by Lorrie Kruse
The bad feeling intensified. “If I have to rely on someone, what makes you think it’s going to be her? Why wouldn’t it be you? Is there something I should know?”
She looked away. “You know your mother. If she can find any way to control you, she will, whether we’re married or not.”
He didn’t like that or not part. He turned her face back to his, holding her chin. “Is there something I should know?”
She tried to turn away, but he held tight. She shifted her eyes.
“I’m going to ask one more time. Is there something I should know?”
Her eyes came back to him for a fraction of a second. “No.”
“I love you, Crystal. You know that, don’t you?”
“Sure.” The same tone as whenever she said fine when it was anything but fine.
“I’m not going to Milwaukee. Not just because of the money but because I hate the thought of being so far away from you. Do you understand?”
She nodded again, but her bottom lip trembled. He let go of her chin and gathered her hand in his. He put as much confidence into his tone as he could manage. “Everything’s going to be okay, babe.”
Her eyes welled with tears. “What if it’s not okay?”
What if? The exact direction he didn’t want his thoughts to go. “It will be. Trust me.”
Crystal did a little eye roll, one so quick he never would have noticed had he not been staring at her.
“What?” he asked.
“Nothing.”
“Crystal.” The single word came out as a reprimand.
She pulled her hand from his and stood. Her hands flew through the air as she paced. “You think you have control over everything, Matt, but you don’t.”
“I do not think I have control over everything.” He tried to act like it most of the time, but he rarely felt in control of anything.
“You do, too. No matter what’s wrong, Mighty Matt can fix it.” She stopped her pacing and faced him. “You can’t fix everything.”
“What are you trying to say?”
“Just because you want a full recovery doesn’t mean you can make one happen.” She came back to the bed and sat. “Matt, what if you never walk again?”
He was ready to protest that he had no intention of not walking again, but he couldn’t make the words form. She was right. He couldn’t force his spinal cord to heal. But, God willing, his physical therapist could. He took her hand and smiled even though he felt like a lie was about to spill from his mouth. “Then I’ll be Mighty Matt in a wheelchair.”
§
Abby Fischner tried to hold back her excitement as she stepped into room 315. Bright late-morning sunshine illuminated the room as if to demonstrate the importance of this therapy assignment. This wasn’t another hip replacement. No knee surgery this time. Unfortunately, her newest patient didn’t have a brain injury either, but she wasn’t about to quibble over details. If the interview she’d just had in Milwaukee was a success, she’d finally be on her way to achieving her goal of working with brain-injured patients.
Matthew Huntz lay on top of the covers, his back toward her. With the TV turned low and the gentle movement of his shoulder with each breath, he appeared to be sleeping. She gnawed on her bottom lip as she debated waking him. She took a quiet step forward and then paused at the foot of the bed, surprised to find his eyes open and his hand fisted around a clump of blankets. Turning his brown eyes her way, she caught a glimmer of worry before his face transformed into a stoic mask.
Deborah Stryker had said he was good looking. She hadn’t been kidding. Thick, dark hair. Rich brown eyes. The start of a scruffy beard that made him look rugged instead of unkempt. Muscles that strained the sleeves of his sweatshirt. The type of man who probably kept a girlfriend for a month before moving on. Oh, well. She wasn’t here to assess his looks or his commitment issues. She was here to plan his treatment and get him mobile. She stood straighter and put on her best professional smile. “Hi, I’m Abigail Fischner from the physical therapy department. I have a few questions I need to ask to help plan your rehab.”
Although he relaxed his fingers, the blankets remained bunched beneath his hand. He gave her a smile that looked as genuine as a chip of glass in a bubblegum machine ring. “Forgive me for not getting up.”
“Well, that’s what we’re going to work on.” She pulled a chair closer and sat. A stray hair, which had worked its way free of her ponytail, brushed her cheek. She tucked it behind her ear. “What do you hope to achieve from physical therapy?”
