Breakup In A Small Town. Kristina Knight
enough.” It was he who wasn’t doing what needed doing. While he was sitting here in this chair, she was out there. Doing her job and his, caring for the kids. Caring for him. She was the one who needed, and the first time she expressed that, what had he done? Run to his mother. Just like he’d been running from any kind of responsibility since the tornado. God, he was a jerk. Jenny deserved better than him. So did the kids.
“Go back to work, Mom, and thanks for coming by.” He wheeled himself into the hall, and for the first time that he could remember, Nancy followed him. She watched him closely for a long moment.
“It isn’t a crime to need other people, Adam.”
He knew that. A little piece of him did, anyway. The crime was in pushing against the people who wanted to help him. He’d been pushing Jenny and the kids and his parents away for the past three months. “I know. The crime is in punishing them when they try to help.”
Nancy stood at the back door for a long moment, just watching him. “Adam,” she began, but he shook his head. He didn’t need mothering, not right now. What he needed was to either walk away, the way he’d been telling himself to do ever since the hospital released him, or show Jenny and the kids that he appreciated them.
Unfortunately, he had no idea how to start on either option.
* * *
JENNY QUIETLY CLOSED the door to the boys’ room as the last rays of sunlight were sinking into the horizon. It wasn’t quite eight o’clock, but the kids were still getting used to the school schedule, and both had nearly fallen asleep over their spaghetti at dinner.
“Momma?”
She barely heard Frankie’s whispered word through the closed door. Jenny pushed it open and poked her head around the corner. “Yeah, baby?”
“I’m glad you picked us up today. I don’t like the bus.”
“I know, Frankie.”
“And Garrett really doesn’t like the bus.”
“You were both very clear on that the other day.” She slipped inside, ran a hand over Garrett’s baby-fine hair. Her younger son was out cold. She sat on the edge of Frankie’s bed. “I won’t always be able to pick you up, though. You know that.”
His mouth twisted to the side in an expression so like his father’s it nearly took her breath away. “But you will tomorrow.”
“I’m not sure. Uncle Aiden is supposed to get to town tomorrow, but I don’t have his flight information yet.”
“But you will if you can. And if you can’t, it’s because you’re at work.”
“Yes. If I can pick you up, I will, and if I can’t, it’s because I’m at work.”
“It’s safe at work. The tornado didn’t hurt it at all.”
“No, it didn’t. Work is very safe.”
“And you’ll pick us up.” He waited a beat, then added, “If you can.”
“If I can.” She wanted to pull him into her arms and tell him everything was fine. But everything wasn’t fine. The man in the wheelchair downstairs meant things were still not fine for her family. Also, Frankie thought he was too big for hugs, so she ruffled his hair, pressed her fingertips to her mouth, then his forehead.
“Promise?” he asked.
She nodded and smoothed the frown that seemed etched into the little boy’s forehead lately. “I’ll do my very best.”
“But you have to promise. If you promise, I know you’ll try.”
Jenny sighed. “I promise that I will try. And I’ll call the school to let you know tomorrow afternoon. Now go to sleep.”
He pulled his full lower lip between his teeth. “Okay,” he said, after a long moment of consideration.
Jenny tucked the light blanket around his shoulders and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “I love you, Franklin Adam Buchanan.”
“I love you, too, Momma,” he said, and his voice sounded drowsy.
Jenny watched her boys from the doorway for a few moments, until Frankie seemed to drift into sleep, then she closed the door softly once more. She waited, but there were no more whispered calls from inside.
Between Garrett’s tornado drawings and Frankie’s need to be near his parents—or at least know where they were—at all times, it was clear neither boy had forgotten those tense moments when the tornado had torn through Slippery Rock. Maybe they’d have gotten over that trauma if they weren’t reminded of it every day when they saw Adam in the wheelchair.
At least they had hope on that front now. That was how she took the doctor’s words from earlier that morning. Staying on the same medication regimen, reminding Adam about the service dog. Those were indications that their lives would return to normal. Weren’t they?
In the laundry room, Jenny pulled a load of clothes from the dryer. Jeans were mixed in with T-shirts and underwear, colors with whites. She sighed. Adam had done the laundry, but he hadn’t separated the items. She tried to be grateful that he had tried, but when she spotted pink streaks on a few of the whites, the last tiny grain of gratefulness vanished.
She started down the hall, pink-streaked T-shirt in her hand, but stopped near the kitchen. What good would it do? She’d forced Adam’s hand. This was her fault as much as it was his.
For their entire marriage, she’d done the cooking, the cleaning, the laundry. Heck, until she’d walked in the door that afternoon to hear the dryer tumbling, she hadn’t been positive he knew how to operate either machine.
Sighing, Jenny turned down the hall. She ran cold water into the laundry sink, added a measuring cup of oxygenated detergent, the regular detergent and a bit of distilled vinegar—why was there distilled vinegar in the laundry room?—then set the clothing in the mixture to soak. She’d rewash the clothes in the morning, after they’d had plenty of time in the soaking sink.
After folding the jeans, which were thankfully not pink-streaked, and a couple of the boys’ T-shirts, which didn’t appear to have streaks, she left the laundry room.
Adam sat in the wheelchair before the big picture window, looking out at the street. The sky was still pink-streaked, much like the laundry now soaking in the sink, and nothing stirred outside.
“You left the vinegar in the laundry room.”
He wheeled the chair around to face her. “A red sock got into the washer.”
“And you guessed that vinegar would take out the streaks?”
A guilty look flashed across his face. Not his idea, then. Jenny shook her head. Of course the vinegar hadn’t been his idea. The question was just how long had it taken him to call his mother after Jenny asked him to help her out.
“I called Mom at the store.”
That also explained why, when she’d been trying to finish the new proposal for the furniture distributor in Springfield, all the calls to Buchanan’s had been routed to her office phone. Adam’s office, technically, but since he wasn’t working, she’d taken it as her own. It made more sense than trying to get anything done in the outer office, where she’d worked before the tornado. Between Nancy’s constant chatter and Owen’s pacing as he watched the work floor below the office, she’d barely been able to concentrate on filling out invoices.
Still, at least Adam had tried to do the laundry. A couple weeks ago—shoot, last week, even—he wouldn’t have.
“I set the shirts and things in the laundry sink to soak overnight. That should get the last of the pink streaks out.”
“The vinegar didn’t work?”
She gestured to the clean clothes in her arms. “Only on some of it.”
“Mom