The Love We Keep

by Toni Blake

  “Can...can you move it?”

  He tried again. Nothing happened. He shook his head. Then closed his eyes. Maybe this was just a nightmare.

  “Zack, do you feel this?”

  “Feel what?”

  “Do you feel my hand?”

  He opened his eyes to see her squeezing his right calf—but he didn’t feel a goddamn thing. He blinked, trying to grasp the situation.

  “Do you?” she asked, her voice rising with the same panic now entrenched inside him.

  He didn’t want to answer, didn’t want to make this real.

  “Do you?”

  “No.” So light a whisper he’d barely heard it beneath the sound of bacon frying. The scent turned acrid now, no longer sweet and inviting. “It’s burning,” he murmured.

  “Your leg?” He looked up to see wide blue eyes filled with concern.

  “No, the bacon.”

  Her jaw dropped open; she looked confused. “Oh. God. Who cares?”

  “Go get it off the stove,” he commanded. “Don’t burn the damn house down.”

  He knew the bacon didn’t matter—but it felt important to preserve some sense of normalcy, control, even if it was only breakfast. While she was gone, he looked down, tried again—desperately—to move his leg, to make sense of this. Yesterday it had moved fine.

  When she came back, appearing shaky, tense, he said, “What the hell is happening?”

  “I’ll call Dr. Andover.”

  Zack raised his gaze to her. “You were this kind of nurse, right? An orthopedic nurse. So you know what’s going on here.”

  She hesitated. “We should really—”

  “Just tell me what you think, Suzanne.” Because he could see in her eyes that she understood this better than he did. And that she didn’t want to tell him because it wasn’t good.

  “I’m not qualified to give a diagnosis, Zack.”

  “Just tell me, damn it.”

  He watched her draw in a deep breath. “Sometimes...” She stopped, blinked, then glanced down, clearly uncomfortable. “Sometimes paralysis doesn’t happen right when the initial injury occurs. Sometimes it takes a day or two for the nerves to stop sending signals to the brain.” He pictured a complex network of nerve endings working like electrical wires, sputtering and blinking on and off before they died altogether. And she was saying his had done that now—died altogether.

  “When it only affects one limb,” she went on, “it’s called monoplegia. It’s more commonly the result of cerebral palsy or a stroke, but can occasionally be caused by nerve damage due to an injury. And with nerve damage every case is different, unique and...” Her voice had begun to quiver. “I’m sorry, Zack, but I’m going to call Dr. Andover. Because things like this are rare, and I’m not educated enough about them to be telling you these things.”

  Zack said nothing. Because his brain had pretty much ceased functioning, right along with those nerves, somewhere between the words paralysis and monoplegia. He could hear her voice but no longer take in what she was saying. And then he heard her on the phone to the doctor, and then Dahlia, in the kitchen, from where the scent of burned bacon still wafted.

  When she re-entered the room he couldn’t quite make himself look up at her. “The doctor’s on his way. And I let Dahlia know what’s happening. Would you...like me to make more bacon?”

  Now he looked up—to see her holding a spatula. And realized she’d been right—the bacon didn’t matter. In fact, he wasn’t sure he’d ever want to eat again. “No.”

  She blew out a shaky, audible breath. “Sorry.” Then lowered the spatula to the dining room table. After which she announced, “I’m going to get dressed,” and disappeared into her bedroom. When she came back out, she looked as if she’d been crying.

  Ten minutes later, Dr. Andover arrived. The elderly doctor with the jowls of a basset hound did the can-you-feel-this?-what-about-this? protocol, making it all the more clear to Zack that he could feel his left leg just fine—but that his right might as well be gone for all the good it was doing him. Watching the doctor touch and poke that leg and feeling nothing made him want to scream. Soon the doctor was using the same words Suzanne had—paralysis, monoplegia, rare. “But there is some good news here,” he added, lifting one finger in the air.

  Zack would take any good news he could get. “What is it?”

  “This could be a lot worse. At least it’s only one limb.”

