Worth the Trouble(23)
Hank gently tugged on Jenny’s ponytail. “I’d have come home a little earlier if I’d known Meg had planned to bug out before lunch.”
“It’s okay.” Jenny offered a bright smile. “How was Block Island?”
“Gorgeous.” Hank smiled as he tossed his bag on the kitchen table, privately replaying the highlights from the wedding, which included Cat’s late-night kiss and confession. “It was good to get away.”
Jenny cast her eyes downward. “You must be sick of taking care of Mom and me, huh?”
“No.” He frowned. Sure, he’d given up a lot for his family, but he’d also taken pride in being dependable, needed, and well loved. “I’d do it all over again if given the choice.”
“Maybe it’s time to consider other options for Mom, like a nursing home,” Jenny said while rubbing one wrist with her hand.
Given her young age, Jenny hardly recalled the brave, beautiful woman who’d raised her kids with a firm hand and loving heart.
His mother had set high expectations for their behavior, and her frankness had made it easy for him to understand what she wanted, and what he needed to do to make it happen. Yet even with a lifetime of memories, each month it became harder to remember his mother as she used to be rather than as she was now.
“I can’t put Mom in a home full of strangers. Besides, I just finished paying off the mortgage on this house. Not interested in swapping that debt with one to a nursing home. We’ve hired Helen to help out. Between the two of us and our sisters, we can manage the rest.”
“I’m not bailing on you, Hank. But I see how sad you get when you watch her.”
“Don’t worry.” Guess he hadn’t been hiding the ache as well as he’d thought. “I’m tougher than I look.”
“Sure you are.” She hugged him. He savored the warm moment before pulling back.
“Hang on.” He strolled through the living room toward the master bedroom. His hand hesitated on the doorknob, which, like all the doorknobs in the house, was covered with a childproof safety cover—one of many precautions meant to keep his mom from wandering and hurting herself. Quietly, he pried the door open, praying he’d find her asleep.
Through the dim light he saw the rented hospital bed. His mother’s frail form looked almost childlike as she lay on top of the quilt she’d sewn decades earlier.
Living with her while watching her mind and body slowly wither away broke his heart. It sucked to lose her in pieces—much more unbearable than his father’s heart attack. At least she appeared to be sleeping now, which meant he’d have a few quiet hours to himself. He closed the door and returned to the kitchen and Jenny.
He clipped the handheld receiver of the video baby-monitor system to his belt.
“You headed to your shop to finish that table you’re building?” Jenny asked.
“Yep.” He opened the screen door and stepped outside. Jenny picked up her backpack and followed him.
A sense of calm washed through his body as he crossed the yard and unlocked the door to the detached garage, which he’d converted into a private wood shop years ago. He’d purchased a used table saw and band saw on Craigslist, and slowly added various incannel gouges, chisels, and hand planes to his collection of hand tools.
At his day job he installed cabinetry and built-in units in people’s kitchens, closets, and family rooms. But in this space he dreamed. Here his artistic creations jumped off the page and sprang to life. This work fed his soul.
Today he planned to finish the accent table he’d designed for David and Vivi’s wedding gift.
“What do you think?” he asked while deciding it needed a final coat of penetrating resin.
“I like how the three curved legs of the pedestal base gather at both ends. Not too feminine or masculine.” Jenny tipped her head sideways. “Perfect size for a lamp, too.”
Hank passionately enjoyed every aspect of the furniture design and building process. Even measuring each cut to one-tenth of a millimeter tolerance wasn’t a nuisance. Whenever he had a little extra money, he’d purchase rosewood and other rare woods to incorporate into his projects.
“Thanks.” He smiled, pleased by her approval.
“So, not to rush you or anything, but can I have your keys now, please?”
Hank tossed her the keys and followed her out to the driveway.
She trotted to the truck with her backpack banging against her thigh. “I won’t be home for dinner. See you around eight o’clock.”
Jenny looked as ridiculous sitting behind the wheel of his gigantic pickup today as she had when he’d taught her to drive, but he knew she’d be safe in the old tank. He waved good-bye and returned to his shop.