Right Back Where We Started

by Fiona West

  He shifted his focus back to Jennie. “Have a good night. Maybe we can hang out again sometime.”

  “That'd be fun,” she agreed. “See you, Crash.”

  “It's Carter, actually.”

  She cocked her head. “Pardon?”

  “My name. Crash is kind of an unfortunate nickname for an actuary, so I’m trying to shake it.”

  “Oh, yeah. I don’t even remember how you got it . . .”

  “I landed an airplane with the gear up in high school.” Because I was so busy showing off, I couldn't be bothered to do my landing checklist. How idiotic is that? At least that had been pre-Martina. He couldn’t live with himself if he’d hurt her.

  “Right. Carter. Sorry. I forget stuff sometimes.”

  “Me too,” he joked, then he opened her car door for her, shutting it behind her once she slid inside. Once she was gone, he looked around for Martina, but she was gone. He'd screwed this up. He never should've come here. Carter raked his fingers through his hair with both hands, yanking on the ends a little. And what in the world was he going to say to her on Monday? Carter shuffled back to his SUV, now dreading the forty-eight hours that stretched before him like a prison sentence.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  ON SATURDAY, CARTER went into the office. Normally, he wouldn’t on a weekend, but his mom wouldn’t leave him alone to let him study, and he was already behind. He figured he could get in a few hours and be home for a late lunch to spend time with her this afternoon. Assuming, of course, she remembered she’d wanted to hang out with him . . . The fluorescent lights above him hummed approvingly, and the rain fell steadily outside, dripping down the windows. Carter sighed with contentment. It would knock the leaves down, but he’d missed the rain; it had been a dry fall so far, and it just felt wrong.

  Around 10 a.m., he got a text message.

  Chase: Hey.

  Carter: Hey.

  Chase: How's your day going?

  Carter: Busy. How's yours?

  He wasn't trying to blow his older brother off. But he wasn't trying not to blow him off.

  Chase: It's going good.

  Carter: Good.

  And after that exhibition of their stellar conversational skills, Carter was out of things to say, and he went back to his practice test. But Chase wasn’t done.

  Chase: I wanted to see if you'd bring Mom to see me again.

  Chase: If you have time.

  Chase: I know it's a long drive.

  Chase was acknowledging that his behavior affected other people? That was new . . . and not unappreciated.

  Carter: I'll try. I might send her with her new caregiver. So she’d bring her on a weekday.

  Chase: Oh, you hired somebody?

  Chase: That's great, man. I'm really glad you did that.

  Chase: Is she hot?

  So not everything about Chase had changed. Carter went with the simplest explanation.

  Carter: She's a qualified professional.

  Carter: Found her through an agency here in TF. She was well-vetted.

  That probably sounded defensive. He wasn't used to Chase taking any interest in his life or Willow's. He'd just been the little brother who lived in the twins' shadows, doubly large for there being two of them, both very successful and well-liked.

  Chase: So that's a 'no' to her being hot. Check.

  Chase: You seeing anybody?

  Carter: No.

  I shared a drink and a piece of cake with Jennie Wallace last night. Does that count? And if I tell you I only did it to make my ex jealous, does it still count?

  Chase: Why not?

  Carter had a much better rein on his temper than he used to, but when he just wanted to study and no one would leave him alone and when brothers who barely existed started asking personal questions, once in a while, he let an arrow fly in warning.

  Carter: I don’t know, Chase, maybe because I’m constantly worried that our mom is going to wander off or hurt herself or forget who I am while I’m gone? Could it be that?

  Chase: Hey, I wasn’t trying to be critical. I just don’t know much about your life.

  And whose fault is that?

  Carter: I have to get back to work.

  Chase: Wait, you’re working on Saturday? Is nothing sacred?