  Zack just stared. Was this guy serious? Telling him losing the use of his goddamn leg was no big deal? Rather than bite the old man’s head off, though, he said, “Listen, Doc, what’s the outlook here? Will I walk again? Can I still work my fishing boat?”

  The man’s brow knit in a way Zack didn’t like, and his stomach went hollow. “Again, monoplegia from this type of injury is rare, so it’s hard to know for sure. But, son, you need to brace yourself. Some people can learn to walk again over time with a lot of hard work—for others, it’s an impossibility. And at best, it’s a process that would likely take years. So I’m sorry to say your fishing career is likely over.”

  Zack shut his eyes, trying to absorb the weight crushing his chest. The water was his life, the only place he’d ever felt whole, safe, relaxed. Even more than with Meg, which was exactly how he’d lost her. And he couldn’t blame her—a woman wanted to be more cherished than a damn fishing trawler.

  The doctor kept talking, but like before with Suzanne, Zack could barely hear. “Normally, at this point I’d insist on having you moved to the mainland, but the ferry made its final run for the season last night—too much ice now. And I made a call as I walked over here, about an airlift, but the weather’s no good for that—the ceiling’s too low. So my best advice is to mentally prepare yourself for what might feel like a long winter here until we can get you looked at by the right folks come spring.”

  Spring. When he’d expected to get back on his boat. But now, spring meant only...a bunch of tests and hassles just to confirm what he already knew. His right leg was paralyzed.

  What the hell would his life be now?

  Nothing. It would be nothing.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  DURING HER TIME as an orthopedic nurse, Suzanne had been steady as a rock. Later, after switching gears to work with the elderly, she’d remained steady on the outside, but gone softer inside, somehow less able to shut out her emotions on the job. Now, when called upon to nurse someone in her personal life, she felt like Play-Doh. Too soft. Too able. Too able to be flattened by one good smash of a fist to a table. And Zack’s new diagnosis was that fist.

  Bacon? You offered him bacon? But he’d seemed so damn concerned about it. And she’d had no idea what to do or say. Now she zoomed aimlessly around the house—scrubbing a skillet, straightening a folded afghan on the back of an easy chair. Not looking at Zack because she...couldn’t. It wasn’t coldness—it was self-preservation. She had to protect herself from his pain and figure out how to function here. She found herself dumping the plate of partly burned bacon hastily in the garbage—then at the last second grabbing a few strips back. She snuck them into a coat pocket—because she was hungry but wanting to eat seemed selfish right now.

  And she was halfway up the street to the Summerbrook Inn before she realized she’d just...left him there. With the profound words, “I’m stepping out for a bit,” as if it were a beautiful summer day and not the depths of a snow-covered winter when everything was closed and there was almost literally no place to go.

  But it wasn’t abandonment so much as feeling as if she couldn’t breathe. She’d left because she had to figure out how to breathe. She reached a glove-covered hand into her pocket, pulled out the bacon, ate it as she walked. Like some kind of old-time fur trapper chewing on jerky as he trekked through wintry landscapes.

  Stepping up on the porch of the big Victorian home, she bypassed the doorbell to bang dire
ctly on the door. This was no time to be polite or subtle.

  When Seth opened the door and took one glance at her, his stubbled jaw dropped. “Suzanne, you look fraught.”

  It was also no time to mince words. “Zack is paralyzed.”

  Seth’s bedroom eyes widened. “What?”

  “He’s paralyzed,” she said. “Paralyzed.”

  At this, Seth grabbed her by the arm. “Come in.” Then he turned and yelled through the house, “Meg! Meg, darlin’, come here!”

  Suzanne watched her bestie stride down the hall from the kitchen carrying a large mug. In a big, cozy sweater and blue jeans, fuzzy socks on her feet, she looked...like what Suzanne longed to be, to have. This serene, controlled life. She suddenly envisioned an entirely different sort of day—one where she settled down here with Meg and her beau to watch movies or play cards. An easy sort of day. She’d thought the winter might bring that—more inclusion back into Meg’s life now that she and Seth were no longer brand new. But now that couldn’t happen, because of the big, big problem down the street she didn’t know how to handle.

