by Holly Bargo
Satisfied that he was properly positioned to take a drink without dribbling all the liquid, she brought the cup to his dry lips. Gently, carefully, she tilted it, allowing hardly a teaspoon to flow into his mouth. His tongue moved, but the water dribbled out anyway. Pyotr’s eyes narrowed with frustration and his slapped the blanket again.
“Let’s try again,” Cecily said with determined cheer. She brought the cup to his mouth and tilted it again. Once more, the water dribbled down his chin. She could practically see rage and fear in Pyotr’s gaze as she set the cup aside.
“I’m going to fetch a nurse to help,” she said. “I’ll be right back.”
Before Pyotr could slap the blanket again, Cecily left the room and made a beeline for the nurses station where she explained the situation to a sleepy, third-shift nurse. She returned to Pyotr’s room and the nurse joined them several minutes later with a cup of cold water and a straw.
“He may have to relearn how to swallow,” the nurse cautioned as she handed the cup to Cecily.
Cecily sighed with disappointment and held the straw to Pyotr’s lips. He seemed to realize that they were attempting to work within his disability and opened his mouth. The straw went in.
“Close your mouth and suck on the straw,” Cecily said as the nurse hung a fresh bag of saline on the hook. “You have to swallow or the water will just dribble out your mouth again.”
By the time Pyotr managed to drink, the bed was soaked and he was thoroughly upset.
“I’ll have to get help to change his bed linens,” the nurse said, looking at the big man. “I’m afraid he’ll have to endure wet sheets for a while longer.”
Cecily nodded, resigned to the reality of size difference.
When morning rolled around, activity picked up. Pyotr’s doctor arrived, examined him, and said, “Let’s keep him here for another day, then we’ll move him to rehab.”
“He’s so helpless,” Cecily moaned. “How long will this last?”
The doctor shrugged and replied, “There’s no telling. It may take him months or even years to regain his former physical competence. It’s likely he’ll have emotional outbursts for the rest of his life and never return to his former physical ability. He may have to relearn speech entirely. At this early stage, we just don’t know.”
Although it wasn’t what she wanted to hear, Cecily appreciated the doctor’s honesty.
Progress over the next several days seemed to come in fits and spurts, with more than a little backsliding. Pyotr tired easily, lapsing into sleep as though affected with a severe form of narcolepsy. However, he managed to stay awake for longer and longer periods each day.
Physical therapy commenced as soon as he was moved to the hospital’s rehabilitation floor. With determined cheer and forceful smiles, physical therapists worked with Pyotr, moving his limbs, teaching him to regain control of them, working on balance and speech.
Cecily’s stay drew to a close. Aware that she had to leave or suffer unemployment again, Pyotr worried. She visited him every day, helped with his physical therapy, encouraged him endlessly. He loathed being so helpless, yet feared the day she would leave him, as surely she must.
As she stood in front of his wheelchair talking to one of the therapists, he leaned forward and wrapped his arms around her, pressing his head against her soft belly.
“Home,” he said. His tongue laboriously managed to form the words he wanted: “Want. Go. Home.”
Affected by his plea, her hands stroked his head. She looked at the therapist and asked, “What will it take to transfer him home?”
“Home. With. You.”
She looked down. “You want to go to San Antonio with me?”
“Da.”
The therapist shrugged and said she’d look into it, even though she didn’t recommend relocating him so soon. Cecily stroked Pyotr’s hair and said, “We’ll do whatever it takes to bring you home, Pyotr.”
He nodded, unable to form the words expressing his gratitude and relief. When she left him that evening, she spoke to Iosif.
“Pyotr wants to go home with me. His physical therapist is figuring out what he’ll need and how to arrange it, but I’ll need your guys’ help to actually move him down there.”
Iosif nodded and promised to assist. He looked forward to having the house alone with Latasha soon. That night he called Vitaly and together they made plans, bringing in Bogdan and Gennady for further assistance. Maksim quietly paid Pyotr’s hospital bills in unspoken show of support and sympathy.
