Kade scanned the desk for signs that someone still utilized it and that perhaps the employee stationed there had merely taken a break. Based on the desk calendar and Styrofoam coffee cup, it seemed recently occupied, but she had no way to tell when the person would be returning. As she and Jen looked around for signs to indicate where they might find someone with information, a nurse walked by.
“Excuse me,” Kade said.
The nurse stopped and nodded.
“I’m here to visit my father, who was recently transferred here, but I don’t know his room number.”
“Someone should be with you shortly,” he said, and continued his journey.
Kade and Jen looked at each other skeptically. Another few minutes passed with the painful mantra/wail in the background and the insistent call-button signal, and Kade’s patience lapsed. She stormed down the hall to wide double doors and pushed a side panel to open them. A sign indicated that this precaution prevented ambulatory patients with dementia from escaping. Kade approached a nurses’ station where a nurse consulted something on a computer screen. Although her “be right with you” translated into several more minutes of waiting, the nurse finally assisted them, providing Gordon Davenport’s room number and indicating the correct hallway.
Kade hesitated outside of Gordon’s door.
“You can do this,” Jen said, squeezing Kade’s hand for encouragement. “Are you sure you don’t want me to stay in the lobby? I can, you know.”
They’d already covered this ground. Kade appreciated Jen’s offer, but she felt somehow stronger with Jen by her side, like she could better handle whatever happened once she went through the doorway. She shook her head and took a deep breath.
Kade entered her father’s room. At first glance, which was all she devoted to it, it seemed designed for function versus comfort, more like a hospital room than a living space. She set her eyes on a man she hadn’t seen in nearly four years. His bed was to the right, perpendicular to the door, head against the wall. Opposite Kade, attached to an adjustable wall-mount stand, was a TV, the sound muted.
Gordon didn’t move his head or otherwise acknowledge her. A feeding tube disappeared into his right nostril. His gray hair had lost the rest of the black strands that had remained the last time she’d seen him. A day’s white stubble dotted his chin and cheeks in a patchwork that seemed unlikely to grow in everywhere it used to, as if he’d lost swaths of hair follicles with the passing years. His brown eyes were open, looking at but not focused on the television. His cheekbones were more pronounced than she remembered.
But even combined, none of these differences were more shocking than the drooping left side of his face. The asymmetry seemed to start somewhere above his eyebrows, because the left one sat lower than the right. It looked as though he’d firmly pressed the left side of his face up against a window and it froze in that position, like someone had pushed his face down and held it while setting it in acrylic.
Kade had seen enough. She backed out of the room, pushing against Jen until they were in the hallway. She couldn’t start seeing him as fragile, as a victim of an attack on his brain that had deprived it of oxygen. Any chance of Kade ever seeing him as a man who needed her for any reason had died when Cassie did. His treatment of Kade had been hard enough for her to cope with after the incident that caused him to lose his job, but it was unforgivable after Cassie’s accident.
She strode quickly down the hall and out to the parking lot. She opened the passenger side of her car and got in, tossing her key fob onto the driver’s seat and shutting her door. Shortly thereafter, Jen opened the driver’s side door, scooped up the keys, and sat. Kade crossed her arms in an effort to discourage any attempt by Jen to touch her for comfort or out of compassion. She deserved neither but knew Jen well enough that her instinct would be to reach out to her.
Jen sat for several moments without speaking. Finally, she asked, “Would you like to go home?”
“Please.”
Jen started Kade’s car, adjusted the mirrors, and got on the road. They were well into the return trip before either spoke. “What do you think of that facility?” Jen asked eventually.
“Seems functional.”
“No other thoughts?” Jen was pushing.
Kade had nothing to say.
“Would you want your mom living there?” Jen asked.
“We’re not talking about my mom.”
“It’s dingy, dark, and depressing.”
Kade didn’t speak.
“It smells like urine.”
Again silence.
“Kade.”
“I don’t know what you want from me.”
“I want what I’ve always wanted. You to be you.”
Kade snorted. “What, are you some oracle now? I have to search for the answer to your riddle?”
Jen smiled. “I like the idea of being a kind of guide to you, however opaque.”
“You just like telling me what to do,” Kade grumbled halfheartedly.
Jen flicked her eyes to Kade and gave her a salacious smile and waggle of her eyebrows. “Sometimes.”
Kade stared at her and burst into laughter. She reached over and briefly covered Jen’s thigh. “Thank you. For today.”
“Anytime.”
They sat in comfortable quiet, with only the hum of road noise and the occasional burst of wind from a passing vehicle.
Some time later, Kade started to talk, unsure what was propelling her. Did she owe Jen an explanation? Was she trying to assuage the guilt she was feeling for visualizing her father as a monster who didn’t deserve to receive human kindness? Could she be any more unfeeling?
“Our parents, Cassie’s and mine, used to switch off taking all the kids to the mountains for skiing and snowboarding. On our last trip, Dad drove. We took the Kellers’ SUV, since it had the most room, and rented a cabin, like we always did. Cassie and I were both seventeen and pretty good skiers by then.”
