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“It’s a camera, Mia, not a bow and arrow.” Eddy swatted at the air as if annoyed by a pesky mosquito, not his good friend. “We aren’t suggesting you have target practice out in the hallways.”
No, it was worse than that. Her friends suggested that she betray her father’s memory by wasting her time with still photographs. “What happened to crossword puzzles and books to fill the time?”
Eddy grinned and walked to the door. “Have to think outside the box to keep the creativity lines open.”
He’d quoted her father. But her dad had meant with film work. With the important work that touched many lives. With the film work that supported her mother all these years. The soft knock on the door followed by the cheerful greeting from her physical therapist saved Mia from correcting Eddy’s misconception. She set the camera bag on the rolling table and pushed it away, along with her doubts.
Time to concentrate on therapy and exercise. Walking without pain. Moving without pain. There was nothing wrong with her creative mind. Nothing that a camera could fix. The hospital walls compressed in on her. The bland, dull paint made everything stark, barren and exposed her uncertainties. Clearly, she’d been alone with her own thoughts too much. She needed breathing space. “I want to walk the entire floor today, not just this hall.”
“How’s your pain?” Robyn unclipped several of Mia’s monitors.
“Tolerable,” Mia said. Numbness and pain wouldn’t interfere with her therapy. She had to prove she’d made progress, and that had to start now. With every hour she remained inside Bay Water Medical, her resolve leached into the pale walls like blood into white carpet.
“We’ll take it slow and easy,” Robyn said.
“We can stop at the nurses’ station,” Mia suggested. “Take stock. Turn back or keep going.” She had no intention of returning to her room until she’d walked every linoleum-covered inch of the third floor.
Mia managed to cover only one hallway before she leaned against the nurses’ station and tried to wrestle her pain back into submission. Another physical therapist accompanied a woman. Her pure-white hair and the unsteady grip of her hands, all knuckles and veins, on her walker betrayed her age even though gravity had failed to diminish her height and transform her into one of those pint-sized seniors. The pair paused beside Mia.
“Helen, let me see your hand.” The charge nurse, Nettie, leaned over the counter toward the older woman. “I swear you must have a green arm because no normal green thumb could’ve saved my plant.”
The silver woven through Nettie’s black hair broadcast her experience with life, making her a cross between the neighborhood’s favorite nana and the matriarch of a dignified political family. Nettie’s straightforward nature and disdain for sugarcoating made her one of Mia’s favorite nurses on the floor.
Nettie tapped her phone, spun the screen around and grinned proudly. “I was ready to toss that gardenia into the Dumpster, and now look at it.”
Mia assumed she’d have a dead thumb if she tried to grow anything. Her mom believed in silk plants and Waterford crystal to decorate a home with life. Her father believed nature belonged in its native habitat. Mia wasn’t sure if she agreed, but she’d need more than a home for a plant. She’d need to give it her time and attention, and that was in short supply.
“Isn’t it just lovely.” Helen pushed her glasses up. Her smile bloomed up into her eyes, filling her fragile skin with light. “The scent when it flowers will fill your entire house.”
Roslyn, a nursing assistant with the ink still drying on her certification, glanced at the phone over Nettie’s shoulder. “The city gardeners could learn something from you.”
“I’m an amateur with no formal schooling,” Helen said.
But the older woman had passion even without formal training, and that mattered. A passion that glowed from within her like the sunrise streaking burnt gold across the plains in Zimbabwe, rousing the wild to life. Only Helen awakened someone’s love for nature.
“You’re a plant whisperer, Ms. Reid.” Awe lowered Roslyn’s voice into a church whisper.
“Nothing like that.” Helen patted her hair as if she’d revealed too much and needed to tuck her secrets back in place. “I’ve grown my share of gardenias over the years. Once you understand their temperament, they thrive and blossom.”
“If only you had a cure for a temperamental man, Helen.” Nettie’s grin lifted her eyebrows. “We could bottle it, make millions and retire in style.”
“I have better luck with plants.” Helen reached for her walker, her movements slow, as if someone lowered the dimmer switch inside her.
“Nonsense.” Nettie looked at Mia. “She’s got a son working more hours than sanity recommends down in the ER. You raised him right, Helen.”
The plant whisperer is Helen Reid. As in Wyatt Reid’s mom. The one Wyatt had told Mia was recovering from hip surgery down the hall from her. Helen had an inch or two on Mia even hunched over her walker. Wyatt’s height hadn’t come from only his father’s side. But Wyatt’s personality fit into every inch of his six-three frame. His willpower alone displaced any soft spots. Nothing on Wyatt appeared weak. Everything about Helen was fragile, from her thin frame to her shaky grip on her walker. She reminded Mia of one of those flamingos at the zoo, standing on one thin leg, regal and proud yet looking as if the slightest jostle would topple her. “Are you Wyatt Reid’s mother?”
