Page 36 of Plunge

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Thistle

I KNOW I’M supposed to be paying attention. This assessment with the physical therapy home team is really important for my mom, both because of insurance and because she wants her independence. She joked (via the tablet robot voice) that she’s getting sick of me.

Mom and the PT are walking slowly through the house talking about her activities of daily living. So she has to demonstrate standing up from the damn toilet and getting dressed. She’s currently opening and closing the refrigerator and calling it the washer.

But Fletcher hasn’t returned any of my messages since he showed me that he actually got my car. I’m also getting hounded by Larry about the apparent sex god. Please tell me you’re riding that pole, Thistle, he texted. I roll my eyes and try to not to remember how good it felt to actually do that.

I’m having all kinds of feelings about relying on Fletcher for this favor. I think most prominent is the realization that he knows I know it was his dream car.

I couldn’t help myself when I bought it. I had just landed on my first international trip to Germany, and the client was a class car fanatic. My boss was trying and failing to woo him over and I caught a glimpse of the Gullwing in his showroom.

I started gushing about it, how I had played hooky once in high school to go see a car like this. Turned out, the old guy was trying to liquify all his assets, from his company down to his classic cars, and I got it for a song.

And Smith Townson absorbed the company with ease, so I got a huge bonus and a fat raise. It was probably the best day of my life.

I considered reaching out to Fletcher when I got the Gullwing, just for the nostalgia I felt each time I turned on the engine. God, but I love to drive that car. I remind myself that he’s probably just enjoying her on some winding back roads.

I stuff my phone in my sports bra and focus on what the therapist is saying to Mom. “Teresa, you’re doing remarkably well,” she gushes. “You’re only a few months past your episode. This is really lovely progress. Look at those sit-to-stands.”

“Bless you, dear,” my mother says as she stands up by herself. I cringe, because I know she means “thank you.” I also know that the PT isn’t here to assess her speech at all, and she could just think my mom is one of those really religious ladies.

The therapist closes her notebook and smiles. “I think it’s safe to say you’ll be graduating from in-home care,” she says. “I’m also taking you down to one PT session a week. We’ll get the team together to review your other goals for speech.”

My mom starts gesturing toward the fridge and I remember that she wanted me to be sure and offer refreshments to the therapist today. Right. “Would you like a glass of lemonade,” I spit out in a rush. I should have offered when she first arrived. This just isn’t my forte.

“Oh, no thank you,” the therapist says, waving her water bottle around. “I’m all set. And I’m going to show myself out, Teresa. You stay put.”

My mom’s eyes bug out of her head when I don’t follow the PT out of the room, so I hurry to make sure I get to the front door first.

My father arrives just as the therapist is leaving and they exchange some quick small talk, like he has any idea who the hell she is.

I frown at him, but my mother’s face lights up when he comes into the kitchen.

“I thought you were in Denver,” I say, leaning back when he seems like he’s going to kiss my cheek.

“Well I switched my plans so I could be home for a few days,” he says, like this happens all the time. Must be nice to just flit in and out of your family on a whim, I think. And then I bite my cheek because I’ve been doing exactly that for a lot of years.

I think about the silent phone in my pocket, the fact that my ex-boyfriend had to rearrange things with his family so he could go get my car for me, and I spit out at my dad, “It would have been nice for you to let us know. I had plans today that I had to rearrange so I could be here for Mom’s ADL assessment.”

My father blinks at me a few times and my mother looks upset. He clears his throat.

“It’s been nearly 8 weeks since I came home,” I continue. “Have you even made plans for what happens when I have to go back?”

I also still haven’t told my parents that I’ve been forced into unpaid leave for six months. That my career is in total upheaval and it’s freaking me the hell out.

He pats my mother on the shoulder and says, “Well I guess you’ll have to start making calls about hiring someone to help out.” And then he walks out of the damn room like he always does. He doesn’t even let me argue with him. He’s always been so rigid like this. It’s his way. Period.

His way or I’m the asshole leaving my mother alone with a stranger.

I dig my phone out of my bra and I dial up Fletcher. He doesn’t answer.

I start to pace around the kitchen and tug at my hair and my mom stands up and touches my arm. “Mom,” I say to her. “I can’t stay here indefinitely. You know that, right?”

“I know,” she whispers, and touches her chest above her heart. “I know.”

“What do you want to do,” I say, guiding us into the living room where we can sit on the couch. I hand her the tablet device and she starts tapping away on it.

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