  “What’s wrong?” Meg asked at the look on her face.

  Suzanne almost didn’t want to tell her. Somehow Meg’s eyes, her whole countenance, could make you believe everything would be okay, that any problem could be solved. Maybe that was why she’d come—just for that feeling Meg could inspire, the calm her very presence infused in a room. But deep down, Suzanne knew that even Meg couldn’t make this be okay.

  So maybe she’d really just come out of desperation. And the gut instinct that Meg should know. “It’s Zack,” she said, more softly than she had to Seth. Because this would wound Meg. That hadn’t occurred to her until just now.

  “What about him?”

  “He’s paralyzed.”

  Meg’s brows knit and her mouth formed a silent O as the mug she held dropped from her hand to crash to the hardwood, a brown splash of tea spattering the floor and wall amid an explosion of ceramic. All three jumped back, and Meg immediately crouched to start collecting the broken pieces—until Seth touched her shoulder to say, “That can wait. I’ll clean it up.”

  Meg hesitated—the innkeeper inside her clearly struggled with leaving a mess, even now—and Suzanne understood the rearrangement of priorities brought on by shock. She had bacon in her pocket, after all, and had left a paralyzed man lying there alone with no indication of when she’d be back.

  “Be careful,” Seth told Meg as she pushed back to her feet suddenly looking like someone else—a lost, broken child who didn’t know which way to go. “Let’s step in here.” He gently herded both women to the old-fashioned parlor where a fire roared in the hearth, but Suzanne couldn’t really feel the warmth—everything inside her had gone cold.

  And only as the three of them sat down did Suzanne realize what she’d said and rushed to correct herself. “He’s not completely paralyzed—it’s partial. His right leg.” Of course, it was still awful, and she went on to explain about monoplegia, and waiting, and uncertainty. “Dr. Andover just left, and I...I did, too.” She shook her head. “I don’t know why. I just needed to get out of there. And to tell you. And I’m not sure how to deal with this.” She shut her eyes tight, blew out a harsh sigh. “Damn Dahlia for leaving. Damn her.”

  Meg’s hand reached out to cover Suzanne’s in her lap. “I know, I know. This shouldn’t be your problem.”

  “It shouldn’t be...anyone’s problem,” Suzanne realized out loud. “I mean, God knows it would be better if Dahlia were here, but she wouldn’t be able to fix it, either. And fair or not, I’ll just have to muddle through until the ice melts and she can get home.”

  “We’ll help any way we can,” Meg said.

  Suzanne tried to smile, but the gesture hadn’t reached her eyes. Because, given Meg’s history with Zack, and that Seth had taken his place, how much help could they really be? And still a desperate part of her silently beseeched Meg. You’re the one who should be there. You know him—I don’t. You loved him—I don’t. You care for him—I...don’t. Oh, she supposed she cared in a certain way. In the way you care for a mean animal who gets caught in a trap and suddenly doesn’t seem so mean anymore. In the way you care for any human being in trouble.

  But if Meg could read her eyes, she never let it show. And Suzanne realized that Meg might as well be camped out on a tropical island with Dahlia right now—she might be right up the street, but when it came to helping with Zack, she was far, far away.

  This is all on you. Only you. Handle it.

  Maybe it was the memory of Cal’s caring nature inspiring her, or maybe it was just that nurse thing kicking in—once a nurse, always a nurse. But somehow a quiet resolve stole over her. Nothing in her life was really how she wanted it to be right now, and this was like the rotten cherry on top of a big pile of crap—but she just had to keep her head down and barrel through it. She had to walk back down the street and face the partially paralyzed ogre on her couch and figure out how to get them both through this godforsaken winter.

  A little while later, she quietly re-entered the cottage to find Zack asleep. Anger and pain pills could force a body to rest, and it brought her a small measure of calm to see him looking peaceful.

  After hanging up her coat, she made her way to the fireplace to warm her hands, and her eyes rose to the framed picture of Cal on the mantel—a professional headshot from shortly before his death. What a handsome man he’d been, her orthopedic surgeon husband. If you were still here, could you fix what’s wrong with Zack? But...if you were still here, I wouldn’t be here, on this island. I wouldn’t even know Zack Sheppard existed. Oh, the irony.

