Nina
She dreamed of Chicago.
Not the good parts — the lake, the skyline, the deep-dish pizza. The bad parts. The apartment where she'd spent three weeks on the bathroom floor. The hospital where Marcus had died. The waiting room with its plastic chairs and its magazines from three years ago.
In the dream, her mother was sitting in one of those chairs.
You should have called, her mother said.
I know.
You should have come home.
I know.
You should have let me help you.
Nina woke up with tears on her face. The clock said 6:15. The house was quiet — Eleanor was still asleep, and Caleb's door was closed.
She picked up her phone.
Her mother's number was in her contacts. She had looked at it a hundred times since leaving Chicago. Had almost called a hundred times. Had put the phone down a hundred times.
Today, she didn't put it down.
The phone rang twice. Three times. Four.
"Hello?"
Her mother's voice was the same. Warm. Sleepy. The voice that had sung her lullabies and told her to eat more and asked when are you coming home? a thousand times.
"Hi, Mom."
A pause. "Nina?"
"Yeah. It's me."
"Baby, is everything okay? It's —" A rustle, probably checking the clock. "It's six in the morning where you are."
"I know. I couldn't sleep."
"You never could. Even as a little girl. You'd wake up at dawn and want to play."
Nina smiled despite herself. "I remember."
"Where are you? Your sister said you took a job in Oregon. Something about a private client."
"I'm in Oregon. On the coast. I'm working for a man named Caleb. He has Parkinson's."
Her mother was quiet for a moment. "Parkinson's. That's the shaking disease, right?"
"Early onset. He's only thirty-six."
"That's young. That's very young."
"I know." Nina tucked her feet under her on the bed. The quilt was warm, the blue room cold. "Mom, I need to tell you something."
"I'm listening."
"I left nursing because I couldn't save a boy. A teenager. Hit-and-run. I worked on him for forty-five minutes, and he died, and I couldn't —" Her voice cracked. "I couldn't do it anymore. I couldn't watch people die and pretend I was okay."
"Oh, baby."
"I'm not okay. I haven't been okay for a long time. And I'm sorry I didn't call. I'm sorry I didn't come home. I'm sorry I made you worry."
Her mother's voice was soft. "You didn't make me worry. I worried because I love you. There's a difference."
Nina laughed — a wet, shaky sound. "That's what I keep telling him."
"Caleb?"
"Yeah. He's got this list. Things he wants to do before he can't. And one of them is letting someone see him fall. And I've been helping him with that. And somewhere along the way, I stopped running from my own falling."
"You're falling?"
"I'm learning to stand. It's not the same thing."
Her mother was quiet. Then she said, "I'm proud of you, Nina. I've always been proud of you. Even when you were sitting in that apartment, not calling, not coming home. I was proud of you for surviving."
"I didn't feel like I was surviving."
"Surviving doesn't feel like anything. It's just not dying. You did that. You kept doing that. And now you're in Oregon with a man who has Parkinson's, and you're helping him build a treehouse, and you called me. That's not surviving. That's living."
Nina wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. "I miss you."
"I miss you too. Come home when you can. Or I'll come there. I've never seen the Oregon coast."
"It's beautiful. Gray and green and full of rain."
"Sounds like Chicago in the spring."
Nina laughed. "Yeah. I guess it does."
---
When she came out of her room, Eleanor was in the kitchen making coffee.
Caleb was still asleep — or pretending to be. Nina could see the light under his door, the shadow of his feet moving back and forth.
Eleanor handed her a mug. "You look like you've been crying."
"I called my mother."
"Good cry or bad cry?"
"Good cry. I think."
Eleanor nodded. "Those are the best kind. The ones that clean you out."
Nina wrapped her hands around the mug. The warmth seeped into her fingers. "How do you do it?"
"Do what?"
"Stay so strong. Even when things are hard. Even when your husband was sick. Even when Caleb pushed you away."
Eleanor leaned against the counter. Her silver hair was loose, falling past her shoulders. She looked tired, but steady.
"I'm not strong," she said. "I just keep going. One foot in front of the other. One day at a time. That's not strength. That's stubbornness."
"It looks like strength from here."
"That's because you're standing in a different spot." Eleanor smiled. "When you're inside the storm, it doesn't look like strength. It looks like survival. But survival is enough. Survival is everything."
Nina thought about that. About all the days she'd survived — the ones in the bathroom, the ones in the waiting room, the ones on the deck watching the ocean.