When the day of departure arrived, Cecily finagled a first-class seat for Pyotr to accommodate his size and inability to walk. Although Pyotr did not complain, his expression showed clearly that the flight to San Antonio tortured his body. Cecily called Jaime to inform him of her pending return and Mrs. Macdougal who vowed to have a wheelchair ramp installed right away.
“Your young man may have my front parlor until he’s able to manage the stairs,” the old woman graciously offered. “I’ll have Caroline set up my husband’s old hospital bed in there. That’s where he lived during his last year on Earth.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Macdougal,” Cecily replied and privately wondered just how musty that old bed might be. Perhaps there was a medical equipment company that could rent and deliver a hospital bed.
Jaime met them at the airport. Pyotr frowned and nearly growled when the handsome chef greeted Cecily with a brilliant smile and warm hug; however, he found himself grateful for the other man’s strength as he helped Pyotr move from the airport’s wheelchair into Cecily’s car. Jaime followed them to their apartment where a new wheelchair ramp had been installed at a side entrance. Mrs. Macdougal and her daughter walked outside to meet them, the younger woman pushing her father’s old wheelchair, rescued from storage and still dusty.
“It’s a terrible thing to see such a brawny man laid low like this,” Mrs. Macdougal said with a pitying glance at Pyotr. She raised her faded blue eyes to Cecily and said, “But I commend your fidelity to your young man. We don’t see that often enough these days.”
Caroline’s cheeks flamed red at the sly remonstrance. It hadn’t been her fault that her now ex-husband dipped his wick in his secretary. The whole cliché embarrassed her more than did his adultery.
What her mother didn’t know was that she knew her husband’s little fling hadn’t been his first. Even her daddy had kept a mistress, though she was sure her mama didn’t know that either.
Men were pigs.
Caroline plastered a fake smile on her face and held the door open as Jaime kindly helped shift Pyotr from car to wheelchair and then pushed him across the yard to the ramp. The journey took far too long and Cecily’s nerves were shot by the time Pyotr had been settled in the front parlor. With a kiss to Cecily’s cheek and another hug, Jaime bade her good-bye and reminded her that she needed to return to his kitchen at 11:00 the next morning. Cecily sighed, already exhausted, and promised she’d be there.
“Oh, my dear,” Mrs. Macdougal said as the door closed behind the handsome chef, “the home health care people called. They’ll have a nurse come in tomorrow morning to speak with you and a physical therapist visiting every day.”
“When shall I expect them?” Cecily asked, wondering how in the world she was going to pay for all that.
“I believe the nurse is coming at nine o’clock.”
“OK, thank you. I really appreciate all you’re doing for us.”
The old woman gave her a hug and said, “You’re like a daughter to me. Don’t you think I haven’t noticed how you’ve been so helpful to me all these months. It’s my pleasure to repay your kindness.”
Wow, Cecily thought and sniffed back a few tears. For once, a good deed didn’t come back to bite her in the butt.
Mrs. Macdougal ordered delivery of dinner. It didn’t compare to Cecily’s cooking, but then it was a definite improvement over hospital food.
Chapter 16
Cecily didn’t appreciate the admiring look that t
he home healthcare nurse directed toward Pyotr, even though he didn’t seem to notice. The woman appeared competent as she checked his vital signs and discussed a schedule for visitation and program for care with Cecily.
“Shouldn’t you be asking him these questions?” Cecily finally interrupted.
The nurse tilted her head a little to the right and said, “He’s still confused and not really paying attention. I’d rather go over this once with someone who’s lucid than not.”
Cecily didn’t particularly appreciate the nurse’s attitude, even if she empathized with the sentiment. She walked over to Pyotr where he sat in his borrowed wheelchair looking out the front parlor’s window.
“I know you’ve heard everything,” she said. Just because he still had trouble speaking didn’t mean that he’d lost any of his intelligence—and she refused to treat him as though he were a stupid child. “Do you agree to it? Have any questions?”
