Eye of the Storm (Hudson 3)

"After that, wheel yourself down to the kitchen for

breakfast."

I felt almost like a kid being told she could take

the family car for a ride herself. Maybe her sassiness

worked. I thought. because I did get myself over to

the vanity table and brushed my hair. Then, surprised

at how hungry I was. I wheeled out of the room and

down the corridor.

Finally. I felt like I was home.

Perhaps it was because we were in the kitchen

and not in my hospital-like bedroom, but while I ate

my breakfast. Mrs. Bogart became more talkative,

especially about herself. She ate her breakfast with me

and told me about some of her former patients. One

was particularly sad: a twelve-year-old boy with

multiple sclerosis who died while she was caring for

him.

She came from a small town north of Richmond

and had never left the state of Virginia. She told me

she had spent most of her teenage years and early

twenties caring for her father: the men with whom she

did develop some sort of romantic relationship

eventually grew tired of sharing her energy and

attention with him.

"Some people are just meant to spend their

whole lives taking care of other people. I guess," she

concluded. "At least. I'm not ashamed of it." "Why should you be?" I asked her.

She looked at me with those ebony eyes

flashing with heat and fired back. "Would you like to

be doing this your whole life. child?"