“He’s my son, but he hasn’t needed me as his mother in quite some time.” Her voice wilted like her white curls that drooped against her head as if faint from dehydration.
“Wyatt mentioned he was on his way to see you when I spoke to him last night,” Mia said.
A three-point walker turn and small shuffle brought Helen face-to-face with Mia. Her eyes, not slate like Wyatt’s but hazel, blinked behind large round glasses, reflecting an all-too-familiar calculated focus. Mother and son were not that different.
Only one blink interrupted Helen’s slow study of Mia, as if Mia squatted under a microscope. “He cannot be your doctor, dear, as he only treats patients in the emergency room.”
“He saved my life the other night,” Mia confessed. Wyatt required no boost to his ego. Yet his mother should know the depth of her son’s medical skills. “Although we’d already met several years ago in Africa.”
Helen winced, as if in pain, but never reached to massage her tender hip or sore side. Only that flinch of discomfort pinched her skin, flexing the age lines across her face. “Do you volunteer with Wyatt’s organization, too?”
“No,” Mia said.
Helen’s face cleared and her mouth softened, as if the phantom pain receded. Her wispy eyebrows lifted above her glasses, her only encouragement for Mia to continue.
“I’m a documentary filmmaker.” Mia sank into the older woman’s open gaze, recognizing the flicker of loneliness in the hazel depths. Mia knew all too well about feeling alone, even in a crowd. Helen’s gaze hooked inside Mia and prodded her to keep talking. “One of my crew fell from a cliff, and the locals told us to take him to Wyatt in the neighboring village. They were convinced only Wyatt could help him.”
“And did he live?” Robyn finished writing her notes and tucked the paperwork in the back pocket of her scrubs.
“Thanks to Wyatt.” Mia maneuvered her walker next to Helen’s.
“Like I said before, Helen, you raised him right. And a boy raised right always needs his mama.” Nettie set her phone on the counter and turned away to answer a patient’s call on the intercom system.
“That’s kind, but it’s utter nonsense.” Helen’s quiet laughter failed to mask the sadness that burned into the dark rims around her eyes.
Robyn stepped up beside Mia. “Okay, ladies, we’ve rested and it’s time to walk.”
Helen’s PT joined them. “Ready to head back, Helen?”
“I suppose it’s my only option, unless you’re going to let me make my escape.” Helen pointed her thumb over her shoulder at the main elevators. “You’d only need to look the other way for five minutes.”
The women laughed. “You can rest in the chairs at the end of the hallway until Occupational Therapy arrives. There’s a good view of the elevators from there. You can run on OT’s watch.”
Helen set her hand on Mia’s walker. “They’re not going to let you leave either, dear. You might as well tell me about this filmmaking while we walk. You’ll save me from answering more questions about my pain level and bathroom successes.”
“It’s a family business,” Mia said. “Or was until my father passed last fall.” She always remained detached in the retelling. Always. Until now. With Wyatt’s mom. Now the grief cinched around her lungs like some medieval corset, replacing air with tears. Save the emotion for the film reel, Mia.
“I’m sorry.” Nothing false slipped through Helen’s words. “Now you’re left with the burden to carry on alone.”
The sincerity in Helen’s voice crested through Mia, and the understanding in her gaze loosened several tears. Helen knew loss. She also recognized loneliness. The similarities between mother and son clearly ran only skin deep. Mia brushed at her damp cheek. “My dad taught me everything I know, and I can’t fail him.”
“Of course you won’t, my dear.” Helen squeezed Mia’s arm with the same confident strength that bolstered her voice. “Now tell me, what do you film?”
“My father started with human rights before transitioning into environmental issues. His last two series covered endangered wildlife around the world and the effects of urban sprawl on their habitats. I’m finishing the final film in the series about the human impact on the environment for the Nature Wildlife Network.” Mia inhaled, searching for air to clog the wheeze in her throat. Walking and talking had never before left her winded.
“If you’re traveling for your films, where do you call home?” Helen asked.
Lately wherever her tent stakes stuck in the ground. “I’m a bit of a nomad.”
“Or perhaps you haven’t discovered that one place you want to settle in,” Helen suggested.
Nothing relaxed inside Mia at the idea of living in the same place. Her mother had established herself in New York. But Mia wasn’t a stayer like her mom. She wasn’t made for settling. Her father had taught her to live her passion. Documentary films weren’t made behind a desk, scouring the internet for video footage. To be a success she must embrace her father’s lifestyle and not settle for anything less. “I’ve settled into being a nomad.”
