Читать книгу Here I Am - Rochelle Alers - Страница 13

Brandt continued scratching his face. There was something about Ciara Dennison he liked. There was fire under the dowdy exterior. When he’d yelled at the other two nurses, they’d scurried away like frightened mice. The last one had turned on her heel so quickly she’d almost lost her footing.

What everyone, including his mother, had failed to understand was the feeling of helplessness. Without having the wheelchair at his disposal, he was unable to get out of bed and make it to the bathroom before embarrassing himself. The ultimate humiliation was having to use a bedpan.

During his two-week stay in the North Carolina hospital, he’d believed he would never leave alive. He’d drifted in and out of consciousness from the sedative, unaware of any visitors. When the head of orthopedics recommended his transfer to the hospital’s rehabilitation unit, Brandt knew it was time to leave.

He’d returned to New York City, not to a hospital or rehab facility but to his own home. After his personal physician and a leading specialist reviewed his medical records, they approved his convalescing at home with round-the-clock nursing care and physical therapy three times a week for a period of three to four months.

“Are you going to stay here 24/7?”

Ciara hesitated, debating whether to lie or tell the truth. She decided on the former, because she had to know for certain that Brandt would become a cooperative patient. “No. I’ll alternate with another nurse. Twelve hours on, twelve off.”

“I don’t want another nurse.”

Ciara took a step closer to the bed, her expression reflected surprise. “You want me to work a twenty-four-hour shift?”

“Will that pose a problem for you?” Brandt asked.

“Not really. But I hadn’t planned to work around the clock.”

“Well, tell your man that he’s going to find something other than you to occupy him while you’re at work.”

There was no way Ciara was going to admit to Brandt Wainwright that she didn’t have a man, husband or boyfriend. After dating Victor Seabrook for two years, she’d decided to not get involved with another man—at least for some time.

“Let’s not get personal,” she warned softly. “After I help you get cleaned up, I’ll have your mother call the agency to change my hours. Then, I’m going to have to return to my place to pick up enough clothes to last for at least a week,” she said, lying smoothly. Her carry-on bag contained enough clothes and toiletries to last several weeks.

Unaware that Ciara had skillfully manipulated him into doing something he hadn’t wanted, Brandt said, “I have a cleaning service that comes in several times a week. They do laundry. If you need them to take care of anything for you, then leave your clothes in the laundry room.” He reached for the sheet, uncovering his legs. He’d changed from wearing boxer-briefs to boxers in order for them to fit over the casts. “I need you to bring the wheelchair closer to the bed so I can go to the bathroom.”

Ciara walked around the bed and pulled the wheelchair closer before applying the brake, while Brandt braced his hands on the mattress and pushed himself into the chair. The muscles in his chest, arms and abs were magnificent. She had to remind herself that her patient was a professional athlete, and being in peak physical condition was a major factor in his earning an astounding amount of money for throwing a ball down a football field. He earned as much for one game as most people earned in ten years. She had little interest in sports, especially in jocks with overblown egos.

“Where’s the bathroom?”

Brandt pointed to a door on his right. “It’s over there. I don’t need you to watch me.”

Releasing the brake on the chair, Ciara pushed him toward the en suite bath. “I’m not going to watch you. I just want to make certain you make it inside.”

“I’ve made it okay before you got here, and I’m certain I’ll make it after you leave.”

“Why don’t you try dialing down the tough-guy talk, Brandt. You don’t frighten me.”

“What does frighten you?”

She pushed the chair into a bathroom that was larger than the kitchen and dining room she shared with her roommate in a two-bedroom renovated apartment in West Harlem. There was a free-standing shower, double sinks, a soaker tub with jets and a dressing area. The doors to an antique cupboard were removed to reveal shelves filled with an ample supply of towels and bathrobes.

Ciara wanted to tell Brandt he didn’t frighten her in the least. In fact, she found his outbursts rather amusing. There was no doubt he was an imposing figure on the gridiron, but she wasn’t a professional football player, and whether or not she was scared of him was irrelevant.

“I’m not afraid of anyone or anything,” she stated confidently.

