Читать книгу Breakup In A Small Town - Kristina Knight - Страница 11

CHAPTER ONE

ADAM SAT IN his wheelchair, watching life happen outside the picture window of his house. Old Mrs. Thompson carried her gardening basket to her mailbox, talking to Mr. Rhodes as she plucked a few errant weeds from the butterfly bushes lining her walk.

Adam’s wife, Jenny, had left the windows open today, so he could hear kids chattering as they walked home from school, and the sound of a passing car up on the main road. And here he was, stuck in the wheelchair that had become his main mode of transportation since he’d woken up in the hospital nearly a week after the F4 tornado tore downtown Slippery Rock to shreds. Not because the crashing steeple had paralyzed him, but because it had messed up his brain. While the doctors adjusted medications to control the epilepsy he hated, Adam was stuck in the chair. Watching the world go by.

God, he hated watching. He wanted to be doing. Working with his tools in the workshop at Buchanan Cabinetry, playing with his kids in the yard or taking a walk with his wife. The woman who’d been stopping his brain from functioning properly much longer than the epilepsy.

The woman who now looked at him only with pity in her eyes.

He hated the pity more than he hated the chair.

Adam had no idea how to deal with either one, so he sat, and he watched, and he wondered if they would all be better off without him. Better off without worrying about when the next seizure would hit, better off because then an able-bodied someone could take his place.

He flexed his fingers against the armrests. The thought of Jenny being with another man, of another guy teaching Frankie how to hit a curve ball or push Garrett higher on the swing set had the pretty blue sky outside the window turning red. He didn’t want another man taking over any tiny, little piece of the life he’d loved before the tornado. Adam sighed. Did it really matter what he wanted? Letting Jenny and the kids move on with their lives, since his was stuck in the wheelchair, was the adult thing to do.

Jenny wouldn’t tell him to leave. If he wanted his family to have a better life, he would have to be the one to leave. Pressure in his chest built up, making it hard to breathe. It was the best option, one that would allow them to heal in a way that his presence never would. Jenny would keep crying herself to sleep. Frankie would still be afraid to so much as hold Adam’s hand, and Garrett... God, Garrett would keep looking at him through green eyes filled with terror.

Adam didn’t want his kids to be afraid of him. He didn’t want his wife to pity him. He just wanted things to go back to normal. To a time when he and Jenny would walk the four blocks to Buchanan Cabinetry together in the mornings. To a time when he’d play with the boys in the backyard before dinner, and wrestle with them before bedtime.

To a time when his touch could soothe whatever troubles made Jenny cry, instead of making those troubles so much worse. He’d been lucky that she fell in love with him before; now it was time to admit that she deserved better. More.

Pushing his hands against the hated wheels, Adam turned the chair from the window and propelled himself to the kitchen. At the step between the kitchen and the living area, he got up, feeling the sharp pain in his knee as he stood. He smiled at the feeling. Pain he could deal with. Pain he could use. He limped across the room, got a glass from the cabinet and poured a beer into it, not caring that he wasn’t supposed to mix alcohol with the medications. He held the glass up, closing his eyes as he let the smell of barley and yeast and hops wash over him.

God, he loved a cold beer.

The back door slammed and Adam dumped the full glass down the sink as his kids rushed through the mudroom, chattering about the Panama Canal and the best way to mix paints in art class. The conversation didn’t make any sense, but then, his kids’ conversations rarely made sense. Frankie, three years older, talked over Garrett, who chattered on whether anyone was listening or not.

Their noise stopped abruptly and Adam turned. His sons stared at him with eyes as wide as quarters.

“Daddy, you’re not s’posed to be out of the chair,” Garrett said, taking a step into the kitchen. He dropped his little backpack onto the tile.

“I was just getting a drink,” he said, rinsing the glass in the sink as he surreptitiously pushed the empty beer bottle into the recycling bin. He limped back to the chair, his injured knee screaming in pain as he went.

“Can I have a snack?” Garrett asked, putting his empty lunch box on Adam’s lap, looking at him expectantly. “I ate all my lunch, even the crusts off my PBJ.”

“Sure. How about a cookie?”

“Mom doesn’t let us have cookies after school, Dad,” Frankie said, rolling his eyes as he spoke in that husky voice that made him sound so much older than seven. “Healthy snacks first. Sweets for dessert.” He motioned to his younger brother. “How about an apple?”

“With caramel?” Garrett asked, rocking up to his tiptoes and clasping his hands together.

“Sure.”

“Cut up, no peel,” he said.

Frankie sighed. “You know I’m not allowed to use the knives.”

“I’ll take care of it,” Adam said.

