One Wild Night (Hollywood Chronicles #1)(61)

I nod and smile tightly. Cole's father, Stephen Ryan, was a considerate neighbor, always looking out for my mom, Faith, and me. He'd do odds and ends around the house without ever being asked, simply because he was a nice guy. We'd wake up on Saturday mornings and he'd be painting the porch or in the spring, Mom’s garden would suddenly be tilled. He’d just show up and do things that he knew needed to get done. He’d make Cole mow the lawn, and he always took care of mom’s car when something was wrong, never expecting anything in return. It doesn’t surprise me that he arranged to have a nurse here for Mom, either.

“That was very kind of him,” I tell Judy. As the “organizer” in me takes over, I start listing off what we need to do next. “I’d like to transfer payment over to me,” I tell her as she stands, listening to me. “Mr. Ryan is very generous to have paid for your services up until now, and I’m sure they were costly—and probably more than he could afford.” Judy raises her eyebrows and purses her lips in confusion, but I’m not about to tell her that Stephen Ryan isn’t wealthy. “And I’m going to need to keep you around until I understand what I’m dealing with. I’m going to need your professional opinion on whether this is something she can recover from, or if I’m going to need to transfer her to a larger town where she can receive better medical care and placed in a care home if needed.”

She shakes her head and reaches for my arm. “Slow down, Frances.” She offers me a tight smile, and I exhale softly. “Let’s go to the kitchen and sit down. Let me bring you up to speed on what’s happening.” She tugs at my arm and leads me toward the kitchen. The first thing I notice is the old linoleum floor that once was white has now yellowed and begun to wear in the high traffic areas.

The small round wood table I used to eat every meal at still has the burgundy fabric placemats in front of each of the four chairs, with a napkin holder and salt and pepper shakers sitting in the center of the table.

The appliances are old but still look to be in good condition, and the old Formica counter tops are faded and stained from years of use. Mom and I would use every square inch of countertop in this tiny kitchen as she taught me how to cook and bake. Those were some of my fondest memories with her.

“Sit down,” Judy urges, pointing to the kitchen table as she pulls a mug from the kitchen cupboard and fills it with coffee. She sets it in front of me and pulls a sugar bowl from the other counter, placing it in the middle of the table before she sits down and picks up her own mug of coffee. With a quick sip, she wraps her hands around the mug, lacing her fingers together as if to keep her hands warm.

“Your mom has a long road ahead of her,” she says quietly. “But I’ve seen so many people overcome this. A stroke can permanently debilitate her, but sometimes, many times actually, with the right medical care and therapy, I’ve seen people return to fully functioning adults. Only time will tell." She sits back in the wood chair and it creaks underneath her small frame.

"The doctors are extremely optimistic, Frances. You should be, too." She smiles at me.

I sip from my coffee as I feel a lump begin to form in my throat as I think about how scared my mom must have been having no one here.

"So, what we know," she says, taking a deep breath. "The stroke was on the right side of her brain. The right side affects the left side of your body. She has some paralysis on the left side of her body, including her face. Her speech is impaired, but it's still very good all things considered. You'll notice a slur, but you'll still be able to understand everything she says. She also has some memory loss. How significant?" she shrugs, "we're not sure yet. That's why we're glad you're here. Once you can begin to speak with her, we'll be able to determine what she remembers and what she doesn't. We'll need you to help us gauge her memory loss so we can understand the severity of that."

I nod, knowingly, feeling slightly overwhelmed by what I've just been told.

With a deep sigh, Judy continues, "We're going to want her to rest for a few more days and not push anything. Next week we'll begin physical, occupational, and speech therapy. All of them have been arranged for in-home treatment. Mr. Ryan took care of all that."

I clear my throat in hopes that the agitation that I feel growing doesn't come across. "Mr. Ryan, as wonderful of a neighbor that's he's been, really shouldn't be making appointments and decisions on behalf of my mother. I'd like all medical decisions to be made by me." I rub my eyes in exhaustion. All of this is overwhelming and I just want to cry.

Judy reaches across the table and rests her hand on top of mine. "We tried," she says quietly. "Mr. Ryan said he left you multiple messages on your voice mail at work. That was the only number we could locate for you until he got someone to hack the password on your mother's cell phone and we were able to retrieve your mobile number." She looks at me sympathetically. "Her password was one of the things she couldn't remember." Her eyes fall to her mug of coffee. "Mr. Ryan insisted on not contacting Faith. He said something about her being through enough…" Her voice trails off, and I cringe as I think of that little red notification on my office phone that has been blinking for the past three days.

"I was at trial," I respond, lost in thought. "I assumed it was reporters and I ignored the voice messages." I shake my head as tears flood my tired eyes and I finally allow my emotions to get the better of me.