Brandt smiled for the first time in weeks. “I’m impressed.”

Pushing him closer to the commode, Ciara positioned Brandt where he could easily get out of the wheelchair. “Are you certain you’ll be all right?”

“Yes. I’ll let you know if I require your assistance.” His words were dripping with sarcasm.

Ignoring his comments, she turned on her heel and walked out of the bathroom, closing the door behind her. Standing next to the door, she exhaled deeply. Going toe-to-toe with Brandt Wainwright was exhausting—it always was that way with a stubborn patient. Dealing with difficult patients always took a lot out of her.

As a psychiatric nurse she knew exactly what Brandt was going through. As an athlete his physical limitations were even more devastating. And although his inability to walk was only temporary, to Brandt it was torture. For most patients in his situation, the feelings of helplessness were often followed by anger and depression. Ciara had to intervene before he succumbed to his emotions. She was certain he would walk again, even if 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. She wanted to remind her that her son had survived a horrific accident that could’ve ended his life. And the fact that he did survive meant he would recover. Whether he’d ever be able play football again was another matter.

“Brandt’s going to be all right, Leona. It’s just that he’s going through a rough time now. Give him another few weeks.”

“I’m trying to be patient, but every time he lashes out I don’t recognize him. Of all of my four children he is the free spirit, the most fun-loving. When he told me he wanted to be a professional football player, it was the darkest day in my life. I had visions of him being carried off the field or spending the rest of his life in a wheelchair paralyzed from some freak accident. Little did I know that he would still end up in a wheelchair.” Leona sniffled, then dabbed at her nose with a napkin. “I’m sorry about becoming weepy. I’m usually not so emotional.”

Ciara gave Leona a warm smile. “You’re entitled, because that’s what mothers do when there’s something wrong with their children.”

Blinking back tears, the older woman managed a weak smile. “Even when that child is thirty-three?”

“Yes. Even if that child is fifty or sixty-three.”

Leona stared at the young woman sitting opposite her. “Do you have any children, Ciara?”

She shook her head. “No.”

“Would you like to have children one day?”

“Perhaps one day,” Ciara confirmed, staring into her cup of tea.

She’d thought about having a child, but only if she met the right man. Unlike some women, she didn’t want to be a single mother and raise a child by herself. Her parents had divorced the year she’d celebrated her tenth birthday, and not having her father in her life had had a negative affect on her relationships with men. Sometimes she hadn’t chosen wisely, and when she did choose to commit to a long-term relationship it was for the wrong reason. At the time, Ciara had wanted to prove to her mother that not only could she get a man, but she could also keep him.

William Dennison was in and out of her mother’s life so often that Ciara thought he’d worked for the CIA and that he’d had to go undercover for long periods of time. What she didn’t learn until she was in her early teens was that her father was living a double life. Although married to Phyllis, he’d also married another woman. His job as regional manager for a major beverage company kept him on the road, so he was able to divide his time between two households with relative ease. Although a bigamist, William never fathered a child with his second wife.

“You’re young, so you have time before you have to decide whether you want to have children.”

Leona’s soft voice broke into her musings. Thirty-three wasn’t that young, Ciara thought.

After wiping the corners of her mouth with a napkin, Leona placed it on the countertop. “I think it’s time I show you where everything is.”

They walked out of the kitchen, passed a laundry room and entered an area off the pantry. The elevator, large enough to accommodate four, was next to a wine cellar filled with bottles of wine too numerous to count. Ciara smothered a gasp when the elevator door opened to a wall of glass, running the length of the hallway and spanning the width of the penthouse.

Leona turned to her left. “This floor is still under construction. Brandt’s private quarters have been completed, but the opposite wing is an open space. He said once he’s married with children he’ll have a contractor build several bedrooms and a nursery.”

Ciara was too enthralled by the sight of a rooftop solarium to respond. Palm trees and exotic flowers made the space seem like an oasis in the middle of Manhattan. She stared at the exotic orchids spilling out of baskets, a riot of color in hues ranging from the deepest purple to pure white.

“Who takes care of the plants?”

“Brandt,” Leona replied smiling.