Kade was tired. They’d been on the mountain since nine, and she could feel it. She was also exhilarated. She and Cassie had graduated to black-diamond runs, and this was their first full day playing with the big boys, as they liked to call it. Holly, who was five years younger, had stayed on the intermediate runs. The eldest of the Keller children, Jackie, remained on the bunny slopes and flirted with the male ski instructors. Sam, who was even younger than Holly and didn’t like snow, stayed inside with Kade’s father, playing board games.
They’d promised Kade’s dad to meet him and Sam at the car at five p.m. Holly was already out of her skis and heading to the lodge. Kade and Cassie didn’t have to worry about finding Jackie, who would already be in the lodge, fawning over some stud. It was four thirty p.m., and the lift lines remained long. If they went up for one more run, they’d be about fifteen minutes late.
Kade’s father was a gruff man who became angry when his timetables went unheeded. Kade bent down to unlatch her boots but felt Cassie’s ski pole poke her shoulder.
“You seriously want to wait around for a half hour? We can get one more run in.”
“No way. We’ll be late. My dad will probably leave us stranded. And if he doesn’t, we’re toast. I probably wouldn’t see the light of day for a month. Nope. Not worth it.” Kade flipped open a couple of latches.
“He’s not going to leave us stranded. My parents would kill him. His bark is worse than his bite. Fifteen minutes is no biggie. We can offer to do extra chores or something around your house. Come on. Time’s a wastin’.” She pushed forward several feet and looked back at Kade. “You know you want to.”
“Cassie,” Kade implored. “No.”
“You seriously don’t want to?”
“Of course I want to, but—”
“Let’s go!” Cassie pushed off with her poles and headed for the chairlift without turning around. Kade wanted to get one more run in, but she didn’t want to upset her father. She looked down at her boots and back up to Cassie, and repeated the fruitless gesture. Cassie
was getting farther and farther ahead. Kade resecured her boots and followed.
There were two different runs off this hill, and by the time Kade pushed off the lift, she didn’t know which slope Cassie had taken. She hoped she’d chosen the one they’d been using all day and not the one reported to be a level of difficulty higher. But either one would have them down the mountain within a minute or two of the other.
The run had been electrifying, and Kade was glad for Cassie’s encouragement. But as she waited at the bottom of the hill, one minute turned into two, two to five, five to ten. Fear of her father’s wrath rapidly changed to fear that something had happened to Cassie. And as soon as she heard the commotion coming from the ski-patrol snowmobiles, she knew in her gut that Cassie had been hurt.
The end, at least, had come quickly. Cassie’s inexperience had led her slightly off course, where first responders said she hit a patch of ice. It occurred near a copse of trees, and she sped into one without slowing. The best of helmets couldn’t have withstood the impact. Cassie had died instantly.
It turned into the longest, most painful day of Kade’s life.
Kade wasn’t sure when Jen had taken hold of her hand, but she was glad for the comfort while she finished her tale. She stared down at the joined hands in her lap. Tears were inevitable, and she let them come.
“It wasn’t enough that I’d just lost the person who meant everything in the world to me. It wasn’t enough that I saw the absolute devastation on the faces of Jackie, of Holly, of Sam, and soon, Mr. and Mrs. Keller. It wasn’t enough that I was already blaming myself for her death, and still do.” Kade swiped at her tears. “No. My father had to say, ‘You killed her.’ You see, had I been where and when I said I would, Cassie would still be alive.”
Quietly, almost too quietly for Jen to hear, Kade said, “He was right, but he never should have said that.” Kade shifted away and stared out the passenger window.
Jen had no idea what to say. She didn’t want to offer platitudes that Kade had no doubt heard numerous times about not blaming herself and it having been an accident. But it had been an accident, and Kade shouldn’t blame herself.
Kade’s hang-ups suddenly made sense in a way Jen couldn’t have anticipated. Kade was so young when Cassie died. The playfulness Jen found beneath Kade’s surface had been shoved down, pushed out of sight by a woman—at first a young woman—who felt the need to punish herself. The inability of Kade to calmly deal with her father’s stroke was grounded in a childhood of pain and regret. Jen instantly comprehended Kade’s eccentric need to adhere to schedules, especially when coupled with the train derailment from her youth. And most importantly, Jen now understood Kade’s insistence that she’d only hurt Jen. Her reluctance to pursue a relationship was driven by a history of causing pain to people she loved, an honest albeit irrational belief that she was behind it.
Indignation flared within her at Kade’s father, for how could he say such a thing? But right now, the most important matter was caring for Kade. Jen squeezed Kade’s hand. “No, he shouldn’t have, and thank you for telling me.”
“I don’t want you to think I’m an unfeeling jerk when it comes to him. I mean I am, but I have my reasons.”
“I don’t think you’re an unfeeling jerk. I can’t imagine why your father said that to you or how hard it must have been to hear that on top of losing Cassie. I can understand why it’s been difficult to forgive him.”
Kade shifted in her seat to face Jen. “You would have.”
