Cody’s mom always wrote everything down. There was no way she could remember all this stuff if she didn’t. At least, he didn’t think so.
“I just realized,” she said once to Andy while Cody watched her, “you don’t give any review questions. You just plow into something new every time I see you.”
“When you’re working with his elbows, you want to rotate the movement just this way….” Andy kept right on going.
“Hey,” Cody said to both of them. “This isn’t fair, y’all. All Mom has to do is write down the stuff. But I’m the one who has to do all the stuff.”
“You!” His mom bent down close to him and kissed his nose. “You’re doing a great job! You’re doing the hardest work of all and we know it.”
Cody loved the way his mom smelled, like roses and outside. Andy smelled good, too, but his mother was special. He loved the way she told him he was doing his hardest work. And, best of all, he loved it when she cuddled with him now, though he knew he was getting much too old to admit that.
“You’re getting your tone back in your arms,” Andy told him. “It won’t be long before you’re swimming.”
“Yeah.” Swimming sounded like the best thing in the world after lying in bed for so long. He listened while she told him all about her brother Mark and what he did with kids in the water. She told him about a little girl named Megan and how working in the water had helped her to be able to use her legs again. All the while Andy kept working on him and moving his arms every which way while his mom took enough notes to fill a book.
He was the first one to see his dad standing in the doorway looking at his mom. “Hi, Dad!” he hollered so loud he made his mom jump. “Dad’s here!”
“Hello, kid.” His dad walked straight to the bed and gave him a hug. Cody knew his dad was pretending that he’d just gotten there. He wondered how long his father had been standing at the door watching them.
“You’re sweating,” his dad said.
“That’s because I’m doing therapy.”
“And doing a good job of it,” Andy said as she laid his leg down and covered it with the blanket. “He’s doing great moving his arms. They’re loosening up nicely.” She touched him lightly on the nose. “Time for a break now, kiddo.”
“I get to go to the therapy gym tomorrow,” Cody told his dad. “It’ll be my first time.”
“Good for you.” And, for a moment, because his dad hesitated, Cody thought that he might not know what to say. “…I think that’s great. I wouldn’t expect a patient to do as well as you’ve been doing.” He bent over the bed and gave Cody several well-placed tickles right on the ribs as Cody rolled onto his side in a fit of giggles. “Stop doing so good! You’re doing too good!”
“I can’t help it,” Cody squealed. “It’s just happening.”
Jennie sat and watched her sleeping child for a moment, watching the flicker of lashes on his slightly flushed cheeks and the rise and fall of his small chest. “He’s doing so much better than they thought he would,” she said after a long silence. “Thank heaven for every breath that little boy takes.”
“Do you really mean that?” Michael asked, because it suddenly seemed important to know where she was coming from. Was she really thanking heaven? He didn’t know if she’d ever have much trust in God.
He searched Jennie’s face, thinking how different his ex-wife looked. Their eyes met and held.
“So,” he asked at last. “How, exactly, do you go about learning all this?”
“I’ve got outlines of the therapies we’re supposed to do with him when we get him home. Or—” she corrected herself, realizing what she’d said “—when I get him home…and you get him home. I’ll never remember all this stuff if I don’t take notes.”
Michael swallowed. Hard. Just looking at her he felt off-center. All he wanted to do lately was be around his ex-wife and do things for Cody. “You want to show me those notes? Are you up for another cafeteria hamburger?”
She almost said yes. But then she allowed a slow smile to lift the corners of her mouth. “You want the truth? The real truth?”
He grinned, too, a warm, full smile that made her heart feel as if it were flopping in somersaults. “Say no more. I don’t want to hear the truth, that you’d like to go down to the cafeteria and slaughter every single one of those hamburgers with a shotgun.”
“Okay. I won’t say it.”
“That’s it, then.” He stood and helped her up. He had half a mind to suggest they eat out somewhere. But, calculating the days since he had last eaten a home-cooked meal, he said instead, “Let me cook something for you.”
At the mention of a meal at a real table with real forks and glasses instead of paper cups, Jen’s eyes widened. “It sounds like paradise.”
“Come on,” he said. “Let’s do it.”
He drove her in his car, all the while intensely aware of her sitting beside him, her hands folded neatly in her lap, her eyes cast upward through the sunroof. It seemed like forever since they’d driven along together like this, even longer since the two had cared what was happening in each other’s life. For one brief, insane minute, Michael found himself wishing he could reach across the front seat and take her hand.
But they’d been married once and it would mean too much. He concentrated on the expressway, both hands gripping the steering wheel. He could think of nothing to say.
Finally they pulled into the driveway at his house. The garage door rolled open for him. He fumbled with the house key, displaying nerves. She followed him into the house carefully, holding her handbag in front of her. He strode into the kitchen and started rummaging through the refrigerator. “Look what we’ve got here. Moldy peas. Some macaroni and cheese wrapped in a Baggie. Half of an overripe cantaloupe.”
“Very appetizing,” she teased. “If you really want to know the truth—” she told him candidly “—it still looks better than the cafeteria hamburgers.”