  Carter snorted. He just now realized it was Saturday? The days probably blended together a bit in rehab. He was lucky he’d gotten away with just rehab again. The first stint he’d done clearly didn’t take . . . it was hard not to be frustrated with him. Having his help right now would be amazing, allow Carter to breathe a little easier instead of feeling like his mom’s health and happiness was all on his shoulders. Instead, Chase was just adding to his problems.

  Carter: You used to work Saturdays!

  Chase: I know. But I shouldn’t have. Boundaries, man.

  Carter: It’s just too noisy at the house.

  Carter: It’s not a big deal.

  Chase: Yes, it is. You should prioritize your own mental health.

  Carter bristled. That was easy for him to say. As far as he could tell, Chase sat around and did art, helped cook, and talked about his feelings all day at this rehab place. Considering they were getting his brother’s free labor, Carter couldn’t believe how much it cost.

  Carter: How much longer are you going to be in Bend?

  Chase: I’m not sure yet.

  So his help would not be forthcoming. Check. Tired, Carter gathered up his stuff and left the building. He flicked his hood up as he walked through the parking lot to his Tesla. It was a fun car to drive, but he missed flying airplanes; up until his accident, it’d been one of his favorite activities, especially on a Saturday. There was something almost meditative about it. It made him feel vulnerable and powerful and alive all at once. He peered up at the thick clouds through his windshield, the wipers whipping across his vision. Not today, but maybe another day. Maybe he’d get back behind the yoke and reclaim that piece of his soul. His love life, however . . . that was a crash he wasn’t sure he’d ever recover from . . . but he was willing to try. He just didn’t know if she was.

  Carter drove to his condo and let himself in. The place felt empty now despite not having removed any furniture. He wasn’t having it cleaned while he lived in Timber Falls, and it smelled like dust. This had been his sanctuary, once. Man, he missed being in his own space, uninterrupted, no one monitoring what he was doing or having to consider how it affected anyone else. He grabbed a book he’d been wanting for work, and while he was at it, he grabbed his private pilot book, just to brush up. A concert ticket fell out, and he picked it up. After he’d turned down his old friends so many times due to his mom’s condition, they’d just stopped calling; he used to go out every weekend. Apparently, if you couldn’t go out on the weekend, it wasn’t worth texting you any other day of the week. He flicked on the light in the bedroom, then opened the top drawer of his dresser; there it was, her pink flip-flop. He touched the rhinestones she’d tenderly glued to the straps. He probably should’ve tried harder to get it back to her, but there was no point now. He tucked it safely back into the drawer, gathered up a few more clothes, then locked the place back up and started the drive back to Timber Falls.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  “THAT'S JUST HOW I HURT my wrist.” Willow's matter-of-fact tone and her unexpected volume were startling. Martina wobbled on the wooden chair for a moment, grabbing onto the grandfather clock for stability. It was Monday evening just after dinner, and she’d blown off her parents, explaining that she had to work. It was mostly true . . . but she also didn’t want another lecture on why she shouldn’t be working for Carter. She and Willow were in the upstairs hall, near the top of the stairs. She had no desire to roll down them for the sake of her prank. She’d decided over the weekend that Carter needed more fun in his life. She’d come to this conclusion in the bath, after replaying their confusing interactions at Annie’s on repeat all day Saturday. This morning, she snuck into the back door before he left, calling up
the stairs that she’d arrived, but made a point to stay out of his way until he left for work. He’d be home any minute now, so she needed to work quickly.

  “It's okay, mine doesn't roll. That was your mistake, right?”

  “Right. Mine rolled. That wasn't the best idea.”

  “No,” agreed Martina, “but I bet you won't do it again. Live and learn, right? Besides, if you see another spider, I'll gladly kill it for you.”

  “Oh, you,” she smiled. “You take such good care of me.”

  “I'm doing my best,” Martina said, stretching to skootch the Troll a little farther back. “Tell me, can you see this pink-haired doll from where you're standing?”

  Willow craned her neck a little. “Not really. But I don't have my contacts in.”

  “You wear glasses?”

  “Yes. But I can't find them.”

