The Love We Keep

by Toni Blake

  No answer. Because surely he did, but just dreaded dealing with it.

  Ready to try her damnedest to do Cal proud, she cut him some slack and simply said, “I think our best bet is the crutches.”

  “Or you can just bring me something to pee in,” he muttered, clearly not proud of the request but making it anyway.

  “I don’t have any receptacles I’m willing to sacrifice to urine, and you need to learn to use the crutches.”

  “How the hell do you expect me to do that?” he barked. “My damn leg doesn’t move! Or haven’t you heard?”

  She’d anticipated the barking and didn’t let it affect her. “I expect you to use the other limbs that still do move.” She could ask if the clinic had a wheelchair, but she wanted to make him work—get used to working—to get around.

  “I can’t,” he growled.

  She drew in a deep, calming breath. He’d just declared defeat before even trying. But even if that attitude might be fair right now—the news was very fresh—she still refused to stand for it. “Yes, if you don’t try you definitely can’t. But I don’t want pee in my mattress—or anything else unpleasant for that matter—so it’s time to put on your big boy pants and give it a shot, tough guy.”

  Propped up on his elbows now, he glared at her. “Who the hell do you think you are?”

  Even without the use of one leg, his harsh tone made her want to recoil. But for Cal, and for Dahlia, and even for the gruff, angry man in the bed whom she’d never liked, she instead forced herself forward—until she practically hovered over him. “I think,” she began, “that I’m your only resource right now. So maybe you should think about the fact that I’m trying to help you—and have the brains to try to help yourself.”

  With that, she reached for the crutches leaning against the wall and thrust them at him. “Are you ready to do this?”

  She met his dark gaze, glimmering beneath the layer of tension weighing down the room, and saw his temple pulsing. But finally he said, “Yeah, I’m ready.”

  It was grueling getting him out of bed, yet they eventually did, getting him up on the crutches and working out a system.

  “Crutches. Left foot. Crutches. Left foot.” She repeated the words, watching his useless right foot drag on the floor behind him as he inched forward. But he was inching forward. She’d placed a supportive arm around his waist on his weak right side for balance, aware of the well-toned muscles in his arms and stomach.

  “They’ll become even stronger the more you use them,” she murmured.

  “What will?”

  “Your muscles.”

  He glanced over at her—putting their faces close. “Were we talking about my muscles?” He looked confused.

  And she felt confused. Since of course they weren’t—until she’d accidentally noticed them. “No, but...it’s good you have them, for using the crutches.” She feared she sounded nervous. Over the fact that he has muscles? Ridiculous. It was just weird to get so up close and personal with him.

  Once they were in the bathroom she said, “Can you handle the rest on your own?”

  He lifted his gaze to her once more. “Are you volunteering to help if I can’t?”

  Heat filled her cheeks. “I most certainly am not.”

  “Then you better get out ’cause I gotta go.”

  Suzanne withdrew uncertainly, thoughts whirling. Was he flirting with her? No, closer to being a smart-ass. And the pain meds might be affecting his behavior. And maybe from a nursing standpoint she should have helped him—but the very notion made her face burn even hotter as a vague memory floated through her brain: Meg had once told her, after too many cocktails at the Pink Pelican up the street, that he had a nice butt.

  A moment later, from outside the door, she heard him going. How utterly bizarre to be listening to Zack Sheppard pee. Please let him be able to get his pants back up. Getting them up would be harder than getting them down. She felt about as mature as a fourteen-year-old girl.

  A few minutes later, when all was quiet and too still, she called gently, “Everything okay in there?”

  “Nope—can’t get my damn pants pulled back up.”

  Crap. It was almost as if she’d willed it. “Well, keep trying.” Yep, very mature.

  “Aren’t you supposed to be a nurse?”

  Of all the times for him to make a sensible point. “Yes, but...”

  “For crying out loud,” he muttered. “I need some goddamn help in here, woman.”

  She had no choice. You’re gonna have to go in. “Can you...face away from the door?” Fourteen going on twelve. But this wasn’t just a patient—it was Zack.

  “Yeah, sure, whatever—consider me faced away.”

  Taking a deep breath, Suzanne rushed in, bent down, grabbed the waistband of Zack’s sweatpants with both hands, and yanked upward. There was a little hang-up in front that made him flinch and her cringe, but soon she was back outside the bathroom, teeth clenched lightly. Over the hang-up in front. Over having touched his bare thighs, hips. And because Meg had been right about his butt.

  * * *

  ZACK LAY ON his side, his right leg flopping limply in front of the left, broken and useless. Darkness had swallowed the cottage a while ago, but day and night felt irrelevant. Suzanne stayed nervous around him, but he didn’t give a damn.

  His cell phone buzzed, lighting up on the covers beside him. Dahlia. Again. He didn’t answer. Again. Across the room, Suzanne watched something on TV. When she’d asked if it was too loud, he’d grunted a response, not even knowing if he meant yes or no.

  Three working limbs. He could still pee. And he could still eat. So yeah, things could be worse. But he just didn’t know...who he would be now, what his life would be. He didn’t want to be a burden to anybody. And he didn’t want to sit rotting on this island until he died.

