Chapter 113: Chapter 113

Adnar's POV

Beatrice followed me to the dining room. She dropped her purse then bent down fast to pick it up. She knocked over the chair while doing it. She fixed it quick, her face turning red.

"Sorry," she said again. "I'm not usually this clumsy."

"It's fine," I said again. "Tell me about your experience."

"Right, yes, experience," Beatrice said and sat down carefully. "I've been helping people at home for three years. Mostly old people. I help with daily stuff, cooking, and keeping them company."

"Old people," I said. "This is different. My wife is young. She's recovering from a gunshot. She's pregnant."

"Oh I can handle that," Beatrice said. "How different can it be? Cooking is cooking. Cleaning is cleaning."

"There's also the pregnancy," I said. "She needs good food. She shouldn't lift heavy things. She can't do certain activities."

"Right, pregnancy," Beatrice said and pulled out her phone. "Let me just look up what pregnant people can't do."

She started scrolling. Her face lit up from the screen while she looked up pregnancy stuff. I waited and watched her read with worry growing on her face.

"Wow," she said after a minute. "They can't eat lots of things. Sushi, deli meat, soft cheese. How do they survive?"

"Many pregnant women do fine," I said.

"And they can't lift heavy stuff," Beatrice kept reading. "Or reach up high. Or bend down too much. That's like everything in housework."

"That's why she needs help," I said.

"Right, right," Beatrice said and put her phone down. "I can do this. I'm good at adapting. I just might need help at first about what's okay and what's not."

"Have you worked with anyone hurt badly before?" I asked.

"Define badly," Beatrice said slowly. "I had a client once who hurt his ankle. Does that count?"

"A hurt ankle is very different from a gunshot," I said.

"But it's the same idea right?" Beatrice asked. "Don't make them do too much. Help with things they can't do. Make sure they eat well."

"Sort of," I said. "But gunshots need more careful watching. Infection risk is higher. Pain management is harder."

"I learn fast," Beatrice promised. "Just tell me what to do and I'll do it."

Something crashed in the kitchen. We both looked that way. Beatrice's eyes went big.

"Is someone else here?" she asked, sounding nervous.

"My wife," I said. "She's supposed to be resting but she's stubborn."

"Oh good," Beatrice said and relaxed. "I thought maybe it was a ghost. This house has that old feeling. Like maybe someone died here once."

"No one died here," I said and stood up to check on Natasha.

I found her in the kitchen trying to get a glass from the high cabinet. Her face was pale from trying. I grabbed it without saying anything. I filled it with water and gave it to her.

"You're supposed to ask for help," I said.

"I can get my own water," she said.

"Clearly," I said and pointed at how she was holding the counter to stand up.

She took the glass and drank while looking at me with suspicion. "Who are you talking to?"

"Pack business," I said again. "Nothing to worry about."

She didn't look like she believed me but left it alone. She went back to her temporary bedroom. I went back to the dining room where Beatrice had knocked over her purse again. Everything spilled on the floor.

"Sorry," she said and scrambled to pick it all up. "I'm so clumsy today."

"I see that," I said. "Look, thanks for coming but I don't think this will work."

"Because I'm clumsy?" Beatrice asked. "I promise I'm better on normal days."

"It's not just that," I said. "The job needs someone with more specific experience in recovery care."

"Right," Beatrice said and stood up with her refilled purse. "Thanks anyway."

She left and somehow tripped over the doorway going out. I watched through the window as she got in her car. She backed into a trash can before finally driving away.

The third person was named Gloria. She was an older woman who came carrying what looked like a fishing tackle box. She set it down in the entry with a loud noise. She smiled big when I opened the door wider.

"Essential oils," she said, and patted the box. "I never go anywhere without them."

"Essential oils," I repeated.

"For healing," Gloria said, as if this were obvious. "Your posting said someone is recovering from an injury. Essential oils are nature's medicine. Much better than all those chemicals doctors give."

"My wife is on the medicine the doctor prescribed," I said carefully.

"Oh, she won't need those once we start the oils," Gloria said, like it was certain. She followed me inside. "I've helped dozens of people stop their medications using natural remedies."

"I'm not sure that works for a gunshot," I said.

"Gunshot?" Gloria's eyes got bright. "Even better. I have a blend just for trauma recovery. Lavender for calm. Tea tree to prevent infection. Frankincense for cell regeneration."

She opened the tackle box. It showed dozens of small bottles organized by color. The smell hit right away. It was an overwhelming mix of scents that made my eyes water.

"This is a lot," I said.

"Healing takes commitment," Gloria said, and pulled out bottles. "Now, I'll need to know where exactly she got shot so I can apply it properly. Stomach wounds respond best to a combination of—"

"She's pregnant," I cut in.

Gloria stopped. "Pregnant?"

"Four months," I said. "Are essential oils safe for pregnancy?"

"Oh absolutely," Gloria said fast. "Actually, pregnancy is the perfect time to start an oil routine. Helps with morning sickness, back pain, and prepares the body for labor."

"I read that some oils aren't safe during pregnancy," I said. Natasha had looked this up months ago.

"That's lies from the drug companies," Gloria said like it was nothing. "They don't want people knowing about natural options because it hurts their profits."

"Right," I said slowly. "And you're certified in this?"

"I have a certificate from the Essential Oil Academy," Gloria said proudly. "I finished their online course last year."

"An online course," I repeated.