Frankie sighed again, and this time shook his head. “You’re not allowed, either, Dad. No sharps because of the seizures.”

“Cutting up an apple for your brother isn’t going to give me a seizure.” And he could damn well do one normal thing today.

Frankie pressed his back to the cabinet drawer holding the knives. “It’s against the rules.”

Adam gritted his teeth. “I can cut up an apple for a snack,” he said, putting steel into his voice and hating himself for it. He’d never raised his voice to the kids, not once, before the tornado. Now, it was as if he couldn’t make it through a single conversation without getting angry. He clenched his hands around the arms of the wheelchair and stood up again.

Adam limped across the kitchen, picked up his son and set him aside, then drew a small paring knife from the drawer. He put the apple on the cutting board and set the knife, but before he could make the first cut, the back door opened and his kids were off like shots through the kitchen.

“Mom, Dad’s using a knife!”

“It’s against the rules,” Garrett hollered. “I don’t want Daddy to sheeshur because of the knife, Mama.”

“I’ll take care of it.” Jenny’s soothing voice washed over him. “I’m sorry I couldn’t pick you guys up at school today. How was the bus?”

No answer from either of the kids. Adam sliced the knife through the apple and was rewarded with a perfectly halved green Granny Smith.

“Well? How was the bus?” Jenny asked, and he could hear her heels on the hardwood floor. He continued slicing until he had eight even pieces and then began peeling.

“We missed the bus,” Garrett finally said, his voice quiet.

“It’s okay, though. I walked us home. It wasn’t that far,” Frankie said, the words coming in a rush.

“You...” Jenny was quiet for a moment and Adam pictured her running her hands through her hair as she gathered her thoughts. “Okay, well, in the future, don’t walk if you miss the bus. Just call Buchanan’s and I’ll come get you.”

“I don’t like the bus,” Garrett said. “Those big kids are mean.”

“It isn’t a far walk, Mom. And I’m practically eight now.”

And until the tornado had sidelined Adam from work, Jenny had picked up the kids every day at school. Things were different now, he reminded himself. Just one more reason to let them get on with their lives. Without him.

“You won’t be eight until next summer. That’s more than six months away. And your age isn’t the point, kiddo. The point is you’re supposed to ride the bus. Was this ‘miss’ intentional?”

Though his back was to his family, Adam could picture Jenny with her arms crossed over her chest, looking from Frankie to Garrett with her pretty blue eyes narrowed and calculating. She’d hone in on Garrett as the weak link.

The kids didn’t answer. Adam turned from the counter to her, back to him, just as he’d imagined. Garrett looked to Frankie, who stared right back at him. Neither said a word, but that look said everything. Yeah, an intentional miss.

Jenny watched them a moment longer, but when it became apparent neither would answer the question, she shook her head slowly, then knelt before them. “What did we talk about when school started? I have to stay at the warehouse now until three thirty. That means a bus ride home. Teamwork, right? You guys ride the bus, I meet you here.”

Frankie scuffed the toe of his untied shoe against the tile. “It isn’t fair.”

Jenny looked at Garrett, who scooted a little closer to his older brother. “We don’t like the bus,” he told her.

“The bus is the best option we have until Uncle Aiden gets into town in a few days. Papaw is busy with the guys in the workshop, and Mamaw is dealing with the phones and office stuff while I deal with the warehouse shipments. It’s just for a little while longer. Okay?”

Frankie shrugged, and Garrett looked at the floor. “Guys?” she asked.

Frankie nodded, and Garrett followed suit.

Adam held the plate out. The kids took it to the table and began to eat.

“Uncle Aiden will be here at the end of the week, and maybe once he’s settled, we’ll figure out a new schedule. Until then, it’s the bus after school.” The kids nodded, but kept their attention focused on the table. “I mean it, boys.”

Jenny pushed past Adam and began to clean the apple peels off the counter. She rinsed the cutting board and small knife. She didn’t even look at Adam. “You shouldn’t be standing on that knee. You know what the doctor said.”

Of course he knew what the doctor said. The words that damned man said circled around in Adam’s mind all day long. Don’t put undue pressure on the knee. Even the smallest twist or turn could set back his recovery, especially since they couldn’t perform the needed surgery on his leg until the epilepsy was under control.

“Cutting an apple isn’t putting my knee under any stress.”

“Walking on tile and hardwood is.” Jenny kept her voice even, but shot him a sharp look then motioned to the living room. She held the handles of the wheelchair expectantly, but Adam was damned if he was going to sit back in that thing and be talked to like he was a seven-year-old. He turned on his heel and walked out of the kitchen, gritting his teeth against the pain in his knee as he moved. When they were out of earshot of the kids, she said, “And what if you’d had another episode? With a knife in your hand? And the boys in the house?”

