Julia stacked the magazines strewn across the couch and set them on the end table. She checked the dark stain on the seat cushion beneath for dryness before plopping her backpack that served as both purse and overnight bag on the empty spot.
Then she folded her arms across the front of her denim jacket and switched roles from daughter to authority figure. “So who’s going to fess up? You told me to pack a bag and my credentials because you had an emergency at home. But we didn’t walk across the street to your condo, Martha. We drove here. What’s going on?”
Though humor had always been her first best line of defense, she hadn’t managed the night shift of one of Chicago’s toughest emergency rooms without learning how to throw around a little intimidation. She knew how to draw up all five feet, six inches of her blocky figure into a not-to-be-messed-with show of force.
Unfortunately, she’d learned the trick from her mother. Barbara mimicked her daughter’s stance. “Don’t get mad at Martha. I agreed with her totally on this. I thought it was a good idea.”
“I’m not mad. I just want to know—” A solid thump from the back of the house rattled the chandelier above her head. Julia jumped in her boots. But other than a quick catch of her breath, she didn’t let her mother see how the unexpected sound unnerved her. A sense of impending dread pulsed through her at the uneven tread of heavy footsteps advancing toward them.
“Who’s the patient, Martha?” These women were not given to lying. But they might fudge a little bit if they believed it would help someone they loved. “Mom?” she prompted.
“Ma?!”
She knew that voice. Years ago she’d memorized the quiet authority, the distinct pitch of it. The deep tone had a raspy, strident ring to it now. But she’d know that voice anywhere.
Once, it had saved her life.
Today, it could destroy her.
“I’m not ready for this.”
Shreds of panic plummeted to her toes, robbing her of conscious thought and reliable self-assurance. She snatched her bag and flung it over her shoulder. Her mother hadn’t known then. She didn’t know now. Julia had never told a soul. Her humiliation ran too deep. The futility of her feelings was a raw, vulnerable wound, barely shielded now after all that had happened in Chicago.
She had to go. She had to…
“Ma, you there?”
She froze in her tracks when she came face-to-face with the man braced in the archway where the living and dining rooms joined.
Mac Taylor.
As tall and lean as she remembered. The broad shoulders and endless stretch of legs beneath the gray sweatshirt and faded jeans were the same. The long, dextrous fingers still fascinated her. But the lack of meat on his angular frame gave him a hard edge. And the tight slice of his mouth across the golden scrub of a beard indicated he was angry.
She’d never seen him angry before.
“Ma?”
“I’m here, son.” The fatigue in Martha’s voice distracted Julia’s attention for a moment. Like her own mother, Martha would be in her early sixties. But the heartbreak that suddenly creased her face made her seem years older.
“Who’s with you?” Julia turned back at Mac’s demand.
Time and injury hadn’t been kind to her childhood hero. His sandy blond hair had lost its burnished lustre. All trace of curl had been cut away, leaving it a short, spiky length. Jagged streaks of newly healed, baby-pink skin branched out over his left cheek and across his forehead in an intricate web of fresh scars.
But it was his eyes that held her captive.
Beneath the cut that bisected his eyebrow, a tiny white blemish blotted the symmetry of pupil and iris in his left eye. And the right looked through her, past her, without seeing her.
He was blind.
Those cool chips of granite, once silver behind the gold of his glasses, that she’d fantasized about through her teenage years, were blind.
Her fears scattered as shock rendered her silent. Her lips worked to mouth the question, Why?
“Ma? Who’s with you?” he repeated.
Tears of sorrow, and maybe even pity for all he had lost, stung her eyes.
Martha shrugged off her son’s harsh tone. “Barbara Dalton.”
He tipped his face up, sniffing the air with an almost feral focus. “Who else?”
Julia blinked back the moisture in her own eyes, sensing sympathy would not be appreciated. “It’s Jules, Mac. Julia Dalton.”
“Son of a bitch.” His face flushed with emotion, and he whipped around. His shoulder banged into the archway, knocking a picture crooked on the wall. A string of succinct, damning curses accompanied him as he stormed back through the house.
“MacKinley Taylor!” Martha dashed through the archway, scolding after him. “She’s a nurse, son, she can help—” A door slammed, cutting her off, leaving Julia and her mother standing in shocked silence.
Several moments later, Martha returned. The strain on her face aged her even more. “I’m afraid I brought you here under false pretenses.” She rolled her gaze heavenward and clenched her mouth in an effort to stem her tears. “Of all my children, that one was never a bit of trouble. Never once gave me cause for concern. And now, when he does need me, he won’t let me help.”
“He needs bandages on those eyes.” The practical professional inside her kicked in. But decades-old friendship softened her scold to a gentle reprimand. “The damage to that tissue is recent enough that it could still breed infection. At the very least he should wear dark glasses. The light must be killing him.”
Martha went to the picture on the wall and straightened it. “I almost think he enjoys it. The pain, I mean.”
With an instinctive empathy, Julia knelt down to retrieve the wadded newspaper pages from beneath the coffee table. “Why would he punish himself that way?”
“I think he feels responsible for the accident.”
Julia straightened, hating her natural curiosity and abundant concern. Why couldn’t she just let things go? “What happened?”
Martha’s back seemed to creak with the effort of bending down and picking up a pillow that was half a room away from the chair to which it belonged. “There was an explosion at the lab where he worked. He suffered chemical burns, shrapnel wounds.” The hopelessness in Martha’s voice tore at Julia’s heart. Then her voice brightened a bit with a shallow smile. “There’s a chance the blindness isn’t permanent. He nearly lost one eye. It’s damaged beyond repair. But his right eye can be retested once he’s healed. He may be eligible for a lens transplant. If the eye’s strong enough. But he’s so stubborn. He’s so…defeated.”
Julia shoved the newspapers into the trash can beside the desk, turning away from her mother who was hurrying to Martha and sweeping her into a comforting hug. She tried to remain clinical. “Transplant operations are fairly common, and generally quite successful. Partial or complete sight is restored, and the postoperative healing process isn’t too traumatic.”
“Don’t quote me facts.” Unfocused anger replaced the quaver of tears in Martha’s voice. “The success of the operation makes no difference if he won’t take care of himself! Look how he lives. Half the time he hides out in his room behind a locked door. He crashes around this house without regard for his safety, and has a temper tantrum whenever someone tries to help. He’s chased off three nurses already.” The anger receded behind a plea from the heart of a desperate mother. “You’re my final hope. Please. As a favor for old times’ sake?”
Julia