“I need to walk again.” Gripping the guardrail, he pulled himself closer, his jaw tightening with the effort. “Can you make that happen?”
His laser-beam gaze cut into her. Unable to give him the reassurances he wanted, she looked away to his fingers cinched around the plastic rail. Strong fingers she could easily envision pulling him up the side of a mountain or gripping a hammer for hours on end like his chart indicated. Being paralyzed would not be easy for a man like him.
She shifted her attention back to his face. Beneath the handsome exterior he looked vulnerable, a contrast to the independent, active man his chart described. Both Dr. Meyer and Deborah would have explained that physical therapy wouldn’t cure him. She understood clinging to hope, though. She’d done her share throughout the years.
His features took on a hard edge. “Go ahead. Say it. You can’t help me walk again.”
She remembered what it felt like to be a ten-year-old, unable to help as her mother clung to life with the help of a respirator. How was she supposed to tell him there was nothing she could do to force a recovery? That all she could do was help him adapt. She softened her voice. “No. I’m sorry. I can’t.”
“Then, what the hell good are you?” He reached behind him and grabbed on to the rail.
His words slapped at her confidence. She hadn’t been able to help her mother. Stop it. You were only ten. You might not be able to cure Mr. Huntz, but you can help him. She held her head higher. “Good enough to be assigned as your therapist.” And good enough to get an interview at the best rehab center in Wisconsin.
His neck muscles tightened. Although he let out a quick grunt and his breathing sped up, he kept pulling. Instinct urged her to help, but she sat back and waited. He expended an excessive amount of energy as he struggled to pull himself onto his left side. Most people would have surrendered before they’d even started. The rest would have quit halfway to their goal. Not her newest patient. Like Deborah said, he had determination. She had to give him that.
He looked like a mangled Gumby doll when he finally released the rail, his legs twisted one way, his face and chest the other.
“Show’s over,” he said, his voice gravelly. “You can leave now.”
No way was she leaving. She wasn’t going to walk out on the opportunity to work with a paralyzed patient. “If you put that kind of effort into physical therapy, you’ll be mobile in no time.”
“The only kind of mobile I want is me walking again.”
Errrggghhh. Working with him was going to be a challenge, but she had news for him. She could be every bit as stubborn as he could be. She got up and dragged the chair to the other side of the bed and then sat. One corner of her mouth lifted. “Are you going to turn your back on me again?”
“Not if you save me the trouble and leave, instead.”
Not on your life, buddy. She plunked a printed schedule onto the bed. “Here’s when you’re expected to be in therapy.”
His eyes never left hers. “Do you work on commission or something?”
“Do you enjoy being in that bed?”
“Aren’t therapists supposed to be nice to their patients?”
“The less cooperative you are, the longer it’s going to take. I get paid the same salary whether you’re here six weeks or sixty.” She leaned back, crossed her legs, and smiled. “It’s up to you.”
A muscle twitched at his jaw.
She forced herself to remain still with
her gaze locked on his.
“When do we start?” he asked.
Her shoulders relaxed, and she exhaled. She leaned forward and tapped the schedule. “Monday, at nine a.m.”
He finally picked up the page. His eyebrows rose as he scanned the page filled with twice-daily sessions of physical therapy, dual occupational therapy sessions, and recreational therapy. Mixed in were patient activities designed to hone newly learned skills. “I guess I’m not here for a relaxing vacation, am I?”
“What would you be doing now if this were a relaxing vacation?”
He lowered the schedule, bringing his unamused face back into view. “What does it matter? I’m not on a vacation.”
“Humor me.”
His eyes became as pinched as his mouth.
She did the opposite, trying her best to keep her features as relaxed as possible.
He let out a sigh that could have been heard all the way to Admitting. “Can I pretend it’s fall?”
“Sure. It’s your vacation.”
“Okay. Fine. I’d be camping in Door County. I’d spend my days biking with my fiancée, taking in the view.”
Fiancée? That bit of news surprised her. Probably one of those open-ended engagements with no real wedding in sight.
