by Nella Tyler
Helen, who’d come in with unbearable sciatic nerve pain, was starting to make progress too. It made my heart ache to have to tell her that she wasn’t likely to ever be able to continue her ballet instruction—at least, not enough for her to become a professional danger—but she was slowly coming to terms with the idea on her own. The twelve-year-old girl had given me a look while we went through the back stretches at the beginning of her session and said, “They’re doing The Nutcracker starting this week. I’m already too old to play half of the parts and too young to play the rest of them.” I had given her a quick hug and told her that there were a lot of things she could still do; the fault in her spinal alignment that caused her sciatica wasn’t something that could really be cured—but at least she could get back into dance for fun if she kept moving along at the rate she had been.
My phone vibrated in my pocket, interrupting my thoughts, and I cringed as I slipped my glove off to answer it. I really—really—wanted a pair of smartphone gloves, but they were so expensive that I hadn’t bought myself a pair yet. Add it to your Christmas list, I told myself as I slipped my phone out of my pocket and tapped the accept icon, without even really looking to see who it was calling me. I set my cup of hot chocolate down and balanced my phone on my shoulder while I put my glove back on; it was way too cold to leave it off for longer than a few seconds.
“Hello?”
“Hey Mackie-sweetie!” My mom’s voice filled my ear and I smiled. “It’s officially the holiday season, and you know what that means.”
“You’re asking everyone to turn in their lists by tomorrow or risk having no Christmas presents?”
My mom laughed on the other end of the line.
“That is one thing,” she agreed. “The other is that I need to know whether I can expect you here for the holidays.” I frowned, worrying at my bottom lip for a moment. I definitely wanted to see my family for Christmas—and there would be a big New Year’s party to go to as well—but I knew that if I spent as much time with them as possible over the holidays, I’d have to avoid a bunch of questions about my love life…or more accurately, my lack of a love life.
“I’m definitely planning on being there for Christmas,” I said quickly. The office would be closed on Christmas day; there wouldn’t be any reason for anyone to be there anyway. “And I’m hoping that nothing will come up on New Year’s Eve that would mean I have to come in. But in-between I’m not sure.”
“It was such a shame last year that you had to leave during the week,” Mom said.
“Well we had a lot of people in,” I pointed out. “Everyone was pulling overtime.” It wasn’t exactly true; I’d signed up and along with everyone else who had signed up, I’d gotten called in. It had been a bit of a relief; being around my family was nice, but the fact that my cousin—three years younger than me— just had a baby and then had been planning to get married in another three months, meant that the entire time I was home everything became speculation about me being a bridesmaid yet again. I had lost track of how many times I was asked when it would be time for me to don a white dress of my own. “I’ll try to make sure I can stay for the whole holiday,” I said.
The office didn’t entirely close between Christmas and New Year’s, but we tried to schedule as few sessions as possible. Of course, physical therapy required a lot of consistency, which is something we explained to all of our young patients’ parents, but even people in the medical field like to be with their families during the holidays if they can.
“You know, if you have a guest you’d like to bring, we’ll welcome them too—and of course they can stay even if you have to step into work for a few hours,” Mom suggested. I tried not to sigh at the obvious undercurrent to her comment.
“If I have a guest, I’ll make sure to let you know so that you’ll have enough food for five guests to come with me,” I joked, brushing aside the question she hadn’t quite asked.
“We’ll make sure to have your favorite cookies,” Mom continued on, and I let her sweep me along in conversation for a while, listening to her plans for the different dishes she would serve for Christmas. “I was thinking that maybe this year we could to a feast of the seven fishes theme,” Mom told me.
“That sounds like fun—but probably pretty expensive if everyone’s going to be there. What about the kids?”
“Well we’ll have some of the normal stuff too,” Mom said, “and your nieces and nephews will eat anything that isn’t moving.” I thought that was doubtful, but I didn’t say anything about it.
“What are you thinking of making?” My hands were starting to go stiff in spite of the gloves, and I could feel my toes becoming numb in my boots. I didn’t want to talk to Mom for too long; I still had to go home and get dinner made. But I knew that she’d think I was just brushing her off if I didn’t ask the question.
“I was going to do a bouillabaisse,” Mom replied, “and some chilled raw and steamed seafood: shrimp, crab, maybe some lobster if I can get it for a good price. And smoked fish dip. I am still working out all the details, but if you can get here a day early maybe, I’d love your help.” I grinned to myself, rolling my eyes slightly. Mom wanted me to spend as much time at home as possible at every holiday.
“I’ll see what I can do,” I promised. “Look—Mom, I’m outside right now and I’m freezing my ass off. Let me call you back, okay? I need to get on my way home before I turn into a Popsicle.”
“Okay, sweet pea,” Mom said, sounding mostly content. “Let me know if you need me to help you out with anything. And make sure you get me your Christmas list!” I agreed to call her and then managed to finally get off of the phone, slipping it back into my pocket. I sat on the bench for a few minutes longer, in spite of the cold that cut through my clothes, and I stared out at the park. I took a deep breath and sighed.