"Survival is enough," she repeated.
"It's more than enough. It's the foundation." Eleanor poured herself a cup of coffee. "Now, what are we building today?"
---
Caleb came out of his room at eight.
He was wearing jeans and a flannel shirt — the kind of clothes that meant he was ready to work. His right hand was shaking, but he'd already taken his morning medication, and the tremor was mild.
"Today," he said, "we build the window."
"The window," Nina agreed.
"The one facing the ocean. The big one."
Eleanor looked at the treehouse through the glass wall. "It's really taking shape."
"It has four walls and a roof. It needs a window so you can see the water."
"And a door so you can get in."
"That too."
Nina picked up the measuring tape. "Let's start."
---
The window was harder than the walls.
Caleb had to cut a hole in the front wall — the one he'd just built — and frame it so the glass would fit. His left hand was steady enough with the saw, but his right hand kept slipping off the wood.
"I should do this," Nina said.
"No."
"You're struggling."
"I'm always struggling. That doesn't mean I stop."
Eleanor was watching from the deck, a mug in her hand. She didn't offer to help. She just watched.
Nina held the wood steady while Caleb cut. The saw blade bit into the lumber, slow and uneven. Sawdust flew, catching the sunlight.
"Almost there," Nina said.
"I know."
"You're doing good."
"I know."
"You're also very grumpy."
Caleb paused. Looked at her. "I'm not grumpy. I'm focused."
"You're grumpy and focused. There's a difference."
He almost smiled. "There's not."
"There is. Grumpy means you're annoyed. Focused means you're determined. You're both."
He went back to cutting. The saw blade moved faster now — he'd found a rhythm. Left hand pulling, right hand guiding. The tremor was there, but it wasn't stopping him.
The piece of wood fell away. The hole was cut.
"I did it," he said.
"You did it."
"The window fits."
"It hasn't been installed yet."
"It will fit."
Nina handed him the frame. He positioned it in the hole. It was too big.
"It doesn't fit," he said.
"It's close."
"Close isn't good enough."
"Close is good enough for now. We'll sand the edges."
Caleb looked at her. "You're very patient."
"I'm not patient. I'm persistent."
"Same thing."
"No. Same result. Different thing."
He laughed. It was a real laugh, surprised out of him. Eleanor smiled from the deck.
"That's the sound I've been waiting for," Eleanor called. "That's the sound of a man who's winning."
Caleb looked at his mother. "I'm not winning."
"Yes, you are. You're building a treehouse with one good hand and a lot of stubbornness. That's winning."
He didn't argue. He just picked up the sandpaper and started smoothing the edges of the hole.
---
At noon, they stopped for lunch.
Eleanor had made sandwiches — turkey and avocado on sourdough — and a pitcher of lemonade. They ate on the deck, looking at the treehouse.
"The window will be in by tonight," Caleb said.
"Optimistic," Nina said.
"Realistic."
"Ambitious."
"Same thing."
"No. Different thing."
Eleanor laughed. "You two sound like an old married couple."
Caleb choked on his lemonade. Nina felt heat rise to her cheeks.
"We're not —" Caleb started.
"I know what you're not," Eleanor said. "I'm just saying you sound like it. The bickering. The teamwork. The way you look at each other when you think no one's watching."
Nina stared at her sandwich. "We don't look at each other."
"Everyone looks at each other. It's the way you look that matters." Eleanor took a bite of her sandwich. "And the way you look is the way people look when they're building something together. Not a treehouse. Something else."
Caleb was quiet. Nina was quiet.
Eleanor sighed. "I'll stop. But I'm not wrong."
---
After lunch, Caleb went back to the window.
Nina held the frame while he hammered. The nails went in — crooked, but in. The glass would come later; for now, they just needed the opening.
"There," Caleb said. "It's in."
"It's in."
"It's not perfect."
"It's not supposed to be perfect."
He stepped back to look at it. The window faced the ocean. Through the opening, they could see the water — gray and green, whitecaps breaking against the rocks.
"When the glass is in," Caleb said, "I'm going to sit in here every morning and watch the sunrise."
"I'll bring you coffee."
"You'll bring me coffee?"
"Someone has to."
He looked at her. His eyes were soft. "You don't have to."
"I know. I want to."
Eleanor was inside, washing dishes. They were alone on the deck, the treehouse between them and the sea.
"Caleb," Nina said.
"Yeah?"
"I called my mother."
He tilted his head. "This morning?"
"Before breakfast. While you were still in your room."
