Page 67 of Teacakes & Tangos
I finally fell asleep that night, exhausted, after raking over in my mind every conversation we’d ever had... every smile Xander had ever given me... every kiss we’d shared...
And I still didn’t know.
Had there been guilt present in everything he’d said and done? Had he been feeling sorry for me every time he insisted on paying for me? Had my night at the ballet in the best seats in the house – which must have cost him a small fortune – simply been a way for him to feel better about what had happened?
Xander could have been in no doubt about my growing feelings for him.
He’d wanted to make it up to me.
I hated to think it might be true, but had there been an element of guilty chivalry even in the kisses we’d shared?
*****
The following evening, I received some great news from the hospital.
Dad had been improving gradually, day by day, and the doctor who’d been overseeing his care came by – as I sat at Dad’s bedside after work – to tell me he was well enough to be discharged the following day.
Luckily, it was my day off so I happily made arrangements to drive in and collect Dad the next morning. And I immediately began getting the house ready for Dad coming back.
Xander called as I was hoovering, and when I gave him the good news, he sounded both delighted and relieved.
He also asked if I’d like to meet up for a celebration drink later.
‘Well... I’ve got a lot to do today, getting ready for Dad to come home. And then I’ll be wanting to spend as much time as I can with him, especially at the start,’ I said. ‘So I think I might have to give you a rain check on the drink. For now.’
‘Of course. That makes sense,’ Xander said quickly. ‘He’ll really need your support when he first goes home.’
‘He will.’
It was certainly true I wanted to make sure Dad was all right when he came out of hospital – I was intending to spoil him a lot! – but it was also a convenient excuse because I really needed to distance myself from Xander as much as I could.
His remark about trying to make it up to me had hit really hard. I really appreciated all the things he’d done for me, but it was his love I wanted, not his sympathy.
I knew I had to back off because if I didn’t, there was the very real chance that I was going to get hurt all over again.
Xander had been the perfect gentleman, at my side through some really tough times. But I reckoned he’d discharged what he saw as his ‘duty’ to me and Dad, and I needed to set him free. We’d be friends, of course. I couldn’t bear the idea that now the crisis was over, we might naturally drift apart. Xander genuinely liked me so I doubted this would happen.
Hedidlike me. I knew that.
But I’d be mad to assume he was as keen as I was to take our relationship to the next level. I’d only just got over the fiasco of Les and my marriage plans disaster. I couldn’t take any more heartache.
So I threw myself into the joy of having Dad back home... and it was so good being able to take care of him and watch him improving gradually, day by day.
I tried not to worry that although he was getting stronger physically, soon managing a walk around his garden every day, he didn’t seem to be recovering his positivity or his joy in life at the same rate.
Most of the time he either sat in his chair, staring gloomily at the TV, or on the bench outside, gazing at the garden. He seemed barely aware that I was there. I kept up a constant flow of light chit-chat when I was with him, in an attempt at getting some kind of a positive response.
But all I received in return was the occasional sad little smile and a nod or shake of the head. Sometimes he’d reach out and give my hand a squeeze. But it was clear his appetite for life had completely vanished. He seemed like a shadow of his former self and I hated to see him like this.
I asked him again – very gently – about the woman he’d been due to meet on the day of his accident. But he just kept saying he couldn’t remember, which seemed plausible considering his head injury – and yet... I still found it odd that this was the only thing he couldn’t recall...
When I phoned his GP to say I was worried about him, I was told that Dad’s apathy and strange unresponsiveness was likely just a stage in his recovery. Everyone’s path to full health when they emerged from a coma was different, he said. I should just be patient.
But I knew Dad. And I couldn’t help thinking that if he was happy to be home and being looked after by me, I would know it. But I didn’t. I had a feeling there was something bothering him but whenever I asked, he would just shake his head and tell me he was fine.
In the end, I started wondering if maybe my relentless cheeriness was irritating him, so I stepped back a little and gave him space – but even that seemed wrong, because he surelywouldn’t recover his former good spirits by sitting all day in a chair with only his own thoughts for company?
At least I had no problem getting him to do the daily physio exercises that would get him fully mobile again.
