Letting Go
Abbie Zanders
Published by Abbie Zanders, 2017.
This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
LETTING GO
First edition. February 1, 2017.
Copyright © 2017 Abbie Zanders.
Written by Abbie Zanders.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Letting Go
Before You Begin
Acknowledgements
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Epilogue
About ALS
Thanks for reading Ethan, Hannah, and Angus’s story
If you like snarky contemporary romance...
About the Author
Also by Abbie Zanders
Letting Go
A Contemporary Romance of Snark and Feels
by
Abbie Zanders
Before You Begin
WARNING: Due to strong language and graphic scenes of a sexual nature, this book is intended for mature (21+) readers only.
If these things offend you, then this book is not for you.
Acknowledgements
Cover Design by Cassy Roop of Pink Ink Designs.
Professional editing by M. E. Weglarz of megedits.com, a woman with a true gift for spotting plot holes, character anomalies, black holes, and other potential WTFs. Thank you, Meg, from the bottom of my heart.
Special thanks to some very special ladies, my beta croies, for agreeing to read this book and providing such wonderful feedback: Tonya Baker (without whom I would probably spend hours hitting my head against my desk), Anjee Zable, Deb Blake, Mandy Burleson, Kristine Dow, Staci Griffith, Michele Blevins-Middleton, Christine Barneski, Lorrie Vanmeter, Tamara Graham, Carmen Ferrer-Torres, Jessica P., and Cathy Brister. This is a better story because of them!
And a shout out to my awesome street team, the Zanders Clan. I am so lucky to have you!
... and THANK YOU to all of you for selecting this book. You didn’t have to, but you did.
Chapter 1
Hannah
“I’m sorry, Ms. McGinnis.”
My heart fell. Just plummeted down into the pit of my stomach like a stone and sat there. Not another one! The fifth in as many months. Healthcare workers were supposed to be kind, compassionate souls, weren’t they? Capable of handling both the physical and emotional strains of illness, right?
At least that’s what I thought. In my mind, professional caregivers were right up there with nuns and cops and servicemen. There to help, serve, and protect those of us who hadn’t received such a noble and selfless calling.
Clearly, I was delusional, and they were undeserving of the pedestal on which I’d placed them. Not one of those home health angels (and yes, that’s sarcasm) had lasted more than a couple of weeks. One of them -—a particularly slovenly woman who was in desperate need of a good shower, industrial-strength deodorant, and a gallon of depilatory cream -—didn’t even make it through a single shift before declaring the centuries-old farmhouse that was my home a “hostile work environment”.
Pfft. Me, hostile? I’m not hostile. I’m a very hands-off, live-and-let-live kind of girl. I don’t care what you choose to do with your life or how you choose to live it. You do your thing, let me do mine, and we won’t have any problem. That being said, I do think it is reasonable to expect a certain degree of professionalism, courtesy, and competence from those who are being paid to perform a service.
That’s me. But my dad? He’s not nearly as easy going as I am.
And therein lies the problem.
As the woman stared at me, awaiting my response, I slipped the back of my tongue between my molars and bit down, a painful reminder that this was not about me. This was about my dad. No matter what had happened in the past, it was the here and now that mattered. My pride had to take a backseat to his needs.
For him, and him alone, I would beg. Or as close to begging as I could manage without rupturing something critical. Trust me -—been there, done that, and it is not pretty.
“Please, won’t you reconsider?” I did my best to soften my voice, clear my features of any and all traces of the inner snarl and unkind thoughts I had going on, and gave her the big ol’ puppy eyes.
Shit, yeah, it burned and bubbled like peroxide in an open wound and probably sounded disingenuous as hell. I’d much rather tell her that if she didn’t want to work for a living, she should have married better. Or ask her if she’d gotten her practitioner’s license off the internet and received a free mouse pad for signing up. Or -—even better -—demand she get her fat, lazy ass off my property and then punctuate that sentiment with a few exclamation points from the pumped-up air rifle I still had from the most epic Christmas of my childhood.
But I didn’t say any of those things. I was being very, very good.
For a few moments, there was genuine sympathy in her eyes. Could have been pity. It didn’t really matter. Both were equally useless in the scheme of things. Put both of those in one hand and five bucks in the other and see which one got you a French Vanilla MooLatté at Dairy Queen. (My dad has a similar version of this gem of wisdom that involves shit and something called shinola, but I have more couth than that).
“Have you considered an assisted living facility?” the older woman offered.
The delicate thread of self-control that was keeping me from going full bitch on her stretched thinner. Some part of me knew she thought she was being helpful, maybe even kind. A much louder, much stronger part of me wanted to tell her that she didn’t know jack shit. My dad would never willingly go to one of those places. He’d put a bullet in his own head first.
I am not being overly dramatic. He really would. He told me so, on many occasions, and I believed him; he was not the type to issue idle threats. As it was, I’d already confiscated most of his firearms and hid all of the ammo in feminine product packaging. If my dad wasn’t so horrified by such things, he’d probably realize a woman did not need three dozen boxes of Kotex, Stayfree, and Tampax.