Jen shook her head. She didn’t want Kade comparing herself to her, especially if Kade felt she came up short. They were different people who dealt with things in different ways. One wasn’t necessarily better than the other. Jen didn’t mind if Kade looked to her for advice on how to cope with something, but she did mind if Kade felt lesser for it. Kade had told her she didn’t feel worth being part of a relationship, something Jen disagreed with and didn’t want to contribute to. “We don’t know that. I don’t know what it’s like to lose my best friend in a horrible accident, let alone be blamed for it on top of blaming myself.”
Chapter Seventeen
They continued the journey in silence for some time.
“I could have him moved to a better facility,” Kade said after a while.
“You could.”
“I don’t have to visit.”
“Kade?” Jen glanced over several times, waiting for Kade to look at her. When she did, Jen said, “You don’t need to decide anything today.”
“I’m going to disappoint you.”
“It’s not me you need to worry about.”
“It matters to me. What you think.”
“Why?” Jen knew she was pushing, but Kade was letting her in, and Jen wanted to know how far Kade had come on the subject of their relationship.
“Because you’re important to me.”
And there it was, offered without hesitation or doubt. Kade was admitting what Jen had hoped for but not expected. Right now, work disagreements didn’t matter. Fostering what was between them did. Jen was caught between responding earnestly and poking fun at the venue Kade had chosen to reveal this tidbit. The car? Seriously? At least it was a long stretch of highway requiring minimal driving skill. She caressed Kade’s hand with her thumb. “You’re important to me, too.”
Kade seemed talked out, and the ride continued in relative quiet. About a half hour from Jen’s, where Kade had picked her up, Kade asked, “Doesn’t your grandmother live off this stretch of highway?”
“Good memory. Yeah. About ten minutes from here.”
“Will you be seeing her today?”
“Not sure yet.”
Kade looked at her watch. “Do you want to stop by now? Since we’re already out this way and unexpectedly free? I don’t need to be anywhere until two.”
Jen brightened. “Are you sure? I’d love for you to meet her, if you’re interested.”
“Absolutely.”
Glancing at the dashboard clock, Jen did some quick mental math. “It’s close to noon, and she does better at receiving visitors during meals, so it’s probably as good a time as any.”
“Is there anything I should know? What to say or not to say?”
“We’ll get our cue early. If she recognizes me, it should be fine. Some days she thinks I’m only a caretaker, and those can be more difficult. I’d say if she starts asking the same question over and over, instead of continuing to answer, which can get frustrating, try to move to a different topic. And if she says something completely wrong, don’t try to correct her. Go with it. What else? Smile.”
“Sounds like you’ve learned a lot.”
Jen laughed. “I’m adept at making mistakes, but I’m also good at learning how not to repeat them. It’s been trying. But I don’t know. I love that woman. Even when she forgets who I am, I like to think she knows me and simply can’t indicate it. The sound of my voice, the touch of my hand, something’s getting through. If she perceives more than she can convey, I’d never want to be responsible for depriving her of love, comfort, or human interaction.”
“Does she know she was the catalyst for you to start Creative Care?”
“Not often. It’s a relatively recent addition to her life’s timeline, and her newer memories are the first to fail. But it doesn’t matter. I know she’s proud of me.”
“She should be.”
Jen tamped down the response that immediately came to mind: Even if my leadership is questionable? The wound was still raw, and because of that, revisiting their argument now wasn’t likely to prove helpful. What mattered was that she was about to share some time, however brief, with two people she cared for. But before Jen gave voice to whatever version of “thank you” was on her lips, Kade spoke again.
“I mean it, Jen. You should be proud of what you’ve accomplished and what you’re building. But none of that’s as important as the person you are. I’m sure everyone in your family is proud of the woman you’ve become.”
&n
bsp; Jen kept her gaze fixed on the road, working to prevent her tears from spilling over so Kade couldn’t see the impact of her words. She’d been hurt that Kade had challenged her effectiveness as CEO, especially as she believed Kade didn’t have all the facts and had jumped to conclusions. She felt Kade failed to recognize that their differences in leadership styles didn’t mean one was better than the other. But more disheartening had been Jen’s sense that Kade didn’t appreciate how important it was to her to take care of her team. It was core to who Jen was. Now it seemed Kade did value the ways in which Jen was different.
Having collected herself enough to keep her voice steady, Jen said, “You’re doing it again.”
“What am I doing?”
“Saying something disarming. Twice in a row, in fact. First telling me I’m important to you and then that I’m not such a bad person. A girl could get a big head.”
Kade tucked her hands between her legs and shifted her focus to the passenger-window view. “I’m not good at telling people how I feel about them.”
Jen silently chided herself for teasing. True, Kade didn’t often speak about her feelings, but Jen thought it akin to people who didn’t swear much. When they finally cursed, it was all the more effective. Kade tended toward actions instead of words. In Jen’s ideal world, she’d prefer both, but given a choice, having someone like Kade follow through time and again meant far more than idle talk.
She pulled Kade’s hand onto her lap. “You do one better, Kade. You show us.” Kade’s suggestion to visit Edna was a perfect example of little ways in which Kade did exactly that. Hell, the woman started companies to help people she cared about.
It's Not a Date Page 17