I thought about the overtime signup sheets in the office and wondered if I should sign up again to cover any emergencies. It was always hard to tell if we would be busy—and there were emergency physical therapy cases, as well as those who really couldn’t risk the setback that would come along with skipping a session or more. Some of our patients came in several times a week for long-term health conditions, and they needed to keep making progress even though they might prefer to simply go sledding or hang out at home. Some of the other therapists at the office I worked in were occupational therapists too; they had patients who had been born with fetal alcohol syndrome or other conditions that had long-lasting effects on motor skills and other functions. Occupational therapy wasn’t my specialty, but I knew enough to be able to cover a shift, at least.
I finished off my hot chocolate and threw the paper cup into the garbage bin when I stood up. The cold was starting to get into my bones; I needed to get moving or I would—as I’d joked to my mom—freeze up and just stay there until I could find someone to help me up. As I started to walk back towards the office and my car in the parking lot, I thought to myself that just for once it might actually be nice to have someone to take home to meet my parents and siblings. I didn’t want it badly enough to fake it, but almost. It would be nice to have a break from people worrying out loud that I was working too hard and missing out on my best years of adulthood.
“If I had a boyfriend—even if I didn’t date him enough to be able to bring him home—it would probably help matters,” I said, thinking out loud. In spite of how cold I was, I admired the fresh layer of snow that had coated everything sometime after lunch but before the end of day; it was obviously going to be a beautiful holiday season—I just wished I could enjoy it as much as I always wanted to. “Oh well,” I told myself, starting to think about all the other things I had going for me to keep from getting into any kind of slump. “I have my health and I have my work and the kids are great. I am way too blessed of a person to go around moping because I don’t have time to date.” I was sure that I’d be saying almost exactly that to a handful of questions in a few weeks; but for the moment at least, I was happy to
get in my car and get back to my warm apartment. Everything else was just an extra.
Chapter Two - Pat
“Hey, Pat. You’re in a rush to get out of here.”
I gave Alicia at the reception desk in the lobby a quick smile, but I couldn’t quite bring myself to keep going, even though I was in a hurry. “How’s Landon?” she asked.
“He starts physical therapy today,” I told her, smiling a little more warmly. “That is actually why I’m cutting out early. I need to get him to his PT appointment.”
“Don’t let me hold you up then,” Alicia said, beaming at me. “I hope he makes a full recovery!”
I nodded and continued on my way, heading for the revolving door at the front of the lobby. My son was almost as excited about doing physical therapy as I was dreading him having to do it; he wanted to make sure he could get back to practicing with his team as soon as the league started up again.
I walked up the ramp to the parking garage outside, my keys already out of my pocket. I’m cutting it close, I thought irritably. I had wanted to leave fifteen minutes before I’d actually walked out of the office, but something had come up—something always seemed to come up whenever I had plans of some kind.
I unlocked the car and climbed in, thinking about Landon waiting for me. He was the only thing I had left of my wife, the only thing that made sense in my world since she left us. He was getting to the age where kids always think their parents are too protective—and maybe he was right in my case. He was at the best private school in the city, and I’d found a PhD-holding tutor for him before he’d even gotten in, just in case he ever fell behind or ran into trouble. Without his mom around, I had to take on both roles—mother and father.
I started up the car and waited for the heat to come up, slapping my hands together to keep the circulation going. I pulled out of my parking spot and navigated the parking garage, thinking about the crazy situation that had led to Landon needing physical therapy in the first place. Traffic’s never really light in Chicago, but I was at least beating the worst of it by getting out early; I slipped out of the garage and into the street, matching the speed of the cars around me. Landon had been such a trooper—he’d barely even cried. In fact, I’d cried more than he had.
I shuddered as I remembered the game when Landon had broken his leg. He had been playing as well as I’d ever seen, really going for it on the AstroTurf. His coach had been teaching him more evasive maneuvers, and Landon had really brought them all together, darting and weaving, making me proud. I was cheering for him in the stands, on my feet, acting like a madman. Landon had looked up into the stands more than once to see me there cheering for him; it felt good to be there for my son, especially since I missed out on so many other things going on in his life.
I’d missed the game the week before—which was why I’d made such a big point of going to his game that day. I was glad that I’d taken the time away from the office, especially when Landon tried to pivot to get away from the other team’s defense and instead of darting left he moved right, and I saw him moving in slow motion as he fell over. At the time, I almost imagined I could hear the snapping sound as Landon hit the turf on his side.
In an instant, I had started up the row, heading for the stairway. I almost screwed up my own leg tripping over my feet as I pounded down the stairs in my rush to get to my boy. He didn’t get up; he was obviously more injured than some twisted ankle. I remember thinking of how worried his mother would be, of how her heart would have been in her throat just as much as mine was. I stumbled onto the sidelines and looked around; the coach had already hurried out onto the indoor pitch, and I followed in his wake. Landon’s other teammates were clustered around him, one of the refs hovering. Someone signaled a medic and the man arrived just as I came to a stop, dropping to my knees at my son’s side. “Landon! Shrimp, are you okay? You took a bad fall there.”
