Page 62 of Assigned

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Riley

Through my bedroom window comes the brightness of the sun. I soak in the warmth and my spirits lift as I do. I roll to my side, dangle my legs off the side of the bed above the off-white carpet on the floor. I use my arms to push myself into a seated position. My surgery was successful, but I need to be careful with my abdominal muscles for a few more weeks. I rub my knuckles in my eyes, stretch my arms above my head, and yawn. Grabbing on to the post of my bed closest to me, I hoist myself up. It gets easier every day. I take a moment to be grateful for how well everything has gone.

After wrapping a robe around myself, I head downstairs into the kitchen where my parents are sitting and having breakfast, crossing my fingers today won’t be the day they decide to finally chastise me for marrying Lucas. Sure, I waited until the day before surgery to tell them exactly what had gone on in my life. And while they had a moment of venting their disapproval, their focus was on my upcoming procedure. They still haven’t really brought up the subject again, to me, but who knows what has been said behind closed doors. Today may finally be the day. Crossing my fingers it isn’t, though, because my emotions are still too raw.

The morning light filters through, making the threads of silver in my mother’s blond hair glint. How long have they been there? And those lines around her eyes. Have they always been there? Dad’s changed too. It’s not just the gray in his hair. His forehead is more creased than I remember it. He’s still a big man. Nearly as big as Lucas and certainly as bullheaded, but his shoulders slope in a bit more than I remember. He looks up from the newspaper he’s reading and immediately slaps it down on the table. “Why are you out of bed, Riley? You should have used the intercom. It’s why we had it in installed, for Pete’s sake. Mom would’ve taken food up to you.”

Here we go again. From the moment I stepped off the airplane, they’ve done nothing but hover. And try to control as much of the situation as possible. While Tara’s mom hovered that day on the beach and informed me of what her daughter’s limitations were, she didn’t jump in the water and try to take control of the situation. If only my parents would give me some breathing room.

I lock eyes with my father. “Dad, I can walk. Doctor DeSilva told me to make sure I move around. Walking downstairs on my own is going to help my recovery, not hurt it. Are you really trying to interfere with the doctor’s orders?”

He grumbles, then looks pointedly at my mother, who stands immediately. “Riley, darling. Go sit down and let me make you something to eat. If you want, we can go for a walk outside later.”

I wave her off, then open the fridge and begin to pull out the ingredients I need to make pancakes. “Please, I really don’t want to fight about this. It’s just a little breakfast. It’s not like I’m out in the barn lifting a heavy bale of hay.”

“Why do you have to be so stubborn?” My mother comes up behind me and takes the eggs and milk out of my hands. “Let me help before you hurt yourself.”

I grit my teeth and force air out through my nose. My hand shoves the refrigerator door a little too hard and it slams closed. My father’s chair scrapes against the tile and I whip my head sideways. He’s glaring at me, arms crossed and brows furrowed.

I throw both hands into the air. “What?”

“Watch the attitude, Riley.” My father’s tone is low, a warning. I’m pushing him too hard.

Well, that’s just too damn bad because he’s pushed me even further. I jut my chin out. “Why? You going to kick me out?”

Good Lord, I sound like a teenager. I feel like a teenager. Tears gather in the corners of my eyes. I’m a grown woman and they won’t even let me make myself a stack of stupid fucking pancakes. All the reasons I left here in the first place are playing out right here and now.

He stands from his chair and takes a step closer. “Don’t be ridiculous. You are my daughter, and you will always have a place here, but you will not be disrespectful to your mother.”

“Then how about you respect that I’m an adult who can take care of herself? I’m not Michelle.” We almost never speak of Michelle, yet her presence is everywhere. Her death cast a pall over us that has never lifted. My parents had become overprotective after she died, and then when I got sick, that overprotectiveness went into hyperdrive.

The sound of glass shattering fills the air and both my father and I turn. What once was an embellished butter dish lies in pieces across the floor. My mother stands over it, hands over her face, shaking. I scurry over, careful to avoid the mess. Should have put slippers on. Damn it. “Mom, I’m sorry.” I take her arm and move her backward, away from the jagged pieces of glass as my father grabs the broom.

I slip my arm around my mother, but she pushes me away. “We almost lost you.” Her voice is hoarse and ragged with pain.

“But you didn’t, Mom. I’m right here.” I stand in front of her, willing her to really see me.

“Yes. You’re here. You showed up at our door as weak as a kitten on a rainy night. Hurting in both body and spirit.” Dad doesn’t turn to face me as he sweeps.

I take a step closer. “I’m not weak, Dad. I was sick. It’s different. I’m not fragile. I needed help for a few weeks, and I asked for it. Kind of like the way you needed Mom and me when you broke your leg after that colt threw you. Does the fact that we had to help you then mean you’re never allowed to do anything for yourself? That we shouldn’t allow you to dress yourself and bathe yourself because there were a few weeks when you couldn’t do it? Are you weak because you needed help?”

My father jerks back as if smacked. He’d hated every single time he needed to ask one of us for help. His pride had taken a beating each time he’d leaned on us to get up the stairs or accepted the food we brought him on a tray. He hadn’t been able to wait to do everything for himself again.

Just like I want to do what I can for myself now.

Yet, my own words start to resonate. Guess my father isn’t the only bullheaded one in the family. A trait that is both a blessing and a curse, giving me the strength to fight for myself, but got in the way of asking for help when I needed it.

“That was different, Riley,” Mom says.

I turn, brow quirked up, and pin her with a stare. “Was it? Was it also different when you had your gallbladder removed and Grandma came to help? Are you never allowed to leave the house without an escort in case you might need another surgery? Are you now permanently damaged and in need of constant care because you were ill once?”

She steps back, blinking rapidly, but remains quiet.

I tap my toes and cross my arms over my tender middle. “The answer is no. Neither one of you is weak. You’re the strongest people I know. Guess what? I’m not weak either. So don’t treat me that way. I needed help and I asked for it. That’s a sign of strength. Not weakness. And it could happen again. I could need another surgery, or a new treatment, or a place to rest while I recover from a flare-up. I’m going to have Crohn’s for the rest of my life. I want to know I can lean on you when I need to without giving up everything.”

“Of course you can lean on us. It’s what we want. It’s why you’re staying here, where you belong.” Dad straightens from sweeping the broken glass into the dustpan. “You may not like to think of yourself as fragile, Riley, but you are. We don’t know why all this started in the first place or what might set it off again.”

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