by Rebecca Shea
“She learned from the best,” Ted says, leaning over my shoulder .
Eduardo’s eyes glance away from mine and up to Ted’s. “Mr. Winters,” Eduardo says, reaching out to shake Ted’s. “Nice to see you again.” It’s hard to miss Eduardo’s visible disdain for Ted. His jaw ticks and he swallows hard, but as always, he is the epitome of professional and is always gracious .
“I’ve learned a great deal from both of you.” I smile and wish for the pissing contest to end. “Let’s enjoy our victory.” I hold up my glass of wine to toast, raising my eyebrows, a silent plea to Ted to be nice and he obliges .
“To guilty verdicts,” Eduardo cheers, raising his glass .
Ted gives his head a little shake but reiterates Eduardo’s sentiments .
“To guilty verdicts,” we all repeat and take a drink .
I notice Ted step away to take a phone call and I turn my attention back to Eduardo .
“First and only time I think I’ll ever hear him say that,” Eduardo jokes .
“I think that’s the first and only time I’ll ever hear him say that, too.” I laugh .
My fiancé, Ted Winters, is partner in Winters and Seldon, one of the smallest yet most prestigious law firms in Los Angeles County. Ted is known for representing some of the most high profile, and even dangerous, criminals in California. What cases he doesn’t win, he prides himself on reduced charges, jail time, and fines .
Not guilty— those two words drive him to be the greatest. He’s the best of the best, and he hired me right out of law school. He taught me the way around a courtroom, the best oral arguments, and the tricks to dissect evidence and to look for what everyone else is missing. I took what I learned from Ted and am finally putting it to use as a Deputy District Attorney for Los Angeles County. I always wanted to be on this end of the law, finding justice and doing right by the law .
To avoid any conflict of interest, I avoid all cases where Winters and Seldon is concerned. There are plenty of other prosecutors to try those, and it's best, both professionally and personally, if I avoid any cases Ted or his firm are involved in .
As I look around the bar at my friends and colleagues, I can’t help but smile proudly at how far I've come—and for the people who've been with me on this journey .
As my smile fades, I feel the exhaustion hit me like a freight train and, with a few glasses of wine on top of that, I find the need for fresh air. I weave through a sea of bodies in the bar area and push through the large glass door, which leads out onto the rooftop patio. Los Angeles has far from quality air, but pulling the mild summer breeze into my lungs feels good. A sense of calm falls over me as the adrenaline from the day wears off. Carrying the stress of this trial on my shoulders for weeks has wreaked havoc on my sleep, my diet, and exercise, and I can feel the toll it’s taken on my body .
I watch the cars below, crawling along the busy Los Angeles streets, and the hustle and bustle of the city just fifty stories below me. It’s windy up here on the patio, and the soft afternoon breeze whips my hair around. I tilt my face to the sky and let the setting sun cast its warm rays on me when my phone buzzes in my hand. I hesitate, wanting to indulge in a few more moments of silence, but I think better of it .
Glancing down, I see my mom’s home number flashing on the sleek screen of my oversized mobile phone .
“Hi, Mama.” I take a deep breath, excited to hear her voice .
“Frankie?”
My heart sinks when I hear a man’s voice. A voice I could never forget. A voice so familiar that it still haunts me to this day .
Cole . The only person to ever call me Frankie. My heart stills as I wait for him to say more .
“You need to come home,” he says gruffly .
My stomach drops as his voice takes my breath away. The pull it still has on me shakes me to my core. Before he says anything else, I close my eyes and find myself lost in time, back to when I was eleven years old, spending my afternoons down at the fault line, soaking up the last of the days sunlight with Cole by my side .
Crescent Ridge, Nevada resides right on top of a fault line, a town with less than eight hundred people, and sits on the California/Nevada border. A town I left ten years ago and haven’t returned to—because of Cole .
I swallow hard against my dry throat. “Why?” I barely manage to ask .
“It’s your mama, Frankie .”