  When the phone notified him that this time Dahlia had left a message, he picked it up to listen. “Zack, please forgive me for not being there. You’ve taken care of yourself since you were sixteen, and it must be hard to suddenly need help. We have that sort of independence in common, you and I. I want to tell you that it’ll all be okay—but I can’t do that. What I can tell you, though, is that I believe in you. I believe in your toughness. I believe in you to always make your way in the world. You always have. You always will. Be brave, and know that I love you with all my heart and am there with you in spirit.”

  She’d said all the right things. And all the wrong things.

  He didn’t want to be brave, didn’t want to be tough, didn’t want to figure out how to make his way. He’d already done that—he’d already been young and alone and without a friend in the world—and he’d made his way, like she’d said. He’d learned a skill. He’d built a life. Some would call it a meager one, but he’d been satisfied with it. He’d already scaled all those mountains, carved out a living with blood, sweat, and tears.

  He didn’t want to have to do it all again. He didn’t have the strength for it.

  CHAPTER SIX

  IN SOME WAYS, the week that followed continued to be torturous and awkward and surreal.

  Suzanne continued to help Zack with the crutches. She prepared meals, did dishes, did laundry, and she stepped out of the room when he changed clothes. She thanked her lucky stars that the cottage’s last owner had installed a shower enclosure with a bench. She’d hated it when she’d moved in, thinking an old-fashioned claw-foot tub would have suited the space much better—but now that bench and the handheld showerhead was the difference between Zack being able to bathe himself or...not. He stayed angry—quiet and withdrawn at worst, grumbly and combative at best. She’d never dreamed she’d prefer a combative man over a quiet one, but when Zack went silent she could almost feel a certain surrender hanging over him.

  And in other ways, those days were much the same as any other winter days. She read. Sh
e watched TV and movies. Yes, there was a belligerent man lying across the room who refused to join her in such diversions, but she was learning to look past that. He was becoming part of the scenery, a thing that was just there, like a cat who refused to be petted.

  One day she even stole away to Petal Pushers, something she generally did several times a week during winter. Stepping in from a still, cold, snow-covered day, she bumped up the heat from fifty to sixty, then proceeded to sow four flats of petunia seeds. The activity wasn’t especially efficient, but she liked sinking her fingers into the cool soil and it would save her a few dollars when spring ordering time came. It was a way to make the winter feel a bit useful and keep her head and heart in the game. Today, though, it was more than those things. Today it was an escape into that soil, into the seeds, into the peaceful joy of bringing something to life.

  When she was done, she walked to an old refrigerator left behind by Meg’s great-aunt Julia, who’d run the shop until her death from cancer. Meg had cared for Julia during her passing and Zack had been there to help Meg through it. It was the one redeeming thing Suzanne knew about him.

  But when her eyes fell on the fridge’s contents, her thoughts turned back to giving things life. She’d planted the daffodil and hyacinth bulbs in shallow dishes months ago to force them into blooming in February. It was something she did every year—even long before owning a flower shop and nursery—as a colorful, fragrant reminder that spring was just around the corner. Though she disliked the term forcing for the bulbs; it wasn’t that harsh of an act. She merely made them think they’d endured a full winter before they actually had.

  Carefully carrying the dishes from the fridge to the utility sink, she gave each an ample drink of water to keep the roots moist. And as she placed them back into their cool, dark abode, she said gently, “You guys will get to come out soon,” as softly as if cooing to newborn kittens.

  Closing the door, her eyes fell on a wall clock that brought her back to reality. She’d been gone longer than intended. She’d sunk into the peaceful act of summoning life. Now she had to go back home to a grumbly man. Who actually had every reason to be grumbly. She thought again of Cal. And wanting to do good in the world. How can I make this situation with Zack better? How can I do the most good?

  When the answer hit her square in the face, she couldn’t believe it had taken her so long to think of it. Some old books from her nursing days still on her living room shelves would help, along with the internet. And old friends—specifically, an old colleague of Cal’s came to mind. Tonight, after she prodded Zack to eat some of the beef stew simmering in the slow cooker, she would do some research and make a phone call. And tomorrow she would do for Zack what she was doing for those bulbs—gently force him to start moving forward, whether he liked it or not.

  * * *

  “IT’S TIME TO wake up! Good morning!”

  The piercing voice cut through Zack’s slumber, reminding him of...everything. Sleep was so damn much better than being awake right now.

  “Wakey, wakey—time to get up!”

  A low groan left him. What was with her? Usually she was at least quieter than this, even when she was being a pain in his side, trying to act like everything was going to be hunky-dory if he’d just drag his ass—and useless leg—around the house on those godforsaken crutches. So now she was going to be loud on top of that?

  Her hand curled over his shoulder. She smelled feminine and...sort of flowery. “Zack, wake up!”

  Ugh, the damn cheerfulness of her. “What do you smell like?” he asked, forcing his eyes open to find her hovering over him in a cozy-looking blue sweater that hugged her shape.

  “Huh?” she said.

  “What do you smell like? You smell like something.”

  She blinked. “What kind of something?”

  He blew out an irritated breath to have to say, “Something nice.”

