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It was the first time someone made me think hard about what I did or what it meant. Yet, with just a few questions, she managed to make the truth spill out of me effortlessly.
“An idealist,” she said, though I still couldn’t measure whether her tone was approval or judgment.
“And pragmatic,” I added as she opened her mouth. “I believe in making people’s lives easier while knowing the dirty work of caring for them is on me.”
She leaned back in her seat, her brow furrowing. I was almost sure I was about to get an earful for having cut her off, and I listened to the ticking of a grandfather clock positioned just outside the door as I waited.
“Shane,” she said, never taking her eyes from me.
“Yes, Mom?”
“You know I hate when you call me that.”
“I do,” he said, and though I didn’t look, I could hear the smile in his voice.
Interestingly, there was a flicker on her face I would swear was either affection or pride. “Leave me and Mr. McCully alone. We have a few things to discuss.”
“You got it,” he said, amusement thick in his voice. “Ring me if you need anything or if he needs rescuing.”
“Thank you,” she said coolly, but there was still that faint flicker of something warm in her eyes.
The click of the door closing behind me felt louder than it should have, and I stepped into the room. It was becoming incredibly difficult to believe the woman before me was suffering from anything, let alone cancer. Yet the closer I looked, the more I could see the dark circles under her eyes, the way her hand trembled before she placed it flat on the desk, and her heavy breathing.
“Shane is my youngest,” she began. “A parting gift from my late husband before he died when Shane was only two. A heart attack.”
“Ah, you have my condolences,” I said.
She gave me a withering look. “A heart attack he had while laying atop his mistress of the month.”
“Then you have my congratulations,” I amended.
She glanced at me sharply. “Do you think yourself to be a clever man, Mr. McCully?”
“I do not,” I said, leaning forward onto the back of one of the chairs. “I’m simply assessing how I need to talk to you.”
“Frankly, would be a good start,” she said, leaning back in her chair, and I noted how her straight shoulders seemed to want to droop. “I have had my fill of liars and charmers, and I have certainly had my fill of clever men. My husband was a charming man and look where he is now.”
Yes, she was definitely a woman I would have to watch myself around. For all her talk of frankness, I suspected there was a particular type of frankness she would not appreciate in the slightest. I would have to watch myself, more likely than not because she was just the sort of person who would invite the part of my personality that was liable to be blunt.
“Noted,” I said, finally deciding to sit. “Then let’s talk frankly. Namely about the care you’re expecting.”
“My son takes care of most things in the morning and early afternoon,” she said almost immediately. “I understand that in your profession, you are expected to be underfoot at all times to ensure I am coping with my treatment and medications. That said, I will not tolerate someone who is constantly underfoot.”
“So, be underfoot but don’t,” I summarized.
“What did I say about cleverness?”
“I’m not trying to be clever, Miss Perkins, but you did just deliver that exact same paradox.”
She lay an arm upon her chair and watched me closely. It reminded me of the social workers and therapists I had dealt with as a teenager. The way they looked at me as though they could somehow see something I couldn’t. Most of the time they were wrong, if only because they were seeking some great flaw in me that they could exploit. It was much the same with Sophia. I could sense her looking for some weakness or flaw she could pinpoint.
“I still have many things dependent upon me,” she finally explained. “And I will not have some nurse or caregiver getting in the way of my obligations.”
I ignored the derisive way she’d said ‘caregiver’ and addressed her actual problem. “You want someone who takes care of your health concerns and keeps an eye out but doesn’t prevent you from doing what needs to be done on your end.”
“More or less,” she said, and I sensed a degree of relaxation on her part. “Are you a homosexual, Mr. McCully?”
The question took me off-guard but I strained to keep my reaction to a curious nod of my head. For a moment I almost considered asking her if it would bother her or make a difference, but I bit back the response. She had told me to be frank with her after all, and if that was going to be an issue, I suppose it should be addressed early on.
