Why couldn’t there be a manual for this? Anna had always just known what to do. He tried hard, but always seemed to fall short. His mum would argue otherwise, but if he’d got it right, they wouldn’t be here. Aaron wouldn’t have got on Rebel when he’d been told not to. He sighed. Now wasn’t the time to chastise himself. He had to take care of Aaron’s needs first and, when Aaron was asleep tonight and safely tucked up in his bed, then he could go over the events of the day and figure out where he’d gone wrong so he could make certain it wouldn’t happen again.
Aaron was breathing hard, his face pasty as he steadied himself against Flynn’s supporting arm. ‘You sure you don’t want me to carry you?’
‘I can walk.’ And his brave son began to do just that.
How could you want to strangle your child for his stupidity and yet wrap him up in your arms and shower him with love and kisses all at the same time? It made no sense. Just one other element of parenthood that escaped his understanding. Maybe Prita would know.
No. He couldn’t ask Prita anything of the sort. Not now. Something else to chastise himself over. He could have handled that whole thing so differently. Why was he such an idiot when it came to knowing how to deal with his son and with women?
Except Anna. He’d always known how to figure out Anna. Partly because she’d told him. He’d liked that about her. No guesswork on his part. It had made things so easy.
Now …
Now things were increasingly difficult.
Ah god, Anna. Why aren’t you here to help me with this? I need you. I always need you.
As usual, there was no answer to his silent plea.
He held the door open for Aaron as they moved slowly from the car park into the doctor’s office. He got between the desk with the dead bird and his son—Aaron had a bleeding heart for all creatures furred and feathered and didn’t need to see that—and ushered him towards the hallway that led to the treatment room. This building had been old and run down when Prita bought it, but its bones were good and it hadn’t taken much more than some new plaster, paint, sanding and polishing, to make it shine again. Although, even in its heyday, he didn’t think this building had looked quite so good. It wasn’t just old anymore or stately. It was cheerful. He couldn’t quite put his finger on why. Maybe it was the colours of paint she’d chosen for the walls—a vibrant leaf green and rich cream he’d spent a week getting out of his hair and off his skin. Or maybe it was the black and white photos that were scattered along the walls—photos that even though they were black and white, seemed to have layers of shadow and light that made them seem alive, like the people in them were about to move or talk to him, kind of like the photos in Harry Potter. He’d meant to ask Prita at the party about the artist—a Chandra Guary—but that hadn’t happened and now he couldn’t ask her because, well, they were avoiding each other. Since he’d been in here the day of the party, she’d added scattered bits of colour in the reception area, office and hall that made it even more welcoming, slashes of the reds and golds and greens and blues on cushions and curtains and rugs that Prita seemed to love so much, colours she always wore on her somewhere, whether in a top or skirt or her shoes. It wasn’t much in the way of changes, but it was astonishing how much difference they made, so that these rooms were now full of a vibrancy at odds with why people were here.
Or maybe it wasn’t at odds at all. It certainly was a more cheerful place to come wait than Doc Simpson’s practice. But then, what did he know? Nat told him his sense of decoration and style was shit. She’d actually said ‘exorable’—he’d had to look the word up. She was probably right. He didn’t have the time or energy to worry if his t-shirt went with his shirt. Horse hair, hay, dust, dirt and shit didn’t really go with anything, so why bother?
Aaron made a sound and clutched his arm, his breath coming in wheezes through his lips, cheeks puffing out with the effort. ‘You okay, big-man?’
‘It hurts,’ Aaron said, his voice tight with pain.
‘I know. You’re almost there though.’ They only had to make it down the hall and into the treatment room.
Prita turned from what she was doing at the computer as they entered. ‘Oh, you poor thing,’ she said, gaze raking over Aaron. ‘Come. We’ll make it better.’ She ushered them over to the bed. ‘When did you last eat?’
‘Lunch time,’ Flynn answered for Aaron.
‘Has he vomited?’
‘Yes, after it happened and again before we got into the car, but not since then.’
‘Dad!’
She stroked Aaron’s hair back from his sweaty face. ‘That’s normal, Aaron. Even the toughest people have been known to toss up their lunch after dislocating a joint. It’s a natural reaction of the body. How did it happen?’
‘He was trying to ride Rebel and got thrown.’
‘Aaron.’ She looked down at the boy and shook her head. ‘What are we going to do with you?’
The boy blushed and said, ‘Patch me up?’
She smiled and touched his chin. ‘I’d prefer it if you didn’t hurt yourself in the first place. Did you lose consciousness?’
He went to shake his head, but sucked in a pained breath and said, ‘No.’
‘That’s good, but given you fell from a horse, I need to check you for concussion too.’ She ran her hands over his head, flicked a light in and out of his eyes, asked him to follow her finger with his eyes without moving his head. She turned
