A Home Like Ours Fiona Lowe (good novels to read .txt) 📖

‘Is Friday night a good idea?’

‘We’ve always done Friday or Saturday night.’

‘Yes, but you know how tired you are at the end of each day. By Friday, you’re beyond exhausted.’

His mouth hardened into familiar and stubborn lines. ‘I’m not giving in to this fu—freaking disease. I’ll be fine.’

She remembered the previous gatherings when she’d thought he was stumbling drunk. Thought about the words of caution from the movement specialist about fatigue, and the counsellor talking to her about the stages of grief and how Jon was bouncing between anger and denial. Tara knew how stubborn he could be. How he’d push through until he literally fell over, leaving her to pick up the pieces—physically and emotionally. One of them had to be sensible. One of them had to accept this disease was in their lives and staying.

‘Doing things differently isn’t giving in,’ she said. ‘What about Sunday brunch? It’s not like any of us get a sleep-in anyway. We can do eggs and bacon and pancakes on the barbecue and the kids can play. Then people can head off for the rest of their Sunday.’

‘And I won’t be tired.’

‘That’s the plan.’

He cupped her cheek, caressing her skin with his thumb. ‘I’m sorry I’ve been so difficult to live with. I should have told you I’ve been shit scared for months.’

She thought about her recent behaviour. ‘You don’t have a monopoly on being scared. I thought you didn’t love me any more and I made everything about me instead of noticing what was going on with you. I’m sorry too.’

‘Like when you convinced yourself I was having an affair with Rhianna?’

‘Yes.’ A flash of herself straddling Zac thwacked her hard and she winced. ‘Stuff like that.’

His mouth pulled down in a wry smile. ‘Even if I’d wanted to have an affair, which I don’t, I’ve been too bloody exhausted just getting through the day.’

‘I know that now.’

‘I love you, T.’

‘I love you too.’

He pulled her in close and kissed her in a way he hadn’t done in months. Long and deep, like a lover. She tasted need and desire. And relief. The world steadied. This was the Jon who’d been absent for so long. This was Team Hooper.

He suddenly sagged, his weight pressing against her, threatening her balance. She braced herself and gripped his arms. ‘You okay?’

‘You have a powerful effect on me,’ he joked.

But when he stepped away from her, fatigue was dragging at the corners of his eyes, drooping his shoulders and hanging off every part of him like an ill-fitting coat. It was hard to know if it was the Parkinson’s or a side effect of the drug treatment.

He thrust the car keys towards her. ‘Can you drive home?’

The question hit with a sharp arrow of loss. Jon loved driving and hated relinquishing the wheel so Tara had stopped offering years ago unless it was a long road trip. Now he was asking her to drive a fifty-minute journey at three in the afternoon.

The weight of being a carer settled over her as tight as clingwrap.

The invitation to brunch wasn’t as well received as Tara had hoped.

Kelly had screwed up her face. ‘But we always do Friday or Saturday night.’

‘This isn’t you trying to inflict your healthy living obsession onto us, is it?’ Rhianna asked. ‘We don’t have to go for a run too?’

Tara had counted to ten, reminding herself she was doing this for Jon. ‘We thought it might be fun to mix things up a bit.’

‘Maybe.’ Kelly looked dubious. ‘There’ll be mimosas, right?’

Tara hadn’t planned on serving alcohol. ‘Won’t that just make us sleepy?’

‘Exactly,’ Kelly said. ‘Al can be on kid duty all afternoon.’

‘Kelly’s right,’ Rhianna said. ‘It’s not brunch without mimosas.’

By the time Sunday morning arrived, Jon was looking rested but Tara felt wrung out. Protecting Jon’s energy levels meant she was doing more of everything at home and at work. Jon was giving her a crash course in ordering and she was also the go-to person between one and two thirty each afternoon when he went home to rest. It was the key to him managing the workday as well as being sentient for the kids in the evening.

He was definitely better in the mornings. The medication was still being tweaked but it had improved his muscle stiffness and eased the tremors, although there was still the issue of random involuntary movements. The day before, Jon’s arm had jerked at breakfast, knocking over two litres of milk. A white waterfall had cascaded from the bench onto Clementine, who’d sobbed as if she’d been scalded.

Flynn had grinned. ‘Does this mean I don’t get into trouble now if I spill things?’

Trying to explain Parkinson’s to the children without terrifying them was difficult. As they’d both been at home when Jon fell, it wasn’t possible to hide the disease from them. But Tara didn’t want to upend their safe world and fill it with anxiety either. After talking with Donna and reading articles online, they’d gone with a basic explanation.

‘Sometimes Daddy’s hands or legs might shake. When that happens, he might not be able to catch or hit a ball.’

‘Or use a nail gun or the jigsaw,’ Flynn said.

‘That’s right, but most of the time he won’t shake.’ Tara had said it more as a prayer than a truth.

They’d avoided information about possible problems with swallowing and speech, hoping they wouldn’t appear until far into the future. Knowing hope didn’t protect them one little bit.

The children had listened, but when Tara asked if they had any questions, all they’d said was, ‘Can we watch TV now?’

It was hard to know how much they’d taken in. Flynn seemed fine, but Clementine was demanding a lot of cuddles from Tara and avoiding Jon. Tara couldn’t accurately recall if her daughter had been doing this before the diagnosis—kids went through phases of favouring one parent over another—or if the avoidance was connected to the Parkinson’s. But she added it to her ever-growing list of things she needed