“Trust me,” he said, shooting her a little grin. “I’m going to find something that’s edible. It’ll just take a minute.” He poked his head farther into the fridge.
“Don’t let anything attack you in there. Some of it looks deadly.”
“This is it. Here. I’ve got it.” He pitched out an unopened package of flour tortillas, a tomato, a head of lettuce that was a little wilted but would do, and some salsa. “I’ve got chicken in the freezer and I can defrost it. We’ll have fajitas. It won’t take long.”
“Thank you,” she said, laughing. “I would have killed you if you had gotten my hopes up for nothing.”
They set to work, side by side. She chopped the lettuce into little strips and diced the tomato while Michael took care of everything else. She didn’t look up when she heard him go out onto the patio to start the grill.
Now that he wasn’t standing within feet of her, she contemplated how odd it felt to be cooking with Michael in his kitchen. It felt right. And wrong. And funny.
Michael wandered back inside looking for a match to light the grill.
Jennie dissected the tomato perfectly, paying close attention to the little squares she made, trying to ignore her response to Michael’s presence. After almost two weeks spent discussing Cody, she couldn’t think of one thing to say.
“I had to get the matches,” he said. “Can’t start a fire out there if I can’t find the matches.” For a moment he just stood there, watching her with her head bowed over the tomato and all the wheat-colored hair flowing down her back. Then, as if in a vision, a memory came back.
It had been their first night in their tiny apartment in Highland Park. He’d come home to find her standing much as she was standing now, her long sheet of hair gleaming down her back, her head bowed. But when she turned to welcome him home, he could see she’d been crying.
“Where were you?” she had asked. Only then had he noticed the time, how late he was.
“I had a patient come in with an infection. A man who had abdominal surgery last week. The
y had to operate again.” He glanced at the clock above the stove. He thought again how late it really was. It was already past nine-thirty.
She turned back to the counter as he hung up his coat. And, this time, when he looked at her, the sniffing had turned into sobs and her shoulders were shaking. “I w-wanted d-dinner to be so g-good…”
“Jen. Baby.” He remembered moving across the kitchen to gather her into his arms. He remembered her lying her head against his shoulder. “Don’t be mad at me. I should have called. I will next time.”
“I—I’m—not m-mad at y-you…” she’d wailed. “I’m mad—at—that—s-stupid—stuff…” She’d pointed to a big pile of goo in the sink that looked like it had been spaghetti once. Now it was charred on one side and sticking straight up like quills on the other. “I’m—n-never—going to—cook—ever….”
To his credit, it was one of the times of his life he had done the right thing by her. She was only twenty-one and he knew how important it was to her to please him. He hadn’t even cracked a smile. “I love you, whether you can cook or not. I love you, Jen….” He’d stood there for what seemed like forever just stroking her hair. Then, after he’d helped her throw the horrible stuff away, they’d ordered out for pizza, which they’d eaten picnic-style on the floor next to the fire.
What was it about today that made him remember the first few romantic months of their marriage? he wondered. Matches in hand he turned away from her, went back outside and started the grill.
Twenty minutes later they were munching away at the kitchen table.
“It’s good,” she said. “Better than good.”
“I think so, too.” He leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms up around the back of his head and crossing them there.
Her eyes met his. “Thanks.”
He’d been married to this woman for six years. She’d always been pretty. But what he saw now was something more…something mature…and full and strong. Maybe, he wondered, he was just recognizing those qualities for the first time, seeing how she was devoting herself to Cody.
“So when are you going to use all those notes you took and start teaching me how to do therapy?”
“Anytime you want.”
“As soon as we can,” he said.
“That’s fine with me.”
One beat. Another.
“We should get back,” she said finally, jumping up to begin gathering silverware and plates. “Cody’ll be awake.”
Michael stood quickly to help her. He stacked the glasses, then went to the sink beside her. They stood shoulder to shoulder. He set the glasses down. “Jen?”
“Yes.” She turned toward him.
“Do you know,” he whispered to her. “Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if we hadn’t made so many mistakes with each other.”
He heard her intake of breath, saw the emotion begin to pool in her eyes.
“Sometimes,” she said, her voice as gentle and as smooth as her fingers would have been if they’d brushed against his skin. “I think about that, too.”
Her hands were still in the sink, wet from the running water, but he didn’t care. He took them, suds and all, into his own and held them there.
When he pulled her to him, it was the first time in years, even when they’d been married, that she had felt so totally protected in his arms. He gripped her to him now as if he would never release her, ever. She could feel the solid pumping of his heart against hers.
She didn’t pull away for the longest time. But she didn’t turn her face up toward his, either. If only they could make this moment last forever. But they couldn’t. They had hurt each other too much for that.
“Come on,” he said to her as he let her go. “Guess I’d better get you back.”
Buddy Draper sat in the front office of the Dallas Burn fidgeting like a little kid. He straightened his tie. He stretched his legs. He crossed his ankles. He wished he had worn a polo shirt and casual pants instead of this suit.
He was so far out of touch with the world of Major League Soccer that he hadn’t even known what to wear when he came to visit Harv Siskell.