“Is she okay?” I ask frantically .
I hear bits and pieces of what he’s saying, but nothing is really registering. Collapsed, stroke, scans, breathing…but before he has a chance to say anything else, I move into panic mode .
“I’m on my way,” I tell him, disconnecting the call .
My hand shakes wildly as I grip my phone. This morning I was on top of the world. This afternoon, my world has done a one-eighty .
* * *
"I don't know, Faith, he called me first," I bark at my sister, who's frantically asking me questions. "He called and said something happened to Mom and I needed to come home. Where are you?" My voice peaks with annoyance .
"Disneyworld, Franny, remember?" she gripes at me, just as annoyed .
"Shit," I sigh .
Faith moved back to Crescent Ridge with her two kids three years ago after her divorce. The one weekend she finally gets a break, a vacation with her kids, something happens to Mom .
"I'll call the airlines and switch our return flights as soon as we hang up ."
"Don't," I sigh. "Let me get home and see how bad it is. You've worked so hard to be able to give the kids this vacation. Enjoy the last couple of days there. The kids deserve it. You deserve it ."
Faith is an amazing mom and is the sole provider for my niece and nephew. I send her money every now and then so she doesn't need to worry, but I know it's still hard on her. Faith and I were inseparable as little girls, and there isn't anything she wouldn't do for me, or me for her kids. If I can alleviate some of her financial stress, I'll always help .
Mama won't accept a dime of my money, telling me I've worked too damn hard to get where I am to give my money away. God knows she needs it though. Faith tells me the house is falling apart, but Mama won't hear of it when I offer a few dollars to fix things up .
"You call me as soon as you know something, and we'll still come home early if we need to." Her voice breaks .
"Okay. I need to go pack so I can get on the road," I tell her with an exaggerated sigh .
"Franny?" she says quietly .
"Yeah?"
"Thanks. I know home is the last place you want to go ."
I swallow hard as I feel a lump form in my throat. "You're welcome." I'm barely able to speak. She's right. Crescent Ridge is the last place I want to be .
But it’s where I have to go .
I begin to forge a trail in the floor between my dresser and closet, frantically pulling shirts off hangers and shoving pants haphazardly into my large suitcase while admonishing myself for not asking more questions about my mom .
Ted appears with an extra-large coffee from the chain coffee shop down the street, handing it to me before turning away to finish his phone conversation, his phone still pressed to his ear. Most nights are like this. He’s hungry and tireless when it comes to his business and his clients. He instilled in me that work ethic, but where Ted is all business, I draw the line at my Mama and Faith. They are the only family I have and they will always trump business. Always .
Guilt settles in when I think of how I haven’t seen my mom in five years. Five years ago, she got on a bus and rode to L.A. to see me. Five years since I’ve seen her face and felt the comforting hugs she always plied me with. I used to pay for Mama to come see me, but the last five years she's declined my offers. She tells me she's too tired to travel at her age. Now my heart aches that I've been so selfish and haven't gone to see her .
I slam my suitcase c
losed, zipping it up and pulling it off the bed. I drag the heavy case down the steps, letting it thump against each step as I descend the stairs. Ted doesn’t notice as he stands, leaning his shoulder against the hallway wall, still on the phone .
“Bye,” I whisper as I walk past him and drag the suitcase out the front door to my waiting Mercedes. I shove it in the trunk, while cursing at how heavy it is, then I settle into the driver’s seat. I’m putting the ignition in reverse when I see Ted bounding down the concrete steps from our house, the top button of his shirt undone and his tie loosened. As I roll down the window, he leans in, pressing a chaste kiss to my cheek .
He sighs. “I really wish you’d leave in the morning .”
“I can’t, Ted. I haven’t seen her in years and it sounds bad .”
He nods in understanding. “Do not drive if you’re tired. Pull over and stay at a motel .”
“I’ll be fine,” I tell him, lifting the coffee he bought me. I press the cup to my lips and take a sip, feeling the warm liquid slide down my throat and settle into my belly. Truth is, I don’t need the caffeine. The adrenaline running through my veins could keep me up for days .
