Page 7 of A SEAL's Legacy
I think back to the last time I was here and how weak Mom appeared. I thought it was grief from Jake's death. Now I realize she was suffering right under our noses, and none of us noticed.
"What can be done? What are the doctors doing?"
Dad stops his pacing and turns to me. "There's no cure for MS."
My heart sits heavy in my chest. "Is she dying?"
Dad shakes his head. "No, son. Not anytime soon."
Relief floods me, and I sink into an armchair.
"There are treatments," Dad says. "People can live long, healthy lives with multiple sclerosis."
"What kind of treatments? What are we doing?"
"The doctor has her booked in for an infusion tomorrow. She's having a flare up. She has to learn to take it easy when she's having a flare up. And you know your mother; that's hard for her." He shakes his head and sighs. "It's been stressful here. The disease is one thing. Then add on dealing with the loss of Jake, and now this surprise grandchild." He sinks into the chair next to me. "It's too much. She's got to take it easy."
"When has Mom ever taken it easy?"
"Exactly. She has to listen to her body, and when she feels a flare up coming on, she has to rest. No negotiation."
Dad stares out of the window where the roses bushes are heavy with wilted flowers, the branches tangling together. Now that I’m aware of it, I see the signs of Mom's illness everywhere. The rose bushes she loves are growing wild, there's a layer of dust on the windowsills, and the pie served to our 'guest' was in a package from a store and not homemade like she usually would.
"She can't take on a child, Dad."
He keeps his gaze out the window. "It's Jake's boy, Amos."
Dad's mouth is a thin, determined line. My dad's never known his limits either. The problem is, he's almost seventy. And he wasn't around much when we were kids. He's forgotten what six-year-old boys are like.
I glance up at the pictures on the wall of me and Jake as kids. Dad would take us fishing and hunting when he was home. We'd go camping in the woods and sleep out under the stars.
Mom was always ferrying us to activities and playdates, letting us run loose in the yard while she gardened, keeping half an eye on us.
I peer at my dad now, at the lines on his face and his head of white hair. With Mom upstairs resting, there's no way in hell they can take on this boy.
"This kid will have a lot of energy. How will you and Mom cope?"
"We'll manage."
He pushes himself out of the chair, and his knees creak in protest. "I'm going to get started on dinner."
I bark out a laugh, sure he must be joking. My dad can do many things, but I've never seen him cook. He glares are me.
"You're being serious?"
"There are a few things I can do to help your mother, and taking over some of the cooking is one of them."
He presses his lips together, and there's a determined set to his face as he heads through the door to the kitchen.
I shake my head as I watch him go. It might be a good night to give the boys a call and see if anyone wants to meet for ribs and a beer. Dad spent his entire career in the Navy with somebody cooking for him, and Mom cooks at home. I don't trust his skill in the kitchen.
There's a box of Jake's belongings in the corner that Avery took from his house when she and Ed cleared it out. On top is a photo album, and I pull it open and flick through the pages. I put the photo of Sam on the table next to the album.
Alana made a hasty retreat after Mom collapsed and after ensuring she was okay. Seeing the potential new caregiver collapse on the floor doesn't bode well, and I hope she doesn't think he'd be better off in foster care.
I slam the photo album shut. There's no way we're leaving Jake's kid in state care. Whatever it takes, we'll find a way.
If Mom's too sick, then that leaves it up to Avery and Ed. Avery's eleven years younger than me and is just starting her career. And Ed is still mostly nonverbal from the injuries he sustained in the mission that killed Jake.