“If you’ve never been to Door County in the fall,” he said, “you’re missing out. All those orange and red leaves.”
Putting her mind back to their conversation, she pictured him on a bike, his legs immobile and his arms doing all the work. “You can still do that, even without a full recovery.”
He puffed out a laugh. “Sure.”
“Really. There are bikes you can pedal with your hands.” She made a mental note to gather up information on bikes and decided she’d also get him some information on rock climbing needs for the paralyzed. “You name it, anything you want to do, we can probably find a way for you to do it from a wheelchair.”
The therapy schedule still in his hand, he crossed his arms, the paper crackling as it smashed into the nook between the mattress and his chest. “Fine. Basketball.”
She held back a smile. Instead of appearing tough and challenging, which is what she assumed he was aiming for, he simply looked like he was warding off a chill. “No problem. There are wheelchair basketball teams.”
“Downhill skiing.”
“Very doable. ESPN had a feature about it just last night.”
He held her gaze for several seconds before he smiled, punctuating the word with a raise of his eyebrows. “Kickball.”
She opened her mouth and then realized she didn’t have a comeback. “The point is, being paralyzed doesn’t mean an end to the activities you enjoy. All we have to do is find ways to modify the equipment to fit your needs. I may not have an immediate answer, but if you give me enough time, I’ll figure something out.”
His gaze stabbed her. “Modify my equipment, huh?”
“That’s right.”
“I’m a twenty-six-year old male with a lot of activities I enjoy. You really think you can modify my equipment to fit all my needs?”
“Of course. Like I said, if you give me enough time, I can figure something out.”
“Good, because there’s a certain piece of equipment I’d want to be using on that dream vacation. A lot. How do you suggest we go about modifying it?”
Not wanting to let on that she was clueless as to what he was referring to, she said, “We go at it head on—”
He nodded like he was taking it all in. His smile looked like one of those that said she was the focus of a joke.
She blundered on. “…and examine the needs closely.” Then she caught on. His equipment. The room grew hot. She fought the urge to look away. Her instinct was to tell him that really wasn’t part of her job. Was that what she planned to do if she got the job in Milwaukee? Anytime a patient brought up something she found uncomfortable, avoid the question? Resisting the urge to tug at her neckline, she said, “Many men with your level of injury find they’re able to obtain an erection by direct stimulation. If that doesn’t work— ”
“Forget it.” He looked away. His fingers formed a fist.
“I don’t mind discussing this.”
His eyes shot back to her. “But I do. Damn it, I’m getting married in five months.”
A real wedding? The man was full of surprises.
“It’s bad enough worrying about how I’m going to support my wife without wondering how I’m going to please her in bed. I don’t want my equipment modified. I want everything back the way it belongs, and if you can’t help me, then I want someone who can.”
“No therapist can guarantee—”
“Unka Matyou,” a little voice said from the doorway.
The assessment wasn’t finished, but Abby didn’t mind the interruption. She stayed seated, her gaze jumping from person to person. A toddler, with blonde ringlets tied up in pigtails, struggled to free herself from the grasp of a stunningly beautiful older woman who shared Matt’s features, right down to the same dark hair and eyes, and the same thin nose. Beside them was a younger woman, whom Abby pegged to be just a few years older than herself. Her hair was as blonde and curly as the little girl’s, although the woman was nowhere near as energetic. Her shoulders slumped with apparent exhaustion.
Matt’s family.
“What are you guys doing here?” Matt asked. A smile that seemed impossible to imagine on him a moment ago lit up his face.
“Kaylee’s been begging to see her uncle, so we decided to come early. Your father and Crystal will drive over later with Brad.”
“Kaywe see Unka Matyou.” The little girl swung her feet.
“Is that my little Kaylee bug?” Matt patted his thigh. “Come here and let me see how much you’ve grown.”