  “Willow,” she sighed. “That's not good, lady.” She moved the doll forward an inch. “Can you see it now?”

  “Yes! Well, a little bit. It's blurry, but that's not your fault.”

  Martina giggled. “Right.” She jumped down off the chair and moved it back into Carter's room, lest he be tipped off immediately. “Let’s go find your glasses.” They had a good search in Willow’s bedroom, Martina putting away earrings that she found in the toothbrush holder and facial cream that had ended up in the closet somehow. No glasses.

  She put her hands on her hips. “Okay. Where else could they be? Where do you take them off?”

  “I take them off when I play sometimes. I don’t need them with my eyes closed.”

  “Play?”

  Willow smiled and gestured for Martina to follow her down the hall. She trailed after her patient, past the guest rooms, back toward the top of the stairs. Willow entered the music room, and she let out of a sigh of relief. Like she was finally home.

  “This is where I play.” She sat down at a black baby grand piano in the center of the room; the bookshelves all around were filled with sheet music, CDs, and black cases of different shapes and sizes and there was a large bay window with a window seat. Willow started to play, a light piece, and Martina guessed it was probably a waltz or some kind of dance based on the timing. Martina felt her fingers tapping on their own against her leg, and she went and curled up in the window seat, just listening. It was too light inside and too dark outside to see out the window, but she could watch Willow’s reflection in the glass. That’s when she realized; Willow wasn’t using any music. She was just playing. And as she’d said, her eyes were shut, and her body swayed lightly; she was putting her whole self into the music.

  She’ll probably be able to play until she dies, she thought, and it gave her some small comfort. Brains were weird, but at least even sick, they could hold onto some important things, even if it wasn’t names or dates. The music stopped, and Martina applauded with gusto.

  “Lady, we definitely need to add a music time to your daily routine.”

  “I’d like that,” Willow said softly, touching the keys affectionately. “I haven’t played much lately. I don’t know why. I still love it.”

  Martina came over to lay a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “You just forgot. It’s okay. Forgetting is going to happen. We’re here to remind you. And look!” She grabbed the black glasses that sat on the piano, camouflaged against the black paint. “We found your glasses!”

  “Oh,” Willow sighed with relief, putting them on. “Oh, that’s much better.”

  “Well, funny enough, it’s time to take them off again, because it’s time for bed.” They both laughed. She laid out two pajama choices for Willow, and she chose the lighter, white sleeveless nightgown.

  “Have you been too warm at night?”

  “Sometimes. Just hot flashes, I think.” Martina shook her head; women who were slowly losing their cognitive function should be exempt from menopause.

  “Have you been able to read?”

  “Yes, I can still read some things. But I like shorter books, ones where I don’t have to remember so much. No more thrillers or murder mysteries. Otherwise, when I get to the end, I can’t remember whose murder we were trying to solve.” She laughed, and Martina laughed, too. She put some toothpaste on the toothbrush for her and handed it to Willow. Then, since she’d seen to all her hygiene needs, she left her alone. She was on the stairs to go down and get her bag when a voice startled her.

  “Martina?” Mrs. Sánchez's voice was so quiet, she almost missed it.

  “Yes?” She motioned for her come into the music room, where she was dusting with a large brown duster made of ostrich feathers. Martina jogged back upstairs and into the music room.

  “She is in bed? Already?”

  Martina smiled. “I wore her out today. Patients tend to sleep better when they have things to do. True for all of us, actually.”

  Mrs. Sánchez took Martina's face in her hands, apparently not noticing how the duster tickled her ear. “You said the medication would help; it does help. But you, you help, too. Nuestro ángel.”

  “What?” She scowled. “No, Yesenia. I’m no angel, it's just good care.”

  “Care that comes from your heart, because you are full of love for others.” She poked her in the chest, over her heart. “Yes. Our angel. Before you came back, we had no hope. Anger, fear, pain; those we had. Now, we have hope instead. She has dignity. You are a blessing to us.”