Harv Siskell. The man who had come to watch him play soccer at R. L. Turner High School his junior year and who had wooed him onto the team. Harv Siskell, who was too good a friend now to ever give up on him.
Buddy straightened his tie again, feeling more and more uncomfortable.
“Harv is ready for you,” the secretary told him.
He practically jumped out of his chair and grabbed the packet of videos with both hands. “Thanks, Margaret.”
She winked at him, which calmed him down just a bit. “It’s good to see you back in this office, Buddy.”
“Thanks, Margaret.”
Harv stood beside the desk waiting for him when he entered. “Buddy. Come in. Have a seat.” And then the man did a double take. “You look like you got dressed for somebody’s funeral!”
“I couldn’t decide what to wear.”
“How about number fourteen?” He gestured toward one of Buddy’s old jerseys hanging against the wall amid the many team photos and trophies. In big green numbers it said 14, with DRAPER above. After he had left the team, they had retired his number.
Both he and Harv stood looking at the jersey for a minute. “Brings back memories,” Buddy said, feigning nonchalance.
“So.” Harv took the videos from Buddy’s hands. “You want to tell me what’s been going on lately? How are things going with that beautiful woman in your life?”
Buddy shot him an astonished look. “What?”
“You know what I’m talking about. The pretty dark-haired lady you used to bring around to all the games before you forgot how to drive your car and crashed it.”
Oh, Buddy knew, all right. “I don’t see her anymore.”
Harv sighed. “Sorry, kid. Guess she was just a groupie, huh? Did she only want you when you were a famous Burn soccer player?”
Buddy thought about Harv’s question for a long time. That hadn’t been Andy’s motivation at all. Andy wasn’t like any other woman he’d ever known. “I wish,” he said to Harv, smiling sadly. “It would have been easier that way.”
“What do you mean?”
“Andy’s a PT, she works with the kids at Children’s Medical Center. When she heard I quit playing soccer, she let me have it. She didn’t know that the front office pulled my contract. She thought I gave up because I wouldn’t be the best anymore.”
“Interesting.” Harv took a swig from his water bottle. “Very interesting. And you never bothered to set her straight.”
“She’d worked so hard to help me play again, Harv. It meant everything to her because she knew it meant everything to me. I couldn’t tell her that all the hard work she put herself through for my sake just wasn’t enough. All she could see was me giving up. And I’ll tell you right now, Andy learned a long time ago not to let people give up.”
Harv sighed. “She was a nice-looking girl.”
“Still is.”
“I’d sure like to see you moving ahead with your life instead of having to let so many things go.”
“I’m going to be okay, Harv. I thought God had a certain calling on my life, but he didn’t. Or it changed. Or something.”
“You could say it changed.”
“I just have to find my new direction. The place God wants me to go next.”
“Maybe I can help you do that,” Harv said.
Buddy pointed to the packet of videos on Harv’s desk. “Maybe you already have, Harv. It’s been a long time since I’ve been this excited about anything.”
“So? That mean you’re interested in the job?”
“If I wasn’t, I darn sure wouldn’t have come all the way down here in this suit and tie.”
“I want you to remember one thing while we discuss this,” Harv told him, his eyes crinkled up in a smile. “I want you to know what you’re getting into before you tell me you’ll do it. Coaching from the sideline
s is a lot different than being a player. Sometimes it’s easier. Sometimes you see things a whole lot clearer. Other times it’s more frustrating than you ever thought possible,” Buddy said.
“I’ve had my share of that already,” Buddy said.
He took out his notepad while Harv turned on the VCR and slipped in a game tape. Together, they spent the rest of the afternoon absorbed in watching the runners moving around the field.
Chapter Seven
Monday morning, almost two weeks after Cody had taken ill, Jennie returned to work for good. She had a million and one things to do; sketches to complete, staff to manage and an editor to assuage. But she could not stop thinking about Michael as she sat behind her desk with a thousand responsibilities weighing down on her.
Number one, I wanted Michael to hold me.
Number two, standing in that kitchen, in my ex-husband’s arms, I didn’t feel alone anymore.
And, number three.
Most important, this number three.
We had six years to make things work between us and we couldn’t do it. What would be any different now? If Cody hadn’t gotten sick, we never would have come back into each other’s lives.
She absentmindedly shot a rubber band across the room. It hit Art Sanderson on the shoulder as he passed by. “I hope that wasn’t intended for me.”
“I always intend them for you, Art.” She aimed another one.
At that precise moment, Art disappeared into his office and the object of her previous thoughts stepped in, neatly dressed in an open-necked turquoise shirt that complemented his eyes and wavy blond hair. She froze, the rubber band still in hand. “Michael?” she whispered even though she didn’t need to. “What are you doing here?”
“I’ve come to see if you want to hang out with me today,” he said with breathtaking nonchalance.
“Hang out? Now?”
“Now is as good a time as any. Six Flags is open all afternoon.”
“Six Flags?”
“I want to go somewhere with you, anywhere with you, that we can both relax and have a good time for a few hours. We deserve it.”
Family Matters Page 6