“It appears he has quite the green thumb.”

Leona laughed. “He installed a programmable irrigation system similar to the ones in supermarket produce sections where a spray of water keeps everything hydrated. The exception is the cacti.”

Ciara smiled. Brandt’s mother had unknowingly given her something she would use to motivate her patient. If Brandt liked working with his plants, then it was something he could do while still using his wheelchair.

The atrium took up half the rooftop. The other half was open to the elements. Tables, chairs and love seats with weatherproof cushions were set up for dining and entertaining outdoors.

She didn’t know what to expect when she walked into Brandt’s private suite, but it wasn’t a loft-like space with brick walls, aged plank floors, massive beams crisscrossing the ceiling, support columns and crystal chandeliers. A pair of French doors opened out onto the roof, which was filled with large potted palms and exotic plants. The style was bohemian yet elegant and masculine.

Ciara’s shoes made soft swishing sounds on the polished wood floor as she walked beyond an area where a chessboard sat on a leather ottoman between straight-back upholstered chairs. She stood under the arched entryway, staring at a collection of swords mounted on a wall. Her eyes were drawn to one that looked very much like a samurai sword. Moving closer, she admired the intricate carving on the handle and scabbard.

“His bedroom is to your left,” Leona said behind her.

It was apparent that Brandt Wainwright was more complicated than Ciara thought. His apartment was a retreat high above the noisy city streets.

“Where did he get the columns and architectural cornices?” Ciara asked.

“My daughter works at a gallery dealing in architectural elements from old buildings. Some of the columns come from Hollywood movie sets; the wooden arch support is from a cathedral in Montreal and the lion heads are from an old library.”

She and Leona retraced their steps, taking the wrought-iron spiral staircase instead of the elevator to the first floor.

A fully functional gym, home theater with a large, wall-mounted screen and an expansive living room made up the next floor. The library furnishings were unexpected for a professional athlete. There were no trophies or photos, framed newspaper articles or magazine covers. It appeared lived-in, a place were one came to read and relax. Espresso-colored leather chairs and a love seat, a massive antique mahogany desk and dark built-in bookcases completed the room.

Ciara stood at the window, staring down at the bumper-to-bumper traffic inching its way along FDR Drive. They looked like miniature cars from more than thirty stories above the street. “I’d better check on Brandt,” she said when Leona joined her at the window. “I have your numbers, so if there’s any change in his condition I’ll let you know.”

Leona smiled. “I know I’m leaving him in good hands.” She let out a soft sigh. “Now that you know where everything is, it’s time I go home and make certain my household is still intact. I just want to remind you that the cleaning service is scheduled to come tomorrow, and the physical therapist will call to let you know when he’s coming. However you plan to deal with Brandt…” Her words trailed off when Ciara gave her a look that spoke volumes. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t tell you how to do your job.”

“It’s okay. I’ve had to deal with much more difficult patients than your son.”

Brandt Wainwright would probably yell, but Ciara doubted that she would have as hard a time handling him as some of her other patients.

She waited for Leona to leave and then went to see if Brandt was still asleep. Walking into his bedroom, she saw him lying on his back, arms above his head. At first she thought he was asleep, but as Ciara moved closer to the bed she realized he was staring up at the ceiling.

“How are you feeling?”

Brandt turned his head slowly. He’d tried to remember the timbre of Ciara Dennison’s voice, but couldn’t because of the drug that managed to not only dull the pain racking his body but also his brain. He didn’t like taking it because it tended to impair his speech and ability to think. His eyelids fluttered as he fought against the dulling effects of the painkiller.

“Better.” He pointed at the armchair near the bed. “Please sit down and talk to me.”

Ciara complied, staring at the powerfully built, bearded man with the piercing blue eyes framed by long, dark lashes. “What do you want to talk about?”

A hint of a smile tilted the corners of Brandt’s strong mouth. “Anything, as long as it keeps me awake.”

“Have you ever thought that perhaps you need to sleep?”

Brandt closed his eyes. “I slept enough when they doped me up in Asheville.”

“The term is sedated, not doped,” Ciara countered.