"How did it go?"
"Good. Hard. Good-hard." She leaned against the treehouse wall. "I told her about Marcus. About leaving nursing. About not being okay."
"What did she say?"
"She said she was proud of me. For surviving."
Caleb nodded slowly. "She's right."
"I know. It just took me a long time to believe it."
He stepped closer. His right hand was shaking, but he reached out and touched her arm. "You're surviving now. You're more than surviving. You're living."
"So are you."
"Barely."
"Barely counts."
He smiled. "You and your counting."
"Someone has to keep track."
---
That evening, Eleanor made dinner.
Pasta with pesto — basil from the garden she'd started in a pot on the deck. The kitchen smelled like garlic and pine nuts and something green.
Caleb sat at the table, his hands wrapped around a glass of water. His right hand was shaking more now — the day had been long, and the tremor always got worse with fatigue.
"You should rest tomorrow," Eleanor said.
"I can't rest. There's too much to do."
"The treehouse will still be there. The window will still be there. The roof will still be there."
"The board won't still be there. They're moving fast. The conservatorship hearing is in two weeks."
Nina looked up. "Two weeks?"
"David called while you were in the shower. The board petitioned for an expedited hearing. They want to move quickly."
Eleanor set down her fork. "Can they do that?"
"They can try. David says we can fight it, but it'll cost time and money."
"You have money."
"I have money. I don't have time." He looked at Nina. "Time is the thing I'm running out of."
Nina set down her fork. "You're not running out of time. You're running out of patience. There's a difference."
"Not anymore."
She reached across the table and took his hand. His right hand, shaking. She held it in both of hers.
"Two weeks is enough time," she said. "To prepare. To get your doctors. To gather your witnesses. To show the court that you're capable."
"What if I'm not capable?"
"You are."
"What if the judge doesn't believe it?"
"Then we appeal. We fight. We keep fighting until there's nothing left to fight for."
Caleb stared at her. "Why do you care so much?"
"Because I've seen you build a treehouse with one hand. Because I've seen you climb a ladder when your legs were shaking. Because I've seen you cry in front of your mother and not run away." She squeezed his hand. "That's not a man who's losing his mind. That's a man who's finding it."
The kitchen was quiet. Eleanor's eyes were wet.
"Listen to her," Eleanor said. "She's not wrong."
Caleb looked at his mother. Then at Nina. Then at his hands.
"Okay," he said. "Two weeks. We fight."
---
After dinner, Nina walked Eleanor to the guest room.
The blue room — the one Nina had been using. Eleanor was taking it for the weekend; Nina would sleep in the smaller room down the hall.
"He's different with you," Eleanor said, stopping at the door.
"Different how?"
"Calmer. More himself. Less like he's performing." Eleanor touched Nina's arm. "You're good for him."
"I'm just his nurse."
"You stopped being his nurse weeks ago." Eleanor smiled. "You know that. He knows that. The only one pretending otherwise is you."
Nina looked down at her feet. "I'm scared."
"Of what?"
"Of wanting something I can't have."
Eleanor tilted her head. "Why can't you have it?"
"Because he's —" Nina stopped. "Because he's sick. Because he might not be here in a year. Because I've already lost too many people I care about."
Eleanor was quiet for a moment. Then she said, "My husband was sick for ten years before he died. Ten years of watching him fade. Ten years of loving someone I knew I was going to lose."
"That sounds terrible."
"It was terrible. And it was beautiful. Because love doesn't care about time. Love doesn't care about diagnoses. Love just is." She took Nina's hands. "Don't let fear of losing him stop you from loving him. You'll regret the fear more than the loss."
Nina felt tears prick her eyes. "How do you know?"
"Because I've lived it. Because I'm still living it. Because every day I wake up and miss him, but I'm grateful for every single day I had." Eleanor squeezed her hands. "Don't waste your days being afraid. Spend them being present."
Nina nodded. "I'll try."
"That's all any of us can do."
---
That night, Nina lay in the smaller room, staring at the ceiling.
The house was quiet. The ocean was quiet. The stars were out, visible through the small window above the bed.
She thought about what Eleanor had said. Don't let fear of losing him stop you from loving him.
She thought about Caleb. About his hands. About his laugh. About the way he looked at her when he thought she wasn't watching.
She thought about Marcus. About the things she'd never said. About the time she'd wasted being afraid.
Tomorrow, she told herself. Tomorrow I'll tell him.
But she didn't know what she would say.