“Then just call me when you get there.” He looks over his shoulder and down the street .
“I will. Is everything okay?” I ask as his eyes scan the street .
His gaze returns to me, but it's hard not to notice the concern in his eyes. “Yes. Just want to make sure you make it okay, baby. Take care of your mom. Everything here can wait.” He presses a quick kiss to my forehead before stepping away from the car .
I manage a tight smile as I reverse out of the driveway and toward the town I swore I’d never return to .
Two
N early eight hours later, I exit the interstate and onto the two-lane county road that will lead me into Crescent Ridge. More than forty miles with not a streetlight in sight is all that is left to travel. Stars light up the bright sky, guiding me home—to the one place I vowed I'd never return to. The evening sky was one of my favorite things growing up in Crescent Ridge. The stars provided hope that there was more than the small town I lived in. A town I was willing to stay in for Cole. I would’ve given up every dream I had—for him .
The sound of his voice on the phone echoes through my head, and my stomach clenches at the thought of seeing him. I swallow hard and push my anger to the side as I think about my mom and what I’m about to walk into .
As I ease my car down the long road that dead ends into the cul-de-sac where my childhood home sits, a flood of emotions overcomes me. Tears fill my eyes when I see how different everything looks since I fled ten years ago. The houses look smaller and the trees look bigger. Ahead of me lies a quiet street full of houses that have seen better days .
Gravel crunches beneath the tires as I pull into the small driveway. My fingers are wrapped tightly around the steering wheel and my eyes are glued to the front porch. Baskets of flowers once hung from the covered porch and flowerbeds used to hang from the porch railing, displaying beautiful arrangements of flowers .
It was the one splurge my mom indulged in. Our house was less than modest, but she claimed the flowers gave it an appearance that we cared about our home. Even in the dark, I can see that nothing is left but the hooks that the baskets used to hang on and the empty flowerbeds appear to have not seen a flower in years .
Where the porch was once painted white, it's now mostly gray from the weathered wood beneath where the paint has long since cracked and mostly disappeared. The three wood steps that lead up to the front porch lean to one side, and the dilapidated wood looks as if it could splinter and break apart .
I swallow hard against my dry throat when memories overcome me and take me back to a time where I spent summer nights sitting on those steps, shoulder to shoulder with Cole. My legs would be crisscrossed and tucked tightly underneath me while I talked to him, telling him stories and the plans I had for us. I planned our entire lives on those wooden steps, and I realize now that those plans were as dilapidated and weak as those steps had become .
Shaking off the thought, I remember Cole lying on his back, his long legs bent at the knee and propped on one of the steps. He'd lie there with a giant smile on his face as he listened to me talk. He rarely spoke when I'd tell him my dreams, instead he'd listen. He was a sponge, taking in every word. As we got older, he could recite every detail of my plans, and he'd whisper them to me as I'd fall asleep in his arms .
There were two things I believed in back then—Cole Ryan, and the plans I made for us. Sadly, both of those turned out to be nothing but a lie .
* * *
I navigate the delicate steps, carefully dragging my suitcase behind me. The front door is unlocked, just as it always was growing up. Crescent Ridge is small, and we never worried about anyone entering unannounced .
Stepping over the threshold and into the dark living room, I can see a dim light coming from the kitchen. I close the front door quietly and drop my suitcase and purse on the living room floor as carefully as I can without making too much noise. I rush quietly down the hall to check on my mom .
I twist the door handle and push open the door. I can hear the faint sounds of her heavy breathing, and my upset stomach instantly begins to settle. Tiptoeing across the wood floor, I lean in and press a gentle kiss to her forehead. She doesn't move, and the steady sounds of her breathing tell me she's still sound asleep .
I close the door quietly behind me and when I look up, there is a short lady in scrubs standing in the hallway drying her hands on a kitchen towel .