“You call it whatever you want, but it’s still doping to me.”

Sitting up straight, she met his angry glare. “There’s no need to get testy, Brandt.”

“And you don’t have to be so prissy.”

Ciara could give as well as she could get but decided to swallow her response, realizing that going head-to-head with Brandt would end in a stalemate. “I’m willing to sit and talk. What I’m not going to put up with is you cursing at me. Save that language for the locker room.”

Brandt’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t tell me you’re that prim and proper.” As soon as the words were off his tongue he realized he may have misread Ciara Dennison.

“What I am is none of your concern. What you should concern yourself with is taking a shower and washing your hair. After that I’ll bring you something to eat.”

Brandt ran his fingers through his mussed hair. “I took a shower this morning, but I didn’t get around to washing my hair, because there wasn’t any shampoo in the bathroom. As for food, I don’t want that stuff my mother left in the freezer.”

“What’s wrong with it?”

“What’s right with it?” Brandt asked. “It tastes like hospital food.”

Ciara looked away so he couldn’t see her smiling. “Are you hungry?”

“Yes. I feel like I haven’t eaten in days.”

“What do you want? Steak and potatoes?”

Brandt grinned at Ciara, revealing a set of beautiful straight white teeth. “Steak and potatoes, Philly cheese-steak or sausage and peppers.”

“What are you, on some kind of bodybuilding diet?”

“Hell, yeah,” he drawled.

“I’m going to set up a swear jar, and every time you curse you’ll have to put a dollar in it.”

Brandt crossed his arms over his chest. “And what do you intend to do with the contents?”

“Donate it to charity.”

“If that’s the case, then I’ll put a couple of thousand in it beforehand and cuss away.”

Ciara rolled her eyes at him. She’d dated a man who after one drink couldn’t complete a sentence without using four-letter words. The alcohol lowered his inhibitions and loosened his tongue. After their second date she told him it wasn’t going to work out between them.

“Just try and watch your language.” A long silence followed as they engaged in what had become a stare-down, neither willing to concede.

“I’ll watch what I say if…”

“If what?” Ciara asked when he didn’t finish his statement. She then realized he’d closed his eyes. “Brandt?”

“I’m not sleeping.”

“What are you doing?”

Brandt smiled. “I’m resting my eyelids.”

Ciara rose from the chair. “You rest your eyelids while I go and get some shampoo.” Maintaining his personal hygiene was essential to his emotional well-being. She didn’t want to give herself kudos, but she was making progress with her patient; she’d gotten Brandt to take his pain medication and he’d agreed to wash his hair. He’d also admitted to being hungry, and that meant he didn’t intend to starve himself to death.

“You should find shampoo on a shelf in the pantry, and there’re steaks in the freezer.” He opened his eyes. “You do know how to broil a steak?”

She’d just discovered who Brandt Wainwright was. He was a big dog with a big bark but with little or no bite. “I’ve broiled a few. How do you like yours cooked?”

“Medium-well.”

“Your mother gave me a tour of your place and I think it would be nice if you eat upstairs. It would do you good to get some fresh air.”

Propping himself up on one elbow, Brandt gave his nurse a long, penetrating stare. “Are you going to eat with me?”

“What?”

“‘What?’” he mimicked. “I asked if you were going to eat with me, Ciara Dennison, or is that not allowed in your book—sharing meals with your patients?”

“I don’t have any hard-and-fast rules, just what is and isn’t appropriate between a nurse and a patient. We’re not in a hospital setting, so there’s nothing wrong with me sharing a meal with my patient.”

Lying back down onto the mound of pillows cradling his shoulders, Brandt closed his eyes again. “Thank you.”

The seconds ticked as Ciara stared at the bearded man whose very size was intimidating enough without him raising his voice. If he’d thought he’d frighten her into leaving then he didn’t know how stubborn she could be. Push and she would push back—harder. Yell and she would yell even louder. Her only focus was making certain her patient received the best possible care.

“You’re welcome.” The two words were barely off her tongue when soft snoring filled the room. He’d fallen asleep again. Ciara was glad. It would give her time to prepare dinner.