  She flinched, clearly surprised. “Oh.” Then blinked again. “Um, I use a lavender soap—is that it?”

  “Yeah, probably.” He’d never been particularly aware he liked lavender—a man who spent most of his life on the water didn’t pay attention to things like that—but it was pleasant, gentle. And maybe it suited her. When she wasn’t roaring good mornings at him anyway. “Why are you waking me so loud?”

  “Because I have good news. We’re starting something new today.”

  His eyes had fallen shut again, but now he reopened them. “Uh—like what?”

  She smiled brightly, almost making him think she might say something miraculous that would fix everything—only to then announce, “Physical therapy!”

  “What?” he asked, bewildered.

  Her expression remained just as bright. “Physical therapy. Exercises. For your leg.”

  “My leg doesn’t work,” he reminded her, the words leaving him in a low growl.

  “I know that.” She sounded completely undaunted.

  “I can’t move it,” he went on, just as surly.

  “I know that, too.”

  He blew out a breath. This conversation was beginning to seem pointless. “How the hell can I exercise something I can’t even move?”

  “I move it for you,” she told him.

  He just looked at her. “What the hell good does that do?”

  “At the very least, it will help prevent atrophy. In fact, we’ll be exercising all your limbs for that purpose. And best-case scenario, it’s possible the stimulation could start the damaged nerves firing again.”

  His mind raced, but his thoughts were blurry—from sleep and pain meds. She was saying something so optimistic that it made his heartbeat kick up—but...she wasn’t a doctor. A nurse, yeah, but... “Are you only saying that to make me do this?”

  She answered him just as pointedly. “Do you think I’d torture us both that way only to pass the time?”

  The blur made him be honest in weighing his answer. “I just don’t want to think something’s gonna happen and then have it not happen.”

  Still standing over him, she let out a sigh. “Listen, Zack, I have no idea if it’s going to make anything happen. But it certainly can’t hurt anything. And as Dr. Andover said, nerves are mysterious, but stimulating them can help them reconnect. If nothing else, it’ll keep your limbs active until you can get more specialized therapy come spring. So you can lie there and wallow in your misery, or you can take a shot at helping yourself. What’s it gonna be?”

  Zack just looked at her. Part of him did want to lie here and wallow. Part of him wanted to drift in and out of medicated sleep. Being awake hadn’t gotten any easier since the moment the doctor had told him he might never walk again.

  But Suzanne made this sound like a no-brainer, like any answer but yes would be insane. She couldn’t know the despair clawing at him, dragging him down like an anchor, making it seem wiser to just take another pill, roll over, and go back to sleep. Even so, he tried to look into the future, to a time when the snow would melt, Dahlia would be home, and maybe mainland doctors would be able to help him. If he went back to sleep right now, and again tomorrow and the next day, sinking deeper into that darkness, he’d become somebody’s problem—for life. Dahlia’s probably. And yeah, he was mad at her right now—and mad at the world and God and whoever else there was to be mad at—but he didn’t want to be anybody’s problem. So he mustered the last ounce of courage from somewhere inside him and said to Suzanne, “Okay.”

  Her blue eyes opened wider; she looked surprised. “Really?”

  It was almost tempting to take it back. But instead he said, “On one condition.”

  She looked worried. “What?”

  “No more pills.”

  “Huh?”

  “No more pain pills. Nothing hurts much anymore and I can’t think straight. If I’m gonna do your little exercises, I want a clear head.”

  She nodded.
“If you’re not in pain, stopping the meds is definitely a good idea. But the exercises aren’t little,” she pointed out, holding up one finger. “And I think we should get started right now.”

  At this, however, he shook his head. “No.”

  “No?”

  “Like I said, I want a clear head. Those things make me groggy. Maybe I could...sit up awhile first, eat something. Does that work for you, Suzie Q?”

  She laughed—a sound he hadn’t heard very much of. “You must be groggy.” Then she arched one eyebrow. “I’ll gladly whip up some breakfast—but I’ve never been a Suzie in my life and I don’t intend to start now.”

  He tilted his head. “Aw, come on. Are you telling me, in your whole damn life as Suzanne Quinlan, nobody’s ever called you Suzie Q?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Not even once. Until now.” She made her way to the kitchen, talking over her shoulder. “And I’ve only been a Quinlan for twelve years—it’s my married name.”

  Zack tried to do math in his head that he didn’t really have the numbers for. But seemed like he’d heard Meg and Dahlia say her husband had died two or three years before she’d come to the island. “How, um, many years were you married before...you know, he died?”

  Her back was to him now, at the kitchen counter, hiding her expression. “Six.”

  “Not many.” He hadn’t meant to say it out loud, but it was too late.

  “Not nearly enough,” she replied, her voice gone a little more wooden, making him wish he hadn’t pried. It was none of his business anyway. And now he didn’t know what to say. So he plowed forward with, “Well, I still can’t believe nobody’s ever called you Suzie Q.”

  She peeked over her shoulder as she plopped a bit of butter in a skillet on the stove, looking more bewildered than made sense to him. “Why?”

  He raised his eyebrows. “Because of the song.”

  She’d turned her back to him again. “What song?”