can talk about this tomorrow. I’m on days this week, and I need to sleep.”
She reached up as if to touch him, but her fingers stirred only the air between them. “My mind is made up.”
He wasn’t sure if it was the bed rail or something else that held her back. Not that it mattered. He’d long ago outgrown his need for motherly affection.
Besides, his mind was made up, too. He might be surrounded by stubborn women, but that wouldn’t stop him from doing what was right.
CHAPTER THREE (#u8e72148e-2fd7-5363-b9b5-51187ea265cb)
MIA TUGGED ON the twin ties on her hospital gown and gritted her teeth. She’d needed only one day to learn to tie her shoes in grade school. No way was a flimsy gown going to beat her. Of course, in elementary school her fingers hadn’t been numb or her arm stiff and sore from even the smallest movement. Still, she’d tie her gown closed as she had nothing else to do until her morning physical therapy in an hour.
This was the perfect catnap opportunity. Yet her mind refused to let her sleep. Every time she closed her eyes, images from her accident bombarded her. She wasn’t certain what was real and what was manufactured by her nightmares. Real or imagined, fear rippled through her like the explosive screech of a frightened red fox and retreated only if she opened her eyes. She’d never considered herself stupid or irrational. Until now. Clearly three days without decent sleep had taken its toll.
At least she had a plan. Because another night of no sleep was unacceptable.
Her fingers trembled, and the thin strap slipped from her grip. Numbness absorbed her arm, and her leg throbbed from Dr. Hensen’s routine exam. Tears pooled in her eyes. She refused to cry, especially over stupid things. Still her chin sagged toward her chest, and her arms drooped to her sides. Everything inside her went limp, and defeat rushed in.
“You better not be crying.” Eddy Fuller’s voice filled her room, the nervous tremor in his tone increasing his volume. His curly hair always reminded her of a cup of coffee sweetened with too many creamers and complemented his usual laid-back style.
“I’m not.” Mia mumbled into her chest and avoided looking at her best friend and her father’s longtime video editor.
“Good. Tears are annoying.” Eddy stopped just inside the room and set the bags he carried on the floor near his feet. “Then what are you doing?”
“Trying to tie my gown.” And squeeze her stupid tears back behind her eyes.
Eddy made quick work of the ties behind her neck before retreating against the wall near the bathroom. His skin looked faded. He pinched his lips together as if struggling not to breathe too deeply. Eddy and hospitals did not play well together.
Mia latched on to her friend’s discomfort like a life preserver, pulling her out of her own self-pity pool. “You watch criminal and medical dramas in marathon sessions every week. How can my cuts bother you?”
“They look worse today.” His gaze lowered from the abstract art hanging on the wall behind her to her face, where it stuck. “You’re pushing too hard.”
She ignored the last part. She wasn’t pushing hard enough to get out. “You didn’t even look at my leg.”
“I don’t need to look at the ooze and pus to know it’s there.” Eddy’s gaze never wavered, unlike the ashen color that rolled over his skin.
“It’s supposed to look like this. It’s healing.” She hoped. The throbbing in her leg had become steady and constant, even before Dr. Hensen took the culture of her wound that morning. “Give me the laptop and I’ll release you from this torture. I really appreciate that you came all the way to my room.”
Eddy pushed away from the wall and kept his focus on Mia. “Will you still appreciate me when I tell you that I called your mom?”
“You talked to my mom?” The back of her head pounded like someone had smashed the abstract art frame against her head.
Eddy squeezed the wedding ring tattooed around his ring finger like he always did whenever doubt seized him. “She needed to know.”
“That I’m fine,” Mia added.
“That you’re in the hospital and working toward being fine,” Eddy clarified.
“You told her everything?” Everything would only make her mom worry. And her mom already made a worrywart sound like an optimist. The throb extended around to Mia’s temples and stabbed.
“I explained that you had a diving accident during a filming session.”