He looked at her and blinked, mulling over the words. Slowly, slowly, he turned his head and met her gaze.
“I. Agree.”
“Please, Pyotr, if you have any reservations or questions, let me know.”
He rewarded her concern with a faint smile. She gazed into his eyes for another moment, then sighed and returned to the nurse who watched over them with the air of an indulgent zookeeper.
“He will get better,” Cecily practically growled.
“Oh, surely,” the nurse replied with breezy indifference. She looked at the big, muscular man and calculated how long it would take for all those lovely, big muscles to atrophy. Such a shame.
“You don’t believe he’ll recover,” Cecily accused, her whispered voice hissing.
“Most people don’t recover fully from head injuries followed by a coma,” the nurse said. “It’s best not to get your hopes up. Be practical.”
Cecily’s ire subsided. She shook her head. “I have to hope. I have to hope for the both of us.”
The nurse looked at her watch and said, “Henry should arrive any minute now. He’s Pyotr’s physical therapist.”
Cecily nodded. Sure enough, not two minutes passed before a van pulled into the drive and a strong young man in blue scrubs hopped out. Shortly thereafter he was working with Pyotr to evaluate his flexibility, strength, and control. Then he conferred with the nurse. Cecily listened as they adjusted the program for physical therapy and home care. By the time they finished, Pyotr had fallen asleep and Cecily needed to get to work.
“How’s your fiancé?” Jaime inquired when she walked into the kitchen.
“He’s got a long road ahead of him,” she replied, shoulders drooping.
“Do the doctors know how long he’ll be like that?”
“Helpless, you mean?” She heard the bitter sharpness in her voice and caught herself, shaking her head and offering Jaime a soft smile of apology. “Sorry. I don’t mean to snap at you. I’m just worried is all.”
“That’s perfectly understandable.” With mercurial agility, he switched topics. “Now, let’s go over today’s menu.”
Cecily nodded and dragged her brain kicking and screaming back into the mindset of work. Damn it, she needed this job. She was the breadwinner now and she couldn’t fail Pyotr. He needed to rely upon her more than she had ever needed to rely upon him.
Once she understood the new menu, she took her place in the kitchen. It hummed with activity as orders poured in. The busyness of the kitchen kept her worries at bay until 10:00 p.m. rolled around and the kitchen closed for the night. She joined the other kitchen staff in cleaning up stovetops, counters, pots, pans, and cutlery. In Jaime Tobiano’s kitchen, only the owner was exempt from the hard work of nightly cleanup. With everyone working hard, Cecily still did not manage to leave until 11:00 p.m.
“I’ll walk you to your car,” Jaime offered as he did every night. As head chef, Cecily typically stayed later than did the other kitchen and wait staff. Especially at night, the city offered danger to an unaccompanied woman.
“Thanks, Jaime,” she replied with honest gratitude and slung the strap of her purse over her shoulder. Not every boss would have a care for her safety. She drew her forearm across her brow to wipe off the sweat. The sting of a small burn on her arm drew attention to a grease splatter incurred earlier that evening due to her inattention.
They walked in companionable silence until they reached her car. Turning to face him, Cecily said, “I really do appreciate what you’ve done for me, Jaime. I don’t want you to think that I’m ungrateful.”
“I know,” he replied with a gentle smile. “You’re a talented and skilled cook. I would have hated to lose you.”
Cecily wanted to ask if her cooking ability was all that he would have missed, but that would have been inappropriate. Jaime was her boss and she was engaged. Instead, she touched his arm and said, “You’re a good man, Jaime.”
“I’m glad you think so. Now go home before you collapse.”
Dismissed, she got into her car and drove home.
The next day progressed much the same. The nurse arrived in the morning, followed by the physical therapist. Cecily wasn’t quite sure when they left because she departed before they did. When she arrived home, Pyotr lay in his bed asleep.