"You must be Frances," she whispers and pulls her glasses off her face, tucking them into the tight graying curls on top of her head. She rests the towel on her shoulder and smiles at me .
"I am." I walk over to her and hold out my hand .
She takes it graciously and shakes. "I've heard a lot about you. I'm Judy, the home nurse Mr. Ryan hired ."
I nod and smile tightly. Cole's father, Stephen Ryan, was a considerate neighbor, always looking out for my mom, Faith, and me. He'd do odds and ends around the house without ever being asked, simply because he was a nice guy. We'd wake up on Saturday mornings and he'd be painting the porch or in the spring, Mom’s garden would suddenly be tilled. He’d just show up and do things that he knew needed to get done. He’d make Cole mow the lawn, and he always took care of mom’s car when something was wrong, never expecting anything in return. It doesn’t surprise me that he arranged to have a nurse here for Mom, either .
“That was very kind of him,” I tell Judy. As the “organizer” in me takes over, I start listing off what we need to do next. “I’d like to transfer payment over to me,” I tell her as she stands, listening to me. “Mr. Ryan is very generous to have paid for your services up until now, and I’m sure they were costly—and probably more than he could afford.” Judy raises her eyebrows and purses her lips in confusion, but I’m not about to tell her that Stephen Ryan isn’t wealthy. “And I’m going to need to keep you around until I understand what I’m dealing with. I’m going to need your professional opinion on whether this is something she can recover from, or if I’m going to need to transfer her to a larger town where she can receive better medical care and placed in a care home if needed .”
She shakes her head and reaches for my arm. “Slow down, Frances.” She offers me a tight smile, and I exhale softly. “Let’s go to the kitchen and sit down. Let me bring you up to speed on what’s happening.” She tugs at my arm and leads me toward the kitchen. The first thing I notice is the old linoleum floor that once was white has now yellowed and begun to wear in the high traffic areas .
The small round wood table I used to eat every meal at still has the burgundy fabric placemats in front of each of the four chairs, with a napkin holder and salt and pepper shakers sitting in the center of the table .
The appliances are old but still look to be in good condition, and the old Formica counter tops are faded and stained from
years of use. Mom and I would use every square inch of countertop in this tiny kitchen as she taught me how to cook and bake. Those are some of my fondest memories with her .
“Sit down,” Judy urges, pointing to the kitchen table as she pulls a mug from the kitchen cupboard and fills it with coffee. She sets it in front of me and pulls a sugar bowl from the other counter, placing it in the middle of the table before she sits down and picks up her own mug of coffee. With a quick sip, she wraps her hands around the mug, lacing her fingers together as if to keep her hands warm .
“Your mom has a long road ahead of her,” she says quietly. “But I’ve seen so many people overcome this. A stroke can permanently debilitate her, but sometimes, many times actually, with the right medical care and therapy, I’ve seen people return to fully functioning adults. Only time will tell." She sits back in the wood chair and it creaks underneath her small frame .
"The doctors are extremely optimistic, Frances. You should be, too." She smiles at me .
I sip from my coffee as I feel a lump begin to form in my throat as I think about how scared my mom must have been having no one here .
"So, what we know," she says, taking a deep breath. "The stroke was on the right side of her brain. The right side affects the left side of your body. She has some paralysis on the left side of her body, including her face. Her speech is impaired, but it's still very good all things considered. You'll notice a slur, but you'll still be able to understand everything she says. She also has some memory loss. How significant?" she shrugs, "we're not sure yet. That's why we're glad you're here. Once you can begin to speak with her, we'll be able to determine what she remembers and what she doesn't. We'll need you to help us gauge her memory loss so we can understand the severity of that ."
I nod, knowingly, feeling slightly overwhelmed by what I've just been told .
With a deep sigh, Judy continues, "We're going to want her to rest for a few more days and not push anything. Next week we'll begin physical, occupational, and speech therapy. All of them have been arranged for in-home treatment. Mr. Ryan took care of all that ."