That was more than enough for her mom to book the first flight from New York to San Francisco. Almost seven hours in the plane for her mom to fret about how Mia should live her life with less risk. To strategize about how Mia could still express her passion for saving the wildlife by donating to charities rather than camping out in the wilderness as if she was a native. Seven hours for her mom to torment her already high-strung nerves into a full-blown anxiety attack over Mia’s refusal to make a big difference in the world from behind a nice, secure cherry-stained desk.
Mia grabbed her phone and texted her mom, stalling any flight confirmations and keeping her mom at home, where she’d always been the calmest. Still, Mia had to finish her film and get back to her life before her mom arrived to turn Mia’s world inside out. “I’ll deal with my mom later. I just need the laptop now.”
Eddy tilted his head and studied her, his curls shifting as if to emphasize his internal debate. “You can watch Shane’s footage from Sunday on your phone.”
“I don’t want Shane’s edited version.” Mia motioned toward the laptop bag that sat on the floor. “I want to watch all of it.”
“You need to concentrate on healing, not reliving the accident.” Eddy made no move to pick up the computer bag. “It wasn’t easy for us to review.”
That was Eddy’s sensitivity to blood and hospitals talking. Besides, she already relived the accident every time she closed her eyes. Every time she fell asleep. If she watched the footage, maybe her dreams would find new content, instead of replaying the same thing. “We’re going to need new footage to finish the film.”
Eddy’s gaze skipped away from her, but it wasn’t the pus and ooze chasing off his focus this time. It was doubt. Doubt that Mia could get new footage. She’d never seen Eddy second-guess any of her father’s decisions. He’d never questioned her father’s ability to get even the most difficult shot.
But Mia wasn’t her father, and Eddy made that fact more than clear when he said, “We need to wrap it up with what we have and just be done.”
She wouldn’t just be done until she finished the film to her father’s standards. Nothing else would ensure his legacy. Nothing else would ensure the recognition and accolades her father had always coveted in life. Nothing else would ensure her mother’s lifestyle remained the same just like she’d promised her dad. “We’ll be done when it’s finished like my father expected and it’s worthy of the Fiore name.”
Eddy stiffened. “You sounded like your dad just now.”
“Excellent,” she said. Yet confusion creased into the edges of his eyes and uncertainty tipped his chin down. Her friend still doubted her. So be it. She’d become who her father had planned for her to be and prove Eddy and everyone else wrong. “I’d think the more like him I am, the better for all of us.”
Eddy set the computer bag on the bedside table. “Just be careful you don’t lose yourself in your father’s ghost.”
Her father wouldn’t be a ghost if she’d stepped further out of her comfort zone. Only the lazy and uninspired curl up in their comfort zones, Mia. I raised you to be more than that. Now she had to be more to keep from disappointing anyone else. “I’m upholding the Fiore family legacy.”
Her duty as an only child was to continue the Fiore filmmaking tradition as her father had always envisioned. Her responsibility as the only Fiore child was to take care of her mother just as her father had always done. Just as she’d promised him she would.
Eddy pulled a smaller leather case from the paper shopping bag he’d brought in and dropped it on her lap. “The guys and I got you something.”
Mia unzipped the top and gaped at the digital camera tucked inside. “What am I supposed to do with this?”
“Take pictures. Open your creative mind,” Eddy said. “It’ll be a good distraction while you’re here.”
Her creative mind was open and ready to finish the final documentary in her father’s acclaimed series. Her creative mind was already at full capacity with her film work. Art must always send a message that impacts many lives, Mia.
Pictures of IV lines, needle containers and hand sanitizer hardly impacted lives. Portraits wouldn’t pay the mortgage on her mother’s house. Unless, of course, those same pictures were taken in the aftermath of a bombing in the Middle East. Yet she wasn’t in Syria and Bay Water Medical wasn’t inside a war zone. Photojournalist wasn’t her job title. Neither was photographer.
Besides, only her body had been damaged in the accident, not her mind. Not her creative side. She ran her finger along the zipper, the uneven edge matching the uncertainty knotting through her. What if she’d lost something more precious like her passion? Not possible. More than just her livelihood relied on her finishing this film and securing new contracts. “You expect me to take pictures? Here?”