"Very thorough," she promised. "Covered everything from oil properties to dilution ratios to business practices for selling oils."

"You sell oils?" I asked.

"I'm an independent distributor," Gloria said, and pulled out a catalog. "Here, look at our product line. I can give you twenty percent off your first order since you'd be hiring me."

The catalog showed hundreds of oils with names I didn't know. It claimed they cured everything from headaches to cancer. All in small bottles for thirty dollars each.

"I don't think this will work," I said and closed the catalog.

"Because of the oils?" Gloria looked confused. "I can change my approach. Focus more on housework and cooking if you're not comfortable with natural healing."

"It's not that," I lied. "I just think we're looking for something different."

"Your loss," Gloria said and packed up her tackle box. "Those drugs your wife is taking just hide symptoms. They don't actually heal anything. But if you change your mind, here's my card."

She pushed a business card into my hand and left. The smell of essential oils stayed long after she was gone. I opened windows to air out the dining room. I was already dreading the last interview.

The fourth person arrived last. A man named Bruce who looked more like a bodybuilder than someone who helps at home. He had to duck coming through the door. His shoulders barely fit through the frame.

"Bruce?" I asked to make sure.

"That's me," he said. His voice was surprisingly high for someone his size. "Thanks for seeing me."

We sat in the dining room. Bruce took up most of the space on his side of the table. He pulled out a resume printed on bright green paper that hurt to look at.

"So," Bruce started. "I've been a professional helper for six months. I started after I retired from competitive bodybuilding. I figured I'd put my size to good use."

"How does size help with housework?" I asked. I was really curious.

"Heavy lifting," Bruce explained. "Moving furniture, carrying groceries, reaching high shelves. Lots of people need that muscle."

"My wife needs help with cooking and light housework," I said. "Not really muscle stuff."

"I can do that too," Bruce promised. "I meal prep for myself all the time. Mostly chicken and rice but I can try other things."

"What about cooking for someone with different food needs?" I asked. "Pregnant women have specific nutritional requirements."

"Protein," Bruce said like he was sure. "Pregnant women need lots of protein. I'd make her my special protein shake. Packed with nutrients."

"I'm not sure a protein shake is enough food for pregnancy," I said.

"Why not?" Bruce looked confused. "Protein builds muscle. Muscle is important for carrying a baby."

"Pregnancy nutrition is more complex than just protein," I tried explaining.

"Carbs too then," Bruce agreed. "Protein and carbs. Rice is great for carbs. I'd make her chicken and rice and protein shakes. That covers everything."

"What about vegetables?" I asked. "Fruits? Different foods?"

Bruce frowned like I asked something weird. "I guess I could add vegetables. I don't like them much myself but if that's what she needs."

"And housework?" I asked. "Can you do laundry, dishes, and general cleaning?"

"Sure," Bruce said. "How hard can it be? Throw clothes in the washer. Put dishes in the dishwasher. Pick stuff up off the floor."

"There's more to it than that," I said. "Different fabrics need different care. Some dishes need hand washing. Organizing things so they're easy to find later."

"I can follow instructions," Bruce said. "Just tell me what to do and I'll do it."

"Have you worked with anyone hurt badly?" I asked. I'd asked the others this too.

"My training partner tore his shoulder once," Bruce offered. "I helped him while it healed."

"Helping with a shoulder injury is different from a gunshot," I said.

"Both mean not using the hurt area too much," Bruce said. "Same idea."

"Not really," I said. "Gunshots need careful watching for infection. Proper wound care. Managing pain levels."

"I'm sure your wife's doctor handles all that," Bruce said. "I'd just be there for the other stuff."

Something about how casually he dismissed the medical stuff bothered me. Natasha needed someone who understood how serious her recovery was. Not someone who thought chicken and rice solved everything.

"Thanks for coming," I said and stood up to show the interview was over. "I have your contact info if we decide to move forward."

"Cool," Bruce said and stood too. "Just let me know. I'm free to start whenever."

He left. He had to turn sideways to fit back through the door. I watched him get into a truck that looked too small for him. The suspension sagged when he climbed in.

The dining room felt empty after the last person left. The chairs were still arranged from the interviews. That bright green resume sat on the table. Four people interviewed. Each one completely wrong for what Natasha needed.

Patricia with her excessive contracts turning basic care into corporate rules. Beatrice who'd never handled anything worse than a hurt ankle and googled pregnancy stuff during the interview. Gloria and her essential oils, ready to replace real medicine with lavender. Bruce who thought protein shakes and chicken rice solved all nutrition needs.

None of them understood what this job really needed. Someone patient but not talking down to her. Good at the job but flexible. Knowing about recovery care but willing to follow doctor's orders instead of using their own ideas. Someone Natasha would actually let help her while she healed.

I sat down in one of the interview chairs. I felt defeated. This had seemed like such a good idea. Surprising Natasha with help already arranged so she didn't have to deal with hiring someone. Instead I wasted an afternoon meeting people who ranged from too qualified to dangerously unqualified. None of them were right for what we needed.

My phone buzzed with a message from Sarah asking how the interviews went. I started typing a response then deleted it. I wasn't ready to admit I failed yet. The ad was still posted online. More applications were probably coming in while I sat here feeling sorry for myself.

Natasha called from the other room, asking for help with something. I stood up and pushed aside the disappointment. I needed to go take care of my mate. The helper situation wasn't solved but at least I could handle things myself for now.

Even if it meant I was stretched too thin trying to manage everything at once.