The medic came in on Landon’s other side and started asking questions. My little boy, my five-year-old son, was on his back, his hands wrapped around his leg right underneath the knee. My heart pounded in my chest as the medic said the words I was dreading to hear: “His leg is broken. He’s going to need to go to the hospital and get a cast on it.”
I had lifted Landon into my arms and hurried him out to the car. My little boy—who always made a fuss about having to put on his seatbelt—didn’t even argue with me strapping him down in the back seat to get him to the hospital. We waited for what seemed like days instead of a few hours, but finally we went back to see a doctor. The diagnosis wasn’t great; Landon had fractured both bones in his lower leg, just under the knee. If it didn’t heal properly, he could have trouble just walking for the rest of his life.
Now, two months later I pulled into the pickup loop at Landon’s school and spotted him next to one of the teachers. Once the bone had started to knit, the doctor had said that the best thing Landon could do when he was able to get the cast off would be aggressive physical therapy—several times a week, for a couple of months. The doc had recommended a place and I’d set up Landon’s first appointment there right away, before the cast had even come off. Landon took one hand off of his crutches and raised it to wave at me as I drove up to where he was standing. Now, even though the bone was whole, my little boy still had a lot of healing to do.
I put the car in park and jumped out, smiling at my son.
“Almost makes breaking your leg worth it, to get out of school early, doesn’t it champ?” I looked at the teacher; she was tall, with blonde hair, and absolutely dedicated to the kids. She’d worked with me as much as the school rules allowed when Landon had had to take a few days away from class during a bout of strep, making sure that my son was able to catch up. I wasn’t surprised to see her standing with him to wait for me.
“Landon has been waiting very, very patiently,” the teacher informed me, smiling a little. “He’s been so excited for physical therapy.” She turned to me, frowning slightly. “You’ve explained that it’s going to be hard work for him, right?” I nodded.
“Landon knows it’s probably not going to be very comfortable for him for the next few weeks at least,” I said, reaching out and tousling my son’s hair. He giggled. “But he’s so excited to finally get rid of the crutches and the cast, and hopefully be able to get back to the team.” The teacher’s smile came back and she turned to head back into the building.
“We’ll see you tomorrow Landy,” the teacher said. I helped my boy get into the back seat of the car, putting his crutches off to the side.
“We are running late, buddy,” I told Landon as I climbed into the driver’s seat and started the car back up. “We’re going to have to make good time to get there for your appointment.”
“Will they give us a tardy?” he asked quietly.
I laughed.
“Something like that,” I said, pulling around the pick-up loop and heading back towards the streets. “The most important thing though is that we want to make a good impression. You only get one chance at that.”
“Are you going to be in trouble at work for leaving early? Ms. Fitz said that it’s important to have an excuse if you have to leave early.”
“They know I’m taking you to get therapy,” I told my son. “I’m sorry I was late though, bud. Someone needed me to help them with something right when I was getting ready to leave.”
“Everyone gets you to help them, don’t they?”
I glanced in the rearview mirror and saw Landon playing with one of his Skylander figures.
“Is it because you’re the boss?”
“I’m not the boss; I’m one of the bosses,” I told him. “People want to make sure they’re doing things the right way, so they come to me to make sure before they keep going.”
“Like when I needed your help with the tie for Grandma’s party?”
“Just like that.” I smiled.
Traffic slowed a bit and I forced myself to take a deep breath, to stay patient. “How was school? Did you t
alk to that girl you like—Jessica?”
“Jessie is nice,” Landon informed me. “She was sad that I wasn’t allowed to keep my cast, because she’d spent so long drawing on it.” I laughed.
“That cast smelled nasty,” I pointed out. “You don’t want to hang onto something like that. It’d stink up your whole room.”
“We learned about all of the holidays in class today,” Landon told me. “Did you know that there are tons of holidays in December Dad?”
“Tons? I can think of three,” I replied. “What else is going on?”
“Ms. Fitz says that almost all of the cultures of the world have some kind of holiday at the end of the year,” Landon said. “So that’s why a lot of people say happy holidays instead of Merry Christmas—because they want everyone to feel included.”
“That’s right,” I said, smiling to myself. “But I think for us, we’ll stick with just Christmas—what do you think bud?” I glanced at the time; we were almost certainly going to be late, especially the way that traffic was starting to tangle up.
“Everyone usually goes with their family,” Landon said after a moment. “Jessie and her mom always make cookies together for Hanukah.”
“That sounds like a lot of fun!”
“I wish mom was still here,” Landon said quietly. “Did mom like to bake cookies for Christmas, dad?” I felt my heart give a lurch in my chest at the question.
“I think so,” I said; I had to give him some kind of answer. “But you know buddy—I don’t remember her ever doing it. Maybe she baked cookies with her mom when she was your age.”
“Do you think that we’d be baking cookies if she was still alive?” I swallowed the lump in my throat.
“I think if she was still alive and you wanted to bake cookies, she’d be on board.” I felt my eyes stinging with the threat of tears and blinked a few times. “We could bake cookies, you know…chocolate chip, or butter cookies. Your grandma has a great recipe for my favorite oatmeal raisins.”