  Dark hair and olive skin on a man with the very Irish name of Quinlan was another sort of irony—or maybe just a reminder of how very mixed together we are on this planet. He’d been big on that—on us all being in this together, on helping our neighbors, on doing what good you could in the world. He’d taught her a lot about being a good nurse when she’d first come into his employ. And then they’d fallen in love and he’d taught her a lot about being a good person.

  And now I have to be that good person, like it or not. She glanced to the sleeping man across the room. But is it wrong if I hope he doesn’t wake up for a while?

  * * *

  “GLORIOUS, ISN’T IT?” Dahlia asked Giselle, studying the sunset before them. Sunsets were one of the things that made her believe in God. Slashes of neon pink and purple coloring the sky couldn’t be random accidents in her book. They were God’s artwork. Even if she’d sounded glum in the observation.

  Which was surely what prompted Giselle to respond from the Adirondack chair next to hers with, “Another mai tai?” She’d suggested the first after Dahlia had hung up with Suzanne. To take the edge off.

  Dahlia nodded. “I feel abominably worse now. About not being there with him.”

  Giselle, a woman in her forties, looked younger in a simple T-shirt and tennis shoes, sporting a mousy brown ponytail. And she was always quick to try to ease Dahlia’s mind. “I know. But you couldn’t have realized how bad the situation was yesterday.”

  Dahlia’s sigh held equal parts guilt and self-awareness. “Maybe I should have gone to him the second Meg called me after he fell. But you and I had a plan, and I chose to keep it. I’ve always been that way—once I decide something, I stick to it. Whether it was leaving home for the first time, or quitting a job, or getting married—or divorced. Or opening the café. Once I’m on a set course, nothing derails me. For better or worse.”

  Giselle patted her hand, the touch calming. “It’s okay to put yourself first sometimes.”

  She’d done a lot of that in her youth, and now she was entirely uncertain she’d made the right decision yesterday. Too late to change her mind, though. “I just don’t like to think of him being...afraid. Not that he’d ever let on—that’s not who Zack is—but who wouldn’t be frightene
d in that situation?”

  “Don’t worry—Suzanne will take care of him.”

  Dahlia let out a cynical laugh. “Oh, she’ll try. But he’s a handful, to say the least.”

  “From what I hear,” Giselle said with a grin, “nurses rise to the occasion.”

  Dahlia smiled softly over at Giselle, so busy trying to make light of the situation for Dahlia’s sake, even if perhaps taking it a bit far—it was paralysis, not a stubbed toe. But perhaps the point was letting go of what you couldn’t change.

  A tall, thin woman, Giselle was quiet and pragmatic. Like Meg in a way. Pretty in her simplicity. Could be prettier if she tried. But Dahlia suddenly felt past the point of pushing anyone to be any different than they chose to be.

  “Just listen to the waves,” Giselle suggested. “Let them relax you.”

  Good idea. She focused on the rhythm of the surf, let it soothe her soul. And then announced, “I think I shall make a study of sunsets. This one, for instance, has so much more pink than some. I like that. So electric. Vibrant.”

  She watched, listened, sipped the second mai tai that had just arrived—complete with a little green umbrella—and chatted with her friend of many years. “I’ve gotten sleepy,” she soon announced, feeling the alcohol’s effects despite a lovely dinner of lemon tilapia.

  “You should lean your head back and take a nap,” Giselle encouraged her.

  “You won’t be lonely?”

  Giselle laughed, then motioned around them. “Who could be lonely in paradise?”

  * * *

  “SON OF A BITCH.”

  Suzanne looked across the room. The monster was awakening. And maybe she shouldn’t be thinking of him in such harsh terms, but his opening line backed it up.

  “Would you like something to eat?”

  “No.”

  “Grumble, grumble,” she murmured under her breath.

  “What?” he snapped.

  “Nothing. But you have to eat, so I’m going to make you a sandwich. Do you need the bathroom?”