“My husband never liked to travel.” Helen paused and held out her hand, curving her arm like a graceful ballerina. “I always wanted to dance through a field of heather or touch a red ginger flower in the wild or collect seashells along a white-sand beach.”
Mia had dug more than her toes in the white sand in the Gulf of Mexico. She’d crawled across the beach on her stomach, filming the rare Kemp’s ridley hatchlings emerging from their nests to crawl home to the ocean. Sand stuck to places it never should’ve been weeks after they’d wrapped filming. She hadn’t exactly danced through the field of heather; more like trampled the purple flowers, tracking the sea eagles on the Isle of Skye. Yet the cloud of midges and her severe allergic reaction to the bites from the hundreds of tiny bugs downgraded the trip from cherished to agonizingly itchy. If only she hadn’t followed her father up the mountainside for a shot that had never made the final film cut.
However, she could envision a younger version of Helen Reid sashaying through that same field, pausing to greet each flower like a garden fairy from the ancient myths. The images clicked through her mind, vivid stills of moments captured and preserved. But Mia wasn’t creating a memory book for Helen. “You could celebrate your full recovery by traveling to Scotland with Wyatt.”
“He has other important commitments and I have my gardens. At least for now.” The steel in Helen’s tone gave the sadness in her quiet gaze a backbone.
“Have your doctors restricted you from gardening when you get home?”
“My doctors like to tell me I’ve a bionic hip now.” Helen patted her leg. “I may need to replace the other one so it can keep up with its new-and-improved partner.”
“When will you be back to your gardens?” Mia asked.
“As soon as I can convince my doctor to sign off on my get-out-of-jail paperwork.” Helen’s therapist guided her into the chair. After ensuring Helen’s comfort, the woman disappeared into another patient room. Helen shifted to look at Mia. “When do you get to leave?”
“As soon as Dr. Hensen agrees to close my wound and any doctor signs my discharge papers.” Mia lowered herself into the chair beside Helen and swallowed her sigh of relief. She refused to look at Robyn, who scribbled across her paper notes before checking over Mia one last time and rushed off.
Helen tugged her walker closer to rest her arm on. “We both need someone to recognize we’re more than capable of handling our own affairs and seeing to our own health.”
“You’ll let me know when you’ve found that person, won’t you?” Mia tipped her head against the windowsill behind her and inhaled around the throbbing in her leg.
“As long as you promise to do the same,” Helen said.
“Wyatt must’ve noticed your progress,” Mia said. “Surely he wants you back home.”
“My son is not the person we need,” Helen said. “He doesn’t believe I’m safe in my gardens.”
“Wyatt wants you to give up your gardens?” Mia asked. Wyatt wanted Mia to give up on her film to focus on her recovery, as if she couldn’t do both successfully.
“Insists I’m not safe in my own home now. Can you imagine? I’ve lived there longer than he’s been alive.” Helen shifted in her chair. “Wyatt doesn’t believe in anything he cannot control.”
Like love. Wyatt had wanted Mia to stay in Africa to discover if there was something more than attraction between them. But that meant putting her work second. Something he hadn’t been willing to do himself. It also meant taking a chance on love.
But she’d vowed years ago never to risk everything for love. Her mother had loved like that and had ended up alone with only her wedding ring as proof of her thirty-year marriage. Besides, she’d witnessed her father choose between his work and his wife. There hadn’t been enough love for both in his life. You have to be willing to sacrifice for your art, Mia. It’s the only way to build a legacy. Perhaps her father was right, except there was nothing for Mia to sacrifice if she never risked her heart.
The elevator doors slid open and Wyatt stepped onto the floor, confidence and determination in every sure step down the hall toward them. Awareness fired across her nerves, straightening her spine and kicking up her pulse. He irritated her, nothing more than that. How could he take away his mother’s passion and crush her like that? How insensitive was he? Keeping her mom in the home she’d bought with Mia’s father on their first anniversary was Mia’s priority.
But then Wyatt would’ve made Mia choose, too: between him and her art. Fortunately she’d fled with her heart intact and no regrets.
Wyatt nodded at her and leaned down to press a soft kiss on his mother’s cheek. Mia clenched the chair arms to keep from touching her own cheek. Greetings from her ex-boyfriends had been absentminded and distant at best. Her father’s greetings had included a cold cup of coffee and instructions to keep the day on schedule. Annoyed that he made her miss something insignificant like a simple kiss, she frowned at Wyatt.
“Wyatt, you never mentioned your friend was a patient here, too.” Helen tugged on her robe, adjusting the silk material around her legs. “But then you never mentioned Mia when you met her in Africa either.”
“You never mentioned you’d become the welcoming committee for the third floor.” Disapproval thinned his mouth into a flat line.
