Page 83 of Still Bruised
Foster opened it and found his test results. All negative. He hadn’t expected anything different, but it was still a relief to get confirmation. After reading it, he shot off a quick text to Jude, letting him know he’d gotten his results, and he was good to go.
Before he could return to the bathroom, his phone rang. Grinning to himself, he wondered if there was a way he could slide in that invite after all.
He glanced at the screen and saw it wasn’t Jude. It was his mother. He answered it and towel dried his hair. “Hey, Mom.”
“Your father said this is a celebration and we need to dress up. I couldn’t convince him otherwise. He’s in the bedroom now, changing.”
“Okay, give me a couple of minutes to get dressed and I’ll be right over.”
Foster looked through his closet and picked out a thin, charcoal gray merino sweater along with a black pair of suit pants. After sliding on a pair of loafers, some aftershave, and his watch, he grabbed his suit jacket and headed to the main house.
When he reached his parents’ bedroom, he found his father sitting on their bed, struggling to button a dress shirt with one good hand and a very shaky one. His mother peeked at his father from the adjoining bathroom as she slid earrings on.
Foster sat beside his dad. “Anything I can do to help?”
“No, I’ve got this,” his father said, still struggling with the same button.
His instinct was to jump in and do it for his father, but he sat calmly, giving him the space to do it himself. “So, since we’re dressed to the nines, where do you want to go for dinner?”
“It’s your celebration,” his father mumbled, finally hooking the button. His father sighed with relief—only there were five more to go.
“I’d been thinking the diner but seems we’re overdressed for that now,” Foster said.
“I’m going to be all night with these blasted buttons.” His father turned to look at him. “Can you finish these up for me?”
“What?”Foster’s mom barked. “You refuse to let me help you but ask him right away?”
Foster stood up and faced his father, grabbing the first of the undone buttons.
“I won’t ask my wife to be my nursemaid for the rest of my days,” his father said, a proud tilt to his head. “You’ve had to do too much as it is.”
“I doubt she sees it that way,” Foster murmured. “She just wants to help the man she loves.”
“I appreciate that, but the less I do, the easier it’ll be to get lazy. I only asked you to help because I’m starving and I don’t want to take another two hours getting dressed. I might waste away from malnutrition.”
His mother snorted from the closet.
Foster chuckled, finishing the last button. He stood back. “There’s nothing wrong with occasionally getting a helping hand, you know? I get not wanting to accept the help, but right now… you’re still recovering.”
“It’s nearly been a year,” his father said, clearly frustrated. “I thought it would get easier.” He scowled. “The doctors said I could get back to who I was before all this.”
“You’re already walking with more confidence since we’ve been going out every day,” Foster said, sitting beside his father. “We keep working… and continue physical therapy.”
“The therapy wasn’t helping,” his dad said. “That’s why I quit.”
“My dad taught me to keep trying, giving it a hundred percent,” Foster said. “But if I saw something wasn’t working, no matterhow hard I tried, that it was time to adapt my strategy and try another way.” He smiled at his father. “So we adapt and we try another way.”
His father chuckled. “Your dad was a pretty smart guy.”
“He was,” Foster agreed. “Still is.”
His father eyed him. “He had a pretty great son, too.”
Foster wrapped an arm around his dad’s shoulders, grinning. “Oh, his sonis amazing.”
“Don’t get too full of yourself. I was talking about your brother,” his father deadpanned before a slow smile crossed his face.
“Then maybeheshould come and take you out to a fancy restaurant tonight instead?”
