Here I Am. Rochelle AlersЧитать онлайн книгу.
she doubted whether he would be able to play ball again.
His readiness to play football was something she would leave up to the team doctors. Her responsibility was to help with his recovery so that the physical therapist could get him up and walking again. Brandt opened the bathroom door and wheeled the chair into the bedroom. She lowered the bed, making it easier for him to get back into it.
Ciara noticed beads of perspiration on Brandt’s forehead and that he’d gritted his teeth when he fell back to the pile of pillows. “Would you like something to help the pain?” She knew he was hurting.
Brandt tried willing the pain to go away, but it’d persisted. It was as if someone was driving hot spikes into his legs. Once he’d left the hospital, he’d resisted taking painkillers, even though he’d been told there was no honor in suffering in silence.
“Please.”
Leona arose from the padded bench outside the bedroom where she’d sat waiting for Ciara Dennison to emerge. She hadn’t heard Brandt shouting at Ciara, so she prayed things had gone well between him and his latest nurse.
“How did it go?” she asked as Ciara stepped into the hallway.
“Well, Brandt needs to wash his hair, but that’s going to have to wait until later. Right now he needs his pain medication.”
A sigh of relief escaped Leona. She’d sat praying Ciara Dennison would succeed where the other nurses had failed. She was also surprised Ciara had asked her for Brandt’s medication. Whenever she’d asked her son whether he needed something for pain, he’d refused to take anything.
“It’s in the kitchen. I’ll get it for you.”
Ciara took Brandt’s pulse as she waited for his mother to return with the painkillers. It was within normal range.
She’d gotten over one hurdle when she had managed to get him to agree to her being there. But she wasn’t ready to declare victory just yet. She didn’t like getting into his face, but apparently it had worked—if only temporarily.
Ciara waited until Brandt was asleep before she left the bedroom. “He’s asleep,” she told Leona who popped up from the bench. “Is there some place we can go and talk?”
“We can talk in the kitchen. I could use a cup of chamomile tea to calm my nerves. Would you like coffee or tea?”
Ciara gave her a sidelong glance. “Tea would be nice, thank you.”
“After tea, I’ll give you a tour of the penthouse. All of the bedroom suites on the first floor have connecting doors. Brandt installed an elevator between the pantry and the kitchen, so you don’t have to climb the stairs. If you take the suite next to his it will give you easy access whenever he needs you.”
“Does he sleep through the night?” Ciara asked, following Leona into a spacious kitchen finished in an antique white with a coffered ceiling, paneled-door refrigerator, black granite countertops, an eight-burner commercial range and double ovens. The kitchen opened to a formal dining room with the same coffered ceiling.
“I’m not certain.” Leona gestured to a quartet of stools at the cooking island. “Please sit down.”
Ciara sat, giving the older woman a questioning look. “Why don’t you know?”
A rush of color suffused Leona’s face. “Since the accident I’ve been unable to sleep, so my doctor prescribed a sleeping aid. I always make certain Brandt is settled before I take the pill.”
So if he were to fall out of bed or need something, you wouldn’t know it until the following morning. Ciara shook her head as if to banish the thought. Throughout her nursing career, she had been taught that it was always and only about the patient.
“Is he eating?” she asked, changing the subject.
Leona filled a kettle with water and placed it on the stovetop range. “His appetite is improving.”
“What do you mean improving?” Ciara asked.
“During his hospital stay he’d refused to eat, so they fed him intravenously. Since his return, he has been picking at his food.”
“Who cooks for him now?” she asked, continuing her questioning, and watching Leona as she moved comfortably around the kitchen, opening cabinets, drawers and removing china and silver.
“I ordered frozen entrées.”
Resting her elbows on the countertop, Ciara cupped her chin in the heel of her hand. She decided to reserve comment on the frozen meals. Her mother, Phyllis Dennison, was a registered dietician and abhorred processed food. If it wasn’t made from scratch, then it didn’t end up on Phyllis’s table.
“The pantry and refrigerator are stocked, so if you want to make something for yourself, then please feel free to do so,” Leona continued as she placed a bottle of honey and a sugar bowl on the countertop. “If you prefer ordering takeout, then just call the building’s concierge. You do cook, don’t you?” she asked without taking a breath. “I’m only asking because most young women nowadays are so busy with their careers that cooking isn’t as much a priority as it was years ago.”
A hint of a smile played at the corners of Ciara’s mouth. “My mother is a registered dietitian at a nursing facility and my roommate is a chef. Thankfully I’ve learned to prepare more than a few dishes.”
Leona dropped several teabags into a teapot and added boiling water. “Good for you. I have some scones that go very well with tea. Perhaps you would like some?”
“No, thank you.”
She wanted to tell Leona Wainwright that she was on duty and sharing afternoon tea with her patient’s mother was not a part of her job description. However she had to go along with it. Private nurses were well paid—and in Brandt Wainwright’s case, extremely well paid. Ciara estimated her stint with Brandt would probably last two months, give or take a week. Once the casts were removed and he could bear his own weight, then her assignment would be over. After that, her plans included taking two weeks off to visit with her mother in upstate New York before returning to Manhattan for her next case.
Leona poured the tea into fragile, hand-painted china cups, adding a teaspoon of sugar to hers, while Ciara opted for honey. The two women sat sipping tea in comfortable silence until Leona said, “I hope you don’t get the wrong impression of my son. I’ve never known him to be so rude—”
“There’s no need to apologize, Mrs. Wainwright,” Ciara interrupted. “I’m more than familiar with—”
“Please call me Leona. I always think of my mother-in-law as Mrs. Wainwright.”
Ciara smiled over the rim of her cup. “Okay. As I was saying, there’s no need to apologize. Brandt’s anger and frustration aren’t unique to his type of injury. I’ve had patients who’ve gotten depressed and refused to eat, talk or even try to do their rehab.”
Leona leaned closer, her brow knitting in concern. “What did you do?”
“I recommended a psychiatric evaluation. Some are prescribed antidepressants, but it was usually enough to get them to open up about their feelings of helplessness or loss of independence.”
“Do you think that’s what wrong with Brandt?”
“I’m a psychiatric nurse, not a psychiatrist. Your son is a professional athlete, and that means that his body is integral to his self-image. The fact that he can’t use his legs would affect him more than someone who sits behind a desk for seven or eight hours a day. I don’t think Brandt is as depressed as he is frustrated that he needs help with his most basic needs.”
“I pray you’re right, Ciara. Seeing Brandt in physical and emotional pain is more than I can bear right now.” Leona’s eyes filled with tears.
Ciara’s hands tightened around her cup to prevent her from reaching out to comfort Brandt’s mother.