Which would’ve been more than acceptable if the urge to make him smile didn’t jolt Mia. Clearly, she needed a cup of her father’s cold coffee and a dose of reality. She stretched both legs out as if she’d just finished an hour of hot yoga, not struggled to walk the length of the hallway without slowing to catch her breath. She needed to concentrate on her recovery, not Wyatt’s lack of humor. “We’re between therapy sessions.”
Helen reached over, patted Mia’s arm. Each tap made Mia’s grin broaden as Wyatt’s frown lengthened. His mom added, “There are no rules against patients visiting with each other.”
But this wasn’t about two patients. This was about a mother and a former something—Mia wasn’t sure how to label what Wyatt and she had been in Africa. Still, she knew that hard gaze, that stiff stance from his taut shoulders to his tense hands on his hips. Wyatt had worn that same look every time Eddy had failed to follow his orders exactly. Now Wyatt leveled his displeasure on Mia and Helen. Except Mia wasn’t sure what Wyatt Reid rule the women had violated.
“Was there a reason you were keeping Mia a secret?” Helen’s voice was mild, as if she didn’t care if she violated a rule or not.
Mia was curious, too. “Maybe he thought we’d plan to escape together.”
Helen laughed. “And fly to Scotland to stroll through the fields of heather that I’ve always wanted to feel under my bare feet.”
Wyatt’s mouth opened, the smallest fraction that betrayed his surprise before he smashed his lips together.
Mia eyed him, enjoying his discomfort. “There’s still more to learn about your mom.”
“Wyatt is content with the mother he knows.” Resignation slipped through Helen’s voice.
“Certainly, your son wouldn’t presume to know everything about you.” Mia kept her gaze fixed on Wyatt and her voice just a notch above scolding. He’d claimed to want to learn everything about Mia one time, too. But only if Mia fit conveniently into his work schedule with little disruption to his life. “People change and grow all the time.”
Wyatt crossed his arms over his chest and kept his gaze fastened on hers, the challenge clear. “People also believe they need the approval of others to feel valuable and waste their entire lives seeking that approval, which they’re never going to get.”
Good thing she never required or needed Wyatt’s approval. She’d be waiting a long time. Maybe forever. “Everyone wants to be accepted and liked for who they are.”
“But sometimes who we are isn’t enough.” His voice was raw, as if bruised. His cheeks pulled in, accenting that grim air around him.
Her mother hadn’t been enough to keep her father home for longer than a weekend. Mia worked every day to prove she was more than enough to step into her father’s illustrious shoes, despite the doubts from the network, the film industry and even her own crew. She’d prove herself, keep her promise to her father, and then she’d be fulfilled. She’d finally be good enough. And that would be enough. Yet her gaze locked with Wyatt’s, and those slate eyes narrowed on her as if he heard the whispered denial coming from deep inside her chest. She slapped her palm over her ribs, blocking out Wyatt and disrupting the rumblings from a heart she had no intention of ever listening to.
“Well, I’ve had enough philosophical chitchat for the day.” Helen pulled her walker in front of her. “I don’t understand why your generation can’t simply say what they mean.”
“We do. Your generation just doesn’t want to hear it.” Wyatt shifted his attention to his mom, releasing Mia from his shrewd focus.
Mia sagged against the chair as if she’d run ten city blocks, not shutting out Wyatt and keeping him from revealing truths she rejected.
“Perhaps because it’s all nonsense.” Helen touched Mia’s arm and grinned. “Mia, I’ll see you when the therapy dogs arrive later.”
“Mom, you don’t like dogs.” Wyatt set his hands on his hips. Surprise jutted his chin forward.
“Nonsense. I had a German shepherd growing up.” Helen’s smile looked more girlish and young from the memory. Her voice eased into the wistful. “Smokey was my favorite pet.”
“You never mentioned Smokey before.” Wyatt rubbed his chin, his gaze dropping to the floor.
“You never asked,” Helen countered, her voice stiff and starched.
Mia winced from the lack of lightness in Helen’s tone.
Wyatt never flinched from Helen’s barb. Only stuffed his hands into his scrubs pant pockets and tucked his elbows into his sides as if preparing himself to absorb more of his mom’s rebukes. “Trent and I asked for a puppy every year until I left for college. Every year you said no.”
“Your father told you no, not me.” Helen turned to Mia. Her voice lowered, as if they’d stepped into a hushed confessional. “I’d overruled my husband on several things like the tree house, skateboards and video games. Thought I’d let him have his way with the no-dog rule. Good marriages are about knowing when to let the other one win.”
Mia had witnessed only the elements of a bad marriage with her own mother: unrequited love, a stalled life and a husband who paid for the stability his absence couldn’t provide.
