Page 3 of Thornhill Road

“We’ll be fine. Thanks for stepping in.” He reached for my shoulder and gave it a squeeze. “I don’t know what we’d do without you.”

As he began to let me go, he trailed his fingertips a short way down my back before dropping his hand to his side.

I gave no response to his touch but did a mental shiver.

He made me feel soick.Like he was incapable of platonic affection.

“I should get going. I’ve got another patient to see.”

“Of course. It was good to see you, Tess.”

I nodded, waved, and said, “I’ll be back in a couple days.”

Once on the other side of Sharon’s front door, I closed my eyes, stretched my neck, then rolled my shoulders back.

One more patient. Two more hours.

I was on the home stretch.

On my way to my car, I pulled up Edmond Thomas’ address. He was my newest patient. This was going to be my first trip to his house on Thornhill Road. My GPS told me I’d be there in about twenty minutes, and I didn’t waste any time before I began the short trek north.

When I pulled into his driveway, the first thing I noticed was the unkempt yard. It was the middle of June, and we hadn’t had snow in several weeks, which meant it was lawn mowing season. Only, Edmond Thomas had a yard full of weeds, not grass.

The house looked old and almost as neglected as the lawn, and I wondered what I’d find on the inside. Since it was my first visit, I took some extra time to go over his chart before I got out of my car. He was dying from pancreatic cancer. According to his list of medications, he also had cirrhosis of the liver and a few other long-standing conditions he’d been dealing with, as well. Aware I wouldn’t know the full extent of what I’d be dealing with until I met him, I grabbed my things and was at his front door in under thirty seconds. After a quick knock, I waited for someone to answer.

Edmond filled the doorway a minute later.

He was a tall man with hunched shoulders. One look at him, and it was obvious he’d once been formidable. Now, at only sixty-one years old, he was on the verge of appearing frail. His clothes hung on him like they belonged to someone else, and his eyes—while a pretty hazel-blue—were sad.

“Mr. Thomas?”

He jerked his head in a nod. “You my nurse?”

“Yes. Theresa McBride,” I said, extending my hand as I offered the name the care center would have provided. “But, please, call me Tess.”

He accepted my hand with a stronger grip than I anticipated, and this made me smile.

“Call me Ed. Come on in,” he muttered.

He turned and left the door open as he made his slow return trip deeper into the house. I followed after him, closing us inside. We didn’t go far. It was a split-level home, but he’d obviously dispensed with dealing with the stairs. In what I assumed was once a living room, there was an unmade bed, a well-used recliner, a television that sat on top of a wooden dresser, and a bunch of clutter on every flat surface there was. On the opposite side of his living area, partitioned by a wall, was the kitchen. I assumed the bathroom wasn’t far, either.

Ed made his way to the edge of his bed and took a seat.

“So, how does this work?”

I set my purse at my feet, took out my tablet, and proceeded to explain what a typical visit would look like. I then asked him a list of questions and proceeded with my exam. When I was finished, I grabbed a chair from his kitchen table so I could take a seat next to him while I charted.

“Ed, other than me, who is going to be helping with your care?”

“Got someone who drops by to take care of the laundry and cleaning ‘bout once a week.”

I nodded, hugged my tablet to my chest, and clarified, “What about any family or loved ones?”

He shook his head. “My wife died a lifetime ago, and I haven’t seen my son in years.”

When he saidson, I saw the slight nod he gave to the frame that sat beside him on his nightstand. It was the only picture frame I’d seen on the main level of the house.

“May I?”

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