Chapter 12
The chandelier was still there in the morning, but it wasn't doing the same work.
At night it had thrown warm candle light onto the white marble and made that black inlay shine like water. Now daylight came through the tall windows by the front doors and washed right over it. The crystals were quiet. The marble didn't reflect the same way. I had wheeled myself to the exact spot where they'd gripped my chair the night before and locked my own brakes. I could hear the click when I did it.
My cane lay across my lap. I hadn't held it upright since last night. Across just felt better. Both my hands resting on it.
My son had pulled two chairs from the dining room into the foyer so we weren't all standing over me. He was in a gray sweater and jeans, not the suit. The blonde woman wore a pale blue day dress, not the gold gown, her hair still up but softer. The young woman who helped me stood a little behind and to my right, back in the black dress with the white bow, her hands clasped. No one touched my chair.
I had asked my son to bring us together there. He'd looked surprised when I said the foyer. He said we could use the kitchen table. I said no. I wanted the same floor.
We were quiet for a minute. I could hear the heat come on.
I cleared my throat. My voice didn't feel strong yet but it was steadier than it had been at night.
"I want to say how this will work in this house," I said. I kept my hands on the cane. "You don't move my chair without asking me first. Not an inch. You ask and you wait for me to answer."
My son nodded. The blonde woman gave a small smile that didn't reach her eyes.
"Second," I said. "You don't touch my cane. It's not to be taken or hung up somewhere. It stays with me."
I paused to breathe. The young woman behind me didn't move, but I felt her listening.
"Third," I said. "She stays." I tipped my head just a little toward the young woman. "She stays on as my paid helper. She reports to me and to my son. Not to anyone else."
The blonde woman's smile tightened. She folded her hands in her lap and leaned forward like she was trying to be gentle.
"I think we're all just under a lot of stress," she said. Her voice was smooth, practiced. "The gala, your recovery, all the extra help we've needed. I know I got overwhelmed last night. That wasn't like me. I was just worried you'd fall. I thought moving you quickly was safer."
She looked at my son when she said it, then back at me.
"We've all been tired," she said. "I don't think we need rules. I think we need rest."
My son didn't answer right away. He looked down at the marble, at that black inlay where the light had reflected the night before, then back at me and then at her.
He spoke calmly, the way he'd spoken when he asked to see the side door.
"I looked at the ramp this morning," he said. "The plywood is still there. The lip is still high. Mom couldn't have gotten out that way without help. And the charger for her chair is still in your closet. In the box."
The blonde woman's mouth opened, then closed.
"I moved it so it wouldn't get tangled," she said quickly. "I was going to bring it back."
"You moved it three days ago," he said. He didn't raise his voice. "And the ramp was supposed to be fixed last week. The contractor said you told him to hold off."
"It was a scheduling thing," she said. Her hands tightened together. "I didn't realize it mattered that much. I thought she was fine with us helping her over the step."
I kept my hands on the cane. I didn't correct her. I let my son finish.
"It matters," he said. "If she can't leave on her own, she has to ask permission to go anywhere. That's not help."
He turned to the young woman behind me.
"Will you stay?" he asked her. "Same pay, but you'll report directly to my mom and to me. Your hours, your tasks, she decides. Not through anyone else. If you need something, you come to us."
The young woman took a small breath. I heard it.
"Yes," she said. Her voice was quiet but clear. "I'd like to stay. If she wants me to."
I reached back just enough to touch her hand. I didn't turn my chair.
"I do," I said.
The blonde woman looked between the three of us. I saw her glance at the staircase, then at the front doors, then back to my face. She forced that smile again and nodded too many times.
"Of course," she said. "Of course, if that's what everyone wants, I agree. We want her comfortable. That's all I ever wanted."
She let a beat pass. Then she tilted her head toward me.
"Could I have just a minute alone with your mother?" she asked my son. "Woman to woman. I think we should clear the air privately."
My son looked at me. I felt my heart pick up. Last night I would have said yes because I thought I had to. This morning the cane was across my lap and my brakes were locked by my own hand.
I gave him a small nod. He understood what I meant.
"You can talk here," he said to her, even and soft. "Door stays open. I'll be right in the kitchen. In earshot."
The blonde woman's eyes flicked toward the kitchen doorway, then back to my chair. Her smile was still there, but it had gone thin.
May you like
"That's fine," she said. "Open is fine."
She pulled her chair a little closer to mine as my son and the young woman stepped away. The marble was bright under us. The chandelier was dark above us. I kept my hands where they were.