“It’s a paring knife, Jen. It’s not going to kill me.” And nothing had happened, so what was the big deal?

“It’s a sharp blade, and it will cut no matter how little it is.”

“Whatever.”

“Stop giving me that answer, Adam. You know your limitations—”

“Peeling an apple for my kids isn’t going to kill me, Jenny.” He threw his arms to the side. “Neither is walking around in my own home instead of wheeling myself in that damned chair.” He pivoted, and pain wrenched through his leg when his Nike caught on the hardwood. His knee gave out, and as he fell to the floor, he saw horror flit over Jenny’s face as she rushed across the room. She cradled his body against hers the way she might hold one of their kids, and that annoyed him more than the pain in his knee hurt. He wasn’t a damned child. He didn’t need a damned babysitter.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” she said, her voice soothing as she ran her hands over his denim-clad leg. Once upon a time, a touch like that from her would have him hard and ready to take things into their bedroom. He pushed away the heat that flashed through him at her touch. Neither of them needed him acting like a horny teenager right now. “I don’t feel anything out of position. Let’s get you up.” She helped him to the chair.

“Stop, just stop,” he said, when she started running her hands over his leg again. He didn’t think he could keep pushing away his physical reaction to her, not when she was this close to him. Not when he could hear her breathing take on that ragged edge. Part of him wanted her reaction to him. The other part, the smart part, knew physical attraction wouldn’t do either of them any good. Not when his body was out of his control. He grabbed her wrists and pushed her away. “I don’t need a nursemaid. I twisted the knee—it’s not a big deal.”

“It is a big deal,” she said, but she stepped away from him, shoving her hands into the pockets of her pink capri pants. “It’ll be okay, though. Aiden will be here on Friday. I’ll figure out a new schedule for the kids, and for you. It’ll be okay. It’ll be okay,” she said again, and didn’t wait for him to answer. “I’m just going to check on the boys.” She disappeared down the hall.

It wouldn’t be okay, Adam thought. It couldn’t. Not as long as he was in this chair. Not as long as his brain wasn’t working. Nothing would be okay for his family as long as he was sick. And he was tired of being the reason everyone in this house walked around on pins and needles all day.

* * *

JENNY BUCHANAN SAT on the pretty, plaid sofa in her living room, staring at the ceiling. She’d gotten the kids to bed a little while ago, and still hadn’t heard a peep from Adam. Her husband of six years had retreated to the guest room after the after-school fight. The guest room where he’d been sleeping since coming home from the hospital three months ago.

The guest room where he’d made it clear she wasn’t wanted. Or needed. Or even invited.

God, she hated that guest room. If she could, she’d set fire to it so she never had to deal with it again. Burning down part of the home she’d built with Adam wasn’t a solution to their current problems, though. As satisfying as it might be.

Her mother’s chattering voice continued through the phone line, but Jenny had stopped paying attention five minutes before. She wasn’t sure if the occasionally muttered uh-huhs and okays she offered were for the poor turnout for her mother’s annual Coats for Kids drive or for the fact that her father still hadn’t fixed the loose downspout on the side of their house. Either way, she didn’t really care.

It wasn’t even October yet. The first cold snap hadn’t hit southern Missouri. In fact, they had yet to see nightly temperatures drop under the seventy-degree mark. And, really, what was the big deal about a downspout that was only slightly off center? There were bigger problems in the world.

Terrorism, for one.

Her husband’s continued depression/anger/denial of the very real medical issues facing them since the tornado that nearly destroyed their town, for another. Not to mention the business issues. She and Adam had made big plans to turn Buchanan Cabinetry into Buchanan Fine Furnishings before the tornado hit; his parents had been mostly retired, splitting their time between Slippery Rock and Florida when they weren’t traveling the country in their RV. Since the tornado and Adam’s hospitalization, though, they’d moved home to Slippery Rock full-time and were now back to running the business. Straight into the ground.

The elder Buchanans had “mislaid” messages from the company suppliers, and when a furniture outlet in Springfield called to ask about a new partnership, they had refused to even consider the option. That was a partnership she and Adam had been working on for months, and his parents had killed the plan without even consulting her. Or Adam.

Adam’s response had been to shrug his shoulder, get a bottle of soda from the fridge and wheel himself back into the guest room, where he shut the door and turned on the television.

When she knocked on the door, trying to talk to him, he’d simply turned up the volume until she left him alone.

She didn’t know how to reach her husband. She hated her job.

She hated her life.