(The case of Summer’s Eve was legit, though. What can I say? Costco had a great deal and I’m kind of a clean freak, if you know what I mean.)
My jaws clenched together hard, stopping me from saying anything further. She didn’t care about my thoughts on the subject any more than she cared about my father’s wishes to spend whatever time he had left here at home. She should care, because her job as a home healthcare worker was based on exactly that premise. What if I, as a CPA with degrees in both Accounting and Computer Science, told my clients they should consider using Turbo Tax and Quicken instead of coming to me for the customized, small business accounting solutions I provided?
I could tell that she didn’t think I understood the situation, but I did. Besides being easy going, I am also the quintessential realist. I knew better than anyone that caring for my father was not easy. If it was, what the hell would I need her or her ilk for? They were supposed to be professionals, goddammit.
Anger and frustration buzzed like angry bees in my head even as a wave of exhaustion rolled through my body. I was so tired, physically and emotionally. I’d left my lucrative job on the West Coast and my coveted beachfront condo to move back to the northeast to take care of my
father (against his wishes, I might add) and spend whatever time I could with him. Don’t get me wrong; I’m not complaining. I’d make the same decision ten out of ten times and not regret it. I love my dad -—gruff, abrasive bastard that he is -—and I will be there for him.
She didn’t want to help? Fine. I didn’t need her. I could, and would, handle this on my own.
Somehow.
“I understand,” was what came out of my mouth, even as my eyes were shooting a whole lot of fuck-you-and-the-horse-you-rode-in-on hoodoo her way.
The LPN (that’s Licensed Practical Nurse for those unfamiliar) paused at her car, looking conflicted. I knew this, because in addition to everything else, I am a certified expert on conflicted, except I am much better at hiding it.
Fucking amateurs.
“I’ll talk to my supervisor,” she offered.
Again with the token helpfulness. Maybe it was good for assuaging a guilty conscience (and she should feel guilty, the bitch), but I could have told her not to bother. I already knew there was no one else; she was my last hope. Muskrat Falls (which had few muskrats and even fewer falls) wasn’t very big; a mere pinprick on the map. The one and only home health agency within a hundred miles (Muskrat Falls Universal Care Residential Services, known as MFUCRS or M-Fuckers, as I called them) didn’t have a large staff pool from which to draw. It consisted mostly of retired or downsized nurses and caregivers hoping to supplement their income by doing some per diem visits. They wanted the easy jobs -—giving a few shots, redressing a few wounds, post-op follow-up from some kind of joint replacement -—not the kind of hands-on, physically taxing care my father required.
And beyond that, very few were willing (or able) to deal with the likes of Angus McGinnis, physically or emotionally.
Even with the illness that was slowly robbing him of his physical health, my father was a big man. Well over six feet of solid Colonel, US Army Rangers, Retired. And his presence made him seem three times that. With a keen intelligence and sharp wit to boot, my dad had the enviable skill of rarely having to resort to violence. He could slice you to ribbons with the razor edge of his tongue just as easily as he could a Bowie knife, or have you cowering in the corner pissing yourself with just one glare from those laser-like, steely gray eyes.
Some people say that I’m a lot like my dad. Given that I’m a hair’s breadth short of five-one, they’re not talking about my size.
But I was not going to send this latest pathetic excuse for a caregiver fleeing our home in tears, no matter how much gratification potential the thought held. I am so much better than that.
“Thanks,” I said instead. I tried to manage a smile, but given the way her eyes widened in fear and she jumped into her Malibu, I think it came out more like a wolverine baring its teeth in warning.
I stood on the porch long enough to watch the last clouds of dust settle from her rather hurried departure, the anger fading somewhat. I missed its warm, filling presence. Without it, I felt kind of empty and drained.
What the hell was I going to do now?
As I had a hundred times, I organized the facts in my head, hoping beyond hope that some part of my supposedly high IQ would find something I missed.
Dad had ALS.
There is no known cure for ALS.
He would not be getting better, only worse.
Home healthcare in our county sucked ass.
There was no way in hell I was putting him in a home.
These were the incontrovertible facts, the only framework I had for crafting a solution and making this work. The epiphany I’d been hoping for, that aha! moment when the light bulb finally flicked on over my head, didn’t happen. It wasn’t in my nature to give up, but I was running out of viable options.
Maybe it would come later. I tried to placate myself with ageless wisdom and timeless platitudes. Everything happens for a reason. It’s always darkest before the dawn. God only gives you what you can handle. Normally, I shied away from the spiritual stuff. Footprints in the sand? Sounded great, but when I looked back and saw the single set of footprints behind me, I was pretty sure that God didn’t wear a size five narrow.
Without consciously realizing I was doing so, I cringed, as if that might keep me from getting fried by the lightning bolt God might send my way for thinking such blasphemous thoughts. See? I do believe in a higher power. I just think he’s more of a DIY than a free lunch kind of deity.