  Martina couldn't listen to any more of this, even though she knew it came from a genuine place in the older woman's heart. She was no angel; she was making too much of something she’d do for anyone who meant as much to her as Willow. It was nothing to fuss over in such high and lofty spiritual terms. “Thank you,” she mumbled, her face burning with embarrassment.

  “No, mi ángel, thank you.” Mrs. Sánchez turned abruptly and went back to her work. Martina stood there staring at her back, confused for a split-second, until a man cleared his throat behind her.

  “Ms. Lopez? May I speak with you for a moment, please?”

  “Of course. Excuse me, Mrs. Sánchez.” She followed Carter into the hallway, wondering what was happening.

  “Just wanted to touch base with you.”

  She stared into his ice-blue eyes. “Okay? About what?”

  Carter shifted his weight, looking past her into the music room, as if to see if Mrs. Sánchez was listening. “About Friday.” He paused. “I wanted to apologize.”

  “For ruining my date?”

  “Ruining?” He scratched his chin. “I was going to say ‘impacting.’”

  “Ruining.” She crossed her arms. She wasn’t going to let him off easy. “Ruining is the correct word in this situation. When your boss shows up to crash your date, no pun intended, that’s ruination.” Also, she liked watching him squirm a little. He had been wrong to screw things up for her. Even if they were fake and weren’t going to end in anything more than a goodnight kiss at her door anyway. He didn’t know they were fake.

  “I see. Well, then I owe you even more of an apology than I realized. I’m sorry I ruined your date.”

  “I accept your apology, Mr. Carpenter.”

  His gaze narrowed as she passed him for the stairs again. “You do? Just like that?”

  “Of course. Have a nice night, Mr. Carpenter.”

  She heard his footsteps behind her on the stairs, steadily following her down. “Because you seemed pretty upset at the time. Not just that I was there, but that Jennie and I were . . .”

  At the other woman’s name, Martina spun to face him. “You can flirt with whoever you want, Mr. Carpenter. I haven’t given it a second thought. I don’t give you any space in my head or my heart anymore.”

  He leaned on the railing, crossing one ankle over the other. “That’s not what it looked like to me.”

  “Then you weren’t seeing things for what they are, Mr. Carpenter.”

  “Please stop calling me that. I hate it.”

  Yes, I’m aware. I’m only doing it to remind you what we are to each o
ther, since you seem to be forgetting. Just like I forgot a few days ago when I let your antics get to me.

  “I’m sorry, sir.” She gave him a very insincere frown. “What would you like me to call you, sir?”

  “Why can’t you just call me Carter?”

  “Fine, I accept your apology, Carter.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Can I go finish my report?”

  “Of course. I’m sorry I kept you.”

  Martina walked down the stairs, trying to pretend she wasn’t wondering whether he was checking her out from behind. He followed her into the kitchen.

  “Is there something else I can do for you?”

  “No, I just wanted the plate that’s in the fridge for me.”

  She checked her phone. “You haven’t eaten yet? It’s nearly eight o’clock.”

  “I don’t see how those two things are related. I eat when I get home. I just got home. So it’s time to eat.”

  She sat at the kitchen island and pulled out the report she’d started earlier. He sat down at the kitchen table behind her, and she wished he’d sat somewhere she could at least see him while she worked. He didn’t have to sit with her, but he didn’t have to sequester himself like that, either . . . irritating.

  “You could get fast food.”

  “I hate fast food.”

  “So do I.” Danger! Danger! Stop finding commonalities! Stop bonding, darn it!

  “And speaking of food, when do I get orange juice back in the fridge?”

  “Any time you like, Carter. But Mrs. Sánchez won’t find it on her list.” It didn’t have the same impact, using his first name, even when said with appropriate attitude. She was kicking herself for agreeing so easily. Then again, he was paying her. “Your mother should be limiting her sugar intake. It’ll help her mood, her immunity, and perhaps the disease itself.”