“It’s a light sensitivity. It means you can’t tolerate sources of light such as sunlight, florescent lights, and incandescent lights because they give you bad headaches. Is that what’s bothering you?”
“How would you know this?” he asked.
“Because I’m a nurse. Earlier in the year I had a patient who suffered from it.”
“Ahh.” He considered her for a second.
“Did you have the migraines before your stroke?” She took his wrist to take his pulse.
“Aye,” he said, his expression bemused. “But they’re worse now.”
“That makes sense.” Eve set his wrist back on the bed. His pulse was fine, and his face didn’t show any signs of paralysis. She wondered if he suffered from depression after the death of his son, followed so quickly by his stroke. “Do you like being closed off from the outside?”
“Do I look like I’m daft?” he snapped.
“I’m glad to hear that because you’ve got a beautiful property here, and it’d be a shame if you couldn’t enjoy it. About eighty percent of people who get migraines are sensitive to light which is called Photophobia. Some researchers think it starts with the optic nerve.” She put a finger to his chin, and he let her tilt his head toward the light. “Have you done anything to determine what your personal triggers are?”
“Triggers?”
“Not everyone is the same. What causes one person to have a migraine won’t bother someone else. It’s important to identify whatyourtriggers are.”
“Besides opening the curtains?” His tone was sarcastic.
Eve chose to ignore it. “But there are other triggers, like some kinds of foods or skipped meals. You’re not as thin as that rude young man, but you definitely look like you’re not eating enough. When was the last time you ate?”
“I wasn’t hungry,” her grandfather grumbled.
“It’s important to learn to listen to what our body is telling us, but sometimes our bodies send out confusing signals.” She looked at the other man. “Alan, was it? Will you bring up some crackers—I think you call them digestives—and some fresh fruit but not citrus, so no oranges.”
The man glanced at her grandfather, who nodded. Alan left the room.
“I would like to see you better,” her grandfather said when they were alone.
“Is your headache gone enough for me to risk opening the curtains a little? We can test it out.”
He waved his hand for her to do it but closed his eyes. Eve went to the drapes and found the draw. She pulled it slowly to gradually add light to the room.
“Is this too much?” she asked.
Her grandfather slowly opened his eyes, taking his time to let them adjust to the increased light.
“You’re a beauty,” he said, his voice soft. “Has your father ever shown you pictures of his mother?”
“He only had one that was in his pocket the day he left.” It’d pained her dad all these years that he only had a single photograph of her. She’d died when he was ten.
The old man pointed to a wall where a framed painting hung. Eve went to it.
“Do you mind if I take it to the window?”
“Go ahead but take care. ‘Tis heavy.”
She didn’t find it particularly so, but she also exercised, and helping to lift patients had made her strong. She held the painting to the light. The woman had dark hair and her father’s eyes. The artist had captured the twinkle there that Eve thought must be hereditary because her dad had it too. Had she been the joy in her grandfather’s life, and when he’d lost her, he turned into a bitter old man?
Eve looked too much like her mother to have been said to resemble her grandmother, but there were similarities in the shape of their smiles and the single dimple at the corner of their mouths. And their eyebrows. Eve definitely had gotten hers from her grandmother, which was a good thing.
“Are you an only child?” he asked.
“I have a younger brother, Ross.” Eve replaced the portrait. “He’s twenty-seven, married, and expecting his second child.”