The little girl’s legs were already running before her grandmother lowered her to the ground. The second she reached the bed, she stretched her arms high. As though Kaylee shared her uncle’s rock-climbing abilities, she grabbed on to a handful of blankets and pulled herself up.
“Kaylee, get down,” the younger woman called, hurrying toward her daughter. “You’re going to hurt Uncle Matt.”
The little girl continued her climb, paying little attention as the covers slid toward her. Kaylee lunged over the edge, onto the mattress, at the same moment her mother reached out.
“She’s going to be the death of me.” The young woman slumped onto the bed by Matt’s feet.
“You don’t know how often I said that about Matthew,” the older woman said. She stood behind her son with her hand on Matt’s shoulder. “And I’m still saying it, aren’t I dear?”
Matt rolled his eyes.
“Are you okay with her there?” the young woman asked.
Matt laughed. “She’s good medicine.” He held out his hand to the little girl crawling over his legs. “Aren’t you, Kaylee bug?”
A lump formed in Abby’s throat as she watched Matt interact with his family. She had observed many families over the years. There were the ones who put as much space as possible between them and the patient. They rarely spoke, their attention too focused on the TV. These kinds of families were like pictures on a wall. Nice to have around but not all that useful.
There were the ones who stood halfway between the bed and the door, visiting for a few minutes before something more pressing called them away. The ones who came out of duty, for appearance’s sake. Their presence set her on edge, and she never stayed long when they visited.
This family, though, was rare. The ones who clumped around the patient like the hours apart were painful. Abby blinked as emotions welled inside her. If she had her choice, she’d pick a family like this one to belong to, any day.
Matt’s mother had her brown eyes trained on the stranger in the room. Gathering up her composure, Abby stood and extended her hand, reaching across Matt’s bed. “I’m Abby Fischner, Matthew’s physical therapist.”
“I’m Matt’s mother, Ruth Huntz.” The older woman’s hand wa
s warm and soft, yet firm. The type of woman who would invite you into her home, cook you dinner, and make you feel like a part of the family. Abby wanted to cling to the woman, but she forced her fingers to let go.
Matt’s mother gestured to the other woman. “That’s Jenny, Matt’s sister-in-law, the mother to this little handful.”
Jenny’s smile said everyone she met was a friend.
Abby looked back at the little girl. Matt had her snuggled close, his mouth pressed to the top of her head. A surge of heat spread through Abby as she watched his display of gentleness and apparent love.
“You smell like pooh,” he said.
“Do not.”
“Yeah, you do. Shampoo.”
Abby tried to look away from Matt, but she couldn’t.
“You silly, Unka Matyou.” Kaylee squirmed from his arms and sat cross-legged. The toe of a pink tennis shoe dug into his ribs in a way that should have been painful yet went unnoticed.
“Tell me what you’ve been up to,” Matt said. “You in college yet?”
A pang of sadness spread through Abby at the scattered images of her father rocking her to sleep, reading her a story, kissing a bruised knee, and then abandoning her. She pushed her father back into the dark recesses of her brain.
Matt’s mother had her hand on his shoulder again. A quiet rustling issued from his sweatshirt as she rubbed her palm in a small circle. Touched by the palpable love of this family, Abby wished she could stay with them forever. She didn’t belong, though.
She took a step back. “I’ll see you Monday.”
Matt’s gaze connected with hers. “Looking forward to it.”
Kaylee pushed her little fingers against his cheek, his skin dimpling as she demanded, “Look me, Unka Matyou. Look.”
His attention lingered on Abby for a moment before turning to his niece. “Yeah, munchkin. What’cha want?”
“Want you tickle Kaywe.”
“Like this?” he asked as he poked her ribs.
The little girl broke into giggles.
As soon as Abby cleared the door, she stepped to the side and pressed her back to the wall. Inside the room, Matt’s deep laugh echoed. She closed her eyes and listened to him tease his niece. She felt the love in that room. Tears formed in her eyes. She desperately wanted to love, to be loved, to be a part of a family once again.