The following weeks progressed in much the same fashion. Mrs. Macdougal kindly offered to babysit Pyotr when the health care workers were not available. Pyotr bristled at the term, but even he privately acknowledged that he was about as competent at taking care of himself as the average nine-month old baby. At least his elderly landlady did not insist on changing his diapers.
He found himself caught in a love-hate relationship with Henry. The man pushed, goaded, and otherwise forced Pyotr to push his limits. He winced at the pain regaining both gross and fine motor skills caused. He could not help the surge of pride when he mastered something as basic as using a spoon or tying his shoes. The day he managed to walk—with a walker—to the bathroom and take care of his own bodily needs thrilled him, even as he acknowledged the irony that any three-year-old child could do the same. He forbore announcing the news to Cecily that he could wipe his own ass now, because that was just too embarrassing.
Cecily worked hard, damned hard. He could see the weariness and worry in the set of her shoulders, the way her back bowed, and her slow, heavy stride when she climbed the staircase to their apartment. His inability to take some of the load off her shoulders rankled. However, she always spent time with him, reassured him that she did not regret a single second of his having come to live with her in San Antonio. Reassurances that he would get better always followed.
Henry brought in a speech therapist one day, saying, “You’re making good, steady progress with the motor skills, but I can’t fix your tongue. Louisa’s great. She’ll have you spouting poetry in no time.”
Pyotr wondered who would pay for the speech therapist, but had no way to adequately express his concern. He could not help but be proud of himself when he finally wrote a note to Cecily asking that practical question. He wasn’t proud of the wobbly, unsteady handwriting that looked like a five-year-old child’s.
Looking at the handwriting that staggered drunkenly across the paper, Cecily raised teary eyes and enveloped him in a hug.
“Oh, I’m so proud of you!” she enthused. “You can write again!”
The. Money,” he prompted in halting syllables.
Cecily averted her gaze, then decided he deserved honesty. “Vitaly, Iosif, and Gennady are all helping with the costs. I’m saving as much money as I can so we can pay them back.”
“They. Must. Stop.”
Cecily shook her head and said, “No, Pyotr. It’s no sin to accept help when it’s needed—and we do need it. We’ll repay them as we’re able. They understand.”
“I. Have. Money.”
“I know you do. We’ll tap into that when you’re better.”
Temporarily defeated, Pyotr’s head fell back. The next day, he astonished Henry and Louisa with his grim determination to recover
as quickly as humanly possible.
“Now I know why they feared you in the cage,” Louisa commented upon catching his hard, focused expression.
“You. Know?”
She aimed a sly grin at him. “I’m a secret aficionado of cage fighting. You fighters are so sexy. When Henry mentioned your name, I had to make sure I was assigned as your speech therapist. My friends are all agog that I’m working with the formidable Ice Bear.”
Pyotr hadn’t realized that he’d be known so far from Cleveland, Ohio. Underground cage fighting usually remained local.
Louisa glared at him with maternal censure. “You’re not going back to the cage, you hear me? Another blow to the head like the one that took you down could very well kill you.”
Pyotr agreed. His cage fighting days were over.
The day he walked across the parlor with no more aid than a cane was cause for celebration. Mrs. Macdougal brought up a dusty bottle of wine from the cellar and Cecily drank a congratulatory glass before kissing him full on the mouth. That was when Pyotr discovered that other parts of his body were waking up, too. His fear that he’d never again be able to make love to her melted away, although having to wait until his erection got the message that there would be no nookie that night made his bladder scream for relief. He almost didn’t reach the bathroom in time.
Four months after moving to San Antonio, Pyotr could dress himself, write legibly, and, if he did not rush, speak clearly. In English and Russian. He considered himself lucky to have retained both languages. In slow, careful words, he thanked Mrs. Macdougal for the use of her front parlor and announced that he would move back upstairs with his fiancée.
“You need to marry that girl,” she said.
“I want to, but...”
“Don’t give me any buts,” the old woman chided. “That girl loves you. She wouldn’t have put up with your grumpy self all this time if she didn’t. You need to marry her.”
