Page 14 of Holding On

"No, but I'm certainly happy to help. I'm sure it's hard to get around with your leg."

"I'm used to it now. I can get in and out of the chair with no problem, but cleaning would be hard. Actually, even without my leg like this, I'm still not good at cleaning."

"I understand. I have two grown sons and their apartments are a mess." She smiles. "I should finish looking around, then get to work."

She goes down the hall to the bedrooms, then returns and goes in the kitchen. She walks fast and purposeful, like she takes her job very seriously. I watch as she heads out to the driveway. She comes back with an arsenal of cleaning supplies; a vacuum, mop, buckets, rags, and several spray bottles.

Three hours later she's finished, leaving not a speck of dust behind. She's a hard worker, and very thorough. I wonder how much my mom is paying her. Whatever it is, I bet it's not enough. The maid we had growing up was never this good but she got paid a lot because it was L.A. and the cleaning company knew we were rich. I know for a fact they base their rates on your zip code, and we live in 90210, otherwise known as Beverly Hills.

After she's packed up her supplies and taken them to the car, she comes back inside. "If you find that you need our services more than once a week, just call." She hands me a business card. "We can arrange to have someone out here within a day's notice."

"What's your name?" I ask. "In case I want to request you when I call?"

"Lois," she says, like she's repeating it for the second time, or maybe the third from the odd look she's giving me. Shit, she must've told me earlier and I wasn't paying attention.

"Will you be the one coming here every week?"

"Most likely, yes. They try to assign us to the same houses each week, for efficiencies sake. Plus the homeowners prefer consistency. They don't want different people coming in their house every week."

That was my main concern and why I refused to hire a service before now. I didn't want a different cleaning lady coming in every week. The more strangers I allow in my house, the more I risk word getting out about my recovery. People gossiping about me. Making bets on if I'll play again. But Lois doesn't seem like someone who'd betray my privacy. Still, I feel the need to make that clear.

"You won't tell anyone, right?" I ask as she stands by the door.

"About the wheelchair?" she asks.

"About anything you see while you're here. I don't want people knowing about me or talking about me. My privacy is important."

"Of course. I'll keep quiet. I'm not one to gossip."

I nod. "Then I'll see you next week."

When she's gone I find a baseball game on TV but I'm not really paying attention. I'm tired of watching TV. Tired of sitting in this house. Tired of eating take-out.

I want to get out of here, but I'm not going out in this damn wheelchair. There's no way I'm letting people see me like this. When I'm able to use the crutches, then maybe I'll go out, but until then I'm stuck here.

My phone rings. I see who it is and answer it. "Hey, Jackson, what's up?"

"I was thinking of coming there next weekend. There's a band playing at the Loophole. Thought I'd stop by and pick you up, get you out of the house. Maybe check out some fireworks."

A week from Saturday is the Fourth of July. I totally forgot about that until he mentioned the fireworks. When you never leave the house, you lose track of time.

"I'm still in the chair," I tell him.

"Yeah? So? Everyone in town knows your leg is broken. It's not a secret."

"But they don't know I'm still in the chair, and I don't want them to. It's none of their damn business."

"Nobody's going to say anything. The campus is cleared out for the summer. The only people left are the townies, and they won't bother you."

"They sure as hell will. They'll be asking how my leg's doing. If I'll be playing again. Shit I don't want to talk about. And if I don't answer them, they'll make up stories about me and it'll get back to the press and they'll start calling me again."

After the accident, the sports media called nonstop, trying to get me to tell them if I planned to play again. I wouldn't answer their calls so they called my coach and my doctors, who told them nothing, and then they hounded my parents. My dad put out a statement saying my leg needed time to heal but that my football career definitely wasn't over. Of course he didn't tell me about the statement until it was already out, which pissed me off. But at least the phone calls stopped.

"Then we'll do something else. We'll play video games or watch a movie. And I'm sure you could use some groceries. What do you say?"

I don't want him doing that for me. Jackson rarely gets a weekend off and now that he has one, he shouldn't be wasting it with me, a guy who refuses to go out.

"That weekend's not good. I've got stuff to do."

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