Total pages in book: 106
Estimated words: 99607 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 498(@200wpm)___ 398(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99607 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 498(@200wpm)___ 398(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
“I need an answer today. I have no doubt this will be a challenging charter, but if anyone can think on their feet and make the weirdest requests work, it’s you.” Captain Moss stood, our conversation over until I’d made my decision.
“Thank you. I’ll make the call now.”
I excused myself and headed back to the sleeping quarters. A forty percent raise and my own bedroom would have ordinarily had me busting out the champagne, but the last five months of the Caribbean season had taken its toll. I’d been so looking forward to a break, and the thought of going straight into another five-month season, the first eight weeks without a day off, sounded exhausting.
I scooped my phone from my nightstand, lay back on my bed and dialed my dad.
It stopped ringing but no one answered. “Dad, it’s Avery,” I said. “Can you hear me?”
“Yes, honey, I just dropped the phone.” He sounded breathless.
“Were you running?”
“No, I just came in from the kitchen.”
My heart squeezed. The man used to toss me in the air as if I were a football, and now he was breathless walking from the kitchen into the living room. How long was he going to continue to care for my brother?
“How are things in Sacramento?” He hated when I fussed, and he’d have a fit if he knew how hard it was to call him every day when our hours on duty were so long and the guests were so demanding. But hearing his voice
made me feel less like I was abandoning him.
“Not as sunny as Florida.”
Despite being sixty-seven, my dad still hadn’t retired—couldn’t with my brother’s medical bills—but since I’d started taking on a lot of the expenses, he’d gone part time and no longer worked Fridays. “Did I wake you?”
“No, we’re just having breakfast.”
I grinned at the thought of them at the kitchen table. Right after the accident, Michael couldn’t move his arms and had to be fed, but after some time and with physical therapy, he’d made a lot of progress above the waist, although he still couldn’t walk.
“You do anything nice yesterday?” I asked.
“We kicked back and watched the game.”
I shook my head and smiled. Watching baseball, hockey, even football—it was the only time I saw the light back in my brother’s eyes.
“Did you order pizza?” I asked.
“Of course we ordered pizza.”
I rolled my eyes. Of course they had. “You’ve gotta try to stay healthy, Daddy.” I loved to cook for them when I was at home. Things like going grocery shopping, making soup, even watching sports with my family became special, something I craved when I was at sea, so far away from home.
“I’m as strong as an ox,” he replied.
I grinned as I imagined him standing straight, puffing out his chest. “I just want you to stay that way.”
“Stop your fussing. The Walker men are just fine. Tell me about what’s going on there with you. How many rich, spoiled asses have you wiped today?”
I laughed. “All the guests left yesterday.”
“Nice, so you doing a little sightseeing or sunbathing today before heading home?”
“Something like that. Did the physical therapist come yesterday?” Michael had someone come to the house three times a week to work with him.
“She sure did. He’s building up his muscles in his legs nicely—the weights help.” My dad sighed.
“What is it?”
“Oh, she’s nice and everything. It’s just she’s always talking about how more sessions would help and if Michael wants to make progress then . . .”
Michael mumbled something in the background, probably telling us to quit fussing.
“More therapy sessions? Like how many more?”
“I don’t know, honey. She was talking about having six months of six days a week. But I told her there was no way we could afford that. The insurance won’t pay.”
Michael wanted to walk again. My dad and I wanted that for him, and I’d gone into battle with the health insurer on more than one occasion about physical therapy. It was why he still had three weekly sessions even now, so long after the accident. I knew they’d never agree to six sessions a week.
“She thinks it will make a difference?” I asked.
My father didn’t respond and the scrape of a chair and my father’s slight groan as he stood echoed down the phone, indicating that he was moving rooms so Michael couldn’t hear him.
“She said that if Michael had six sessions a week, after six months she’d be able to tell us whether it was realistic to believe Michael would walk again, and if it was possible, we’d be able to see the progress in that time.”
My brother’s accident seven years ago had changed things completely for my family. My mother had abandoned us shortly after, unable to cope with a life that revolved around her newly disabled son, and soon after the bills had started to pile up.