More than any of those things, she hated that she felt so helpless in this situation. “Mother, I’d like to talk about me, please,” she said, detesting the whining note that came into her voice. She wasn’t whining; she’d called for advice. But in typical Margery Hastings fashion, her mom had steamrolled right over Jenny’s needs and straight into her own.

Margery didn’t respond well to whining, though, so Jenny backtracked. “I don’t mean to belittle your problems, I’m sure Dad is just focused on work. You know, the bank was hit really hard by the tornado.”

“It isn’t as if they had to rebuild,” Margery said, her voice stiff with self-righteousness.

No, the bank hadn’t had to rebuild. They’d had to create loans for local businesses to rebuild, had dealt with construction companies that needed to expand to deal with the devastation, and had to explain to their corporate bosses why capital outlay had increased so much in a single quarter.

“What I meant was that I really do need your advice. I’m just not sure how to reach Adam. He’s...not the same man that he was before the tornado.” As frustrated with Pre-Tornado Adam as she’d gotten from time to time—she’d begun to refer to him as that—she would take that reckless, carefree, playful man over the dark, depressed man living in her home any day.

“Well, what did you expect, dear? He was in a devastating tornado, trapped in the rubble of a building for nearly a full day before help arrived. Now he’s dealing with a debilitating medical condition that is only barely under control—”

“You’re right, you’re right. I’m being too hard on him.”

“You aren’t being hard enough on him,” her mother said, and Jenny shook her head. She had to be hearing things, right?

“Mother, he’s having seizures because of a terrible head injury.”

“And you’re defending his continued ill behavior. I’m not sure why you expected anything different. He is one of those Buchanan boys. Neither of them took a single thing seriously when they were in school. I still don’t know why you had to marry him.”

Because she loved him, and she’d been eighteen and foolish enough to believe that no matter what they faced, love would be enough to get them through. She didn’t think she could love Adam out of this dark place, though.

She wasn’t even sure she wanted to try.

Jenny squeezed her eyes closed. God, she was a bitch to even think those words. Adam was her husband; of course she wanted to try to fix him. Fix their relationship. Fix their family.

“Well?” her mother said, sounding impatient.

“I married him because I loved him,” she said, and Margery pounced.

“See, right there. You loved him. Not you love him. Loved. Past tense. Jennifer Anne, there are times that you stand by your man, and there are times you have to be honest with yourself. This is one of those times.”

One of which times? Jenny didn’t know. She wanted to stand by Adam. She loved him—not past tense, but now. As frustrating as it had sometimes been to deal with him being the fun, friendly, never-disciplined-the-kids dad, she loved the man he had been. Sometime in the past few months, though, she had lost that man, and she didn’t know if he even existed any longer. It was as if the tornado stole the Adam she knew and replaced him with this angry robot of a man.

“I love him, Mother. Love. Present tense. Being frustrated at our situation isn’t a good reason to...to change that.” She couldn’t say the D word. She couldn’t. She didn’t want to divorce Adam. She wanted to wake him up. To bring him out of whatever place the tornado had left him, and move forward.

“Well, I’m not sure how I can help you, then. I just got in from bridge club, and need to have dinner ready for your father in fifteen minutes. Call me when you come to your senses,” she said, and the phone clicked off.

Jenny turned the receiver over and over in her hands. “That was a brilliant move, Jen—call dear old Mom for advice on one of her bridge days.” She replaced the receiver and went into the kitchen. She poured a cup of coffee into her favorite owl mug and sat at the counter, drumming her fingers on the granite countertop.

Frankie’s army men were strewn around the living room, despite her three warnings that morning for him to clean them up. Jenny sighed and crossed the room. She gathered up the little green men and tossed them into the basket at the end of the sofa. A stack of Garrett’s drawings were wedged under the couch and she pulled them out.

Garrett had drawn a picture of their house, with stick figures of Adam, Jenny, Frankie and himself standing before it. Jenny smiled. She and Adam appeared to be holding stick hands in the picture. She put the paper on the sofa, and froze. The next picture was the same house, but black clouds circled the roof and squiggly lines appeared to be attacking it. She swallowed hard.

The tornado. She would reassure Garrett that the storm wasn’t coming back.

Jenny flipped to another picture. This time no angry clouds buzzed the pretty yellow house her almost-six-year-old had drawn. Flowers popped up near the feet of the mom and the two kids in the picture, but a big black cloud was attacking another figure. A figure in a wheelchair. A figure with light brown hair and a frown on its face. A figure that was separated from the rest of the family and the house by a gaping black hole.

This wasn’t right. She’d thought she and Adam had been able to hide the rift between them, at least from the kids. She gathered the pictures and put them in a drawer in the kitchen island, and then leaned against the cool granite. Jenny pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes.

She had to fix this.