I turned, frowning at the door that needed re-screening and the porch light that needed replacing. More things that demanded time and attention I just didn’t have to give right now. I mentally relegated them lower on the priority totem and went back into the house. The bright sun and clear blue sky was only adding to the dull ache that had begun behind my eyes.
Good riddance to bad rubbish, as my Irish grandmother used to say. I’m not even sure at what (or whom) I was directing that last thought, but as it could be applied to so many things, I just went with it.
My first order of business was to check on my dad and make sure the fleeing nurse hadn’t given in to the temptation to inject an air bubble into his bloodstream. Padding quietly on silent feet (it’s a gift), I made my way to the back of the sprawling farmhouse where my dad had grown up. What had once been the parlor, then a family room, had since been converted into my dad’s bedroom, and I have to say, it was a nice one. Big, deeply set windows (who had two-foot thick walls anymore?) let in lots of light and looked out over an expanse of rolling hills and dense patches of dark green forest. My bedroom sat right above it and had the same view, but from up on the second floor I also got to see the meandering river and, a few miles away, the town proper, too.
My dad was napping peacefully. For several long minutes I just stood there, watching his broad chest rise and fall rhythmically with each breath. Even in sleep he cut an imposing figure, and some tiny voice way, way down deep inside me cried out, railing against the idea that this strong, powerful man was being taken from me by a cruel, debilitating illness.
I did what I always do when that happened. I beat those thoughts down mercilessly with a big, heavy, virtual club. If my dad woke up and saw even a flicker of pity or weakness in any of my features, he would find a way to end it.
Right or wrong, pride was a big thing to the McGinnis clan. To that end, I’d hidden every weapon I could find, but after thirty years as an Army Ranger, I was pretty sure he had more than a plan Bravo. Knowing him, he had backup plans Charlie, Delta, Echo and Foxtrot, too.
The only reason he tolerated my presence at all was because I’d told him that I was done with the West Coast and wanted to come back east to start my own business. In a way, it was sort of true. As much as I liked southern California, all of those perfect, warm, sunny days got old after a while. Having grown up in the mountains of the northeast, I missed the flagrant change in seasons and unpredictable weather. And being my own boss did sound pretty good. I wouldn’t make nearly as much, but the cost of living was much lower in Muskrat Falls than in SoCal, and, honestly, I liked the idea of making my own decisions instead of following someone else’s rules.
I’m pretty sure he saw through my bullshit, but it was a game he and I played. We pretended not to need each other, but we did.
Hey, don’t judge. It worked for us.
He snored softly, the ghost of a smile playing about his lips. I wasn’t surprised. He always slept like a baby after a good battle, and judging by the tight lips and red face of the caregiver before she’d taken off, it had been a good one. I’m not saying it was not without reason. As tough as my dad was, he was also one of the fairest men I’d ever known, but he had zero tolerance for incompetence. He’d said more times than I could count that stupid mistakes were what got a lot of good men (and women) killed.
I backed out of my father’s room and closed the door without making a sound. The roast was in the oven; I had an hour or two before I needed to pull together the rest of dinner. I should use the time to put a dent in some of the work reque
sts that had piled up, or to at least check my email and pay some bills online. But I couldn’t bring myself to do any of those things.
I made my way up the ancient staircase, expertly avoiding every creak and groan, and slipped into my room. I took a deep breath and blinked through a sudden sheen of moisture at the fluffy white, pink, and green down comforter on my unmade bed. At the piles of clean laundry that I just hadn’t gotten around to putting away. At the teetering stacks of books covering every available surface and half of the floor, each one of them a much-loved escape into a world other than my own.
It was a large room, messy and comfortable, so completely unlike the military order and neatness that was the rest of the house. It was my space, my sanctuary when things got to be too much. My place to go when a meltdown was imminent and I just really, really needed to cry.
Like now.
I buried my face in the sheets and pulled the pillows over my head to muffle the sound before giving in. I cried, I sobbed, I prayed for the strength and courage to get through this. And then, when the steady flow of tears dried up and my face was puffy and red, I dragged my pathetic ass into a cold shower and rebuilt my protective shell, brick by impenetrable brick, until I was whole again.
An hour and a half later, I was once again the paragon of self-control. I tested the roast with a fork, pleased when it all but fell apart at the slightest touch. I know it’s cliché, but my mom really was an amazing cook. I don’t claim to be anywhere near as skilled as she was in the kitchen, but I did learn some handy tips and tricks.
For instance, I learned how to work miracles with inexpensive, tough cuts of meat and turn them into mouthwatering meals (s-l-o-w cooking at low heat), how to correctly roast fresh vegetables (toss with garlic-infused olive oil, bake, then low-broil), and how to craft homemade rolls that melted like warm butter in your mouth every time (I can’t share this one, because if I did, I would have to kill you).
Letting Go: A Contemporary Romance of Snark and Feels Page 1
