Page 9 of The Candle Palace (Jamison Valley 6)
I’d heard the same from Luna’s mother not long ago as she’d collapsed in my arms and cried. What had helped her was a purpose, like doing Luna’s hair. Maybe a small task would help Milo’s mom too.
“If you’d like to do something, you could go to the cafeteria and bring up a milkshake.”
“A milkshake?”
I nodded. “Milo is getting pumped full of fluids and electrolytes right now as we try and get him balanced out. I’m not surprised he doesn’t want to eat. The medication and pain can steal your appetite. But he does need to eat.”
He needed more calories now than before the injury to give his body the energy to heal. But this was a common problem. Patients in this stage of their recovery were rarely hungry. So we supplemented meals with milkshakes and protein smoothies until their appetite returned.
“Okay. Any flavor?”
“Pick a favorite. And take your time. I’ll stay with Milo until you get back.”
“Kirk will be back soon. He just went to make a few calls.”
“I’ll be here.”
Her face washed with relief now that she’d been given something to do—and a brief respite from the stress of Milo’s room. “Thank you, Sara.”
“My pleasure, Mrs. Phillips.”
“Please, call me Teresa. I have a feeling by the time we’re through with all of this, we’ll feel like family.” Teresa gave me one last smile, then turned and walked down the hallway. After a few steps, her shoulders lowered from her ears.
She was a good mom. I’d met her only yesterday, but the good ones were easy to spot. They hurt as much as their children, even when their sons were grown men whose rooms needed to be cleaned.
I pushed through the door, not knocking this time. My eyes went to Milo instantly.
His head was propped up on two pillows. His eyes were squeezed shut, and his jaw ticked as it clenched tight.
I should be mad about the lunch strewn over the room, but all I felt was sadness for Milo.
Without a word, I picked up the metal plate cover from the floor. Then I collected the knife and paper napkin, setting it all on Milo’s table. He must have kicked the table away from the bed because it was at an odd angle. The force from the kick had probably sent the lunch tray flying.
“Don’t,” Milo said, his voice stopping me before I could pick up his fork.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t pick it up. I’ll do it. It’s my fault.”
I held back a laugh. There was no way he’d be able to move around and pick up the mess he’d made. So I ignored him and walked over to the sink, wetting the corner of a towel. “You have to eat. It’s food or a feeding tube. Given all the tubes you’re currently hooked up to, I’m guessing you’d rather not add another one shoved up your nose.”
“Not especially.”
“Then eat. Please.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“It doesn’t matter,” I told him as I went to the pile of lasagna on the flo
or covered by an overturned plate. “You need protein and calories to heal and maintain muscle mass. So are you going to eat?”
He grumbled his agreement.
I finished cleaning up the mess and put the dirty dishes on the tray by the sink for the aides to clear away later. I’d put the room back to rights just as Milo’s dad, Kirk, walked into the room.
“Hi, there.” He gave me a brief glance, then went to his son’s bedside, leaning close to say, “Talked to Beau. Jess is out of the woods and going to be fine.”
Milo’s sigh filled the room. “Thank God.”
