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He does.
Later, after she’s helped him dress and cooked something proper for him, she studies the way he scoots into bed. He’s gotten so much better at transfers over the last few weeks. Much better than at the very beginning. She starts to tell him as much, but she knows he hates it when she points out the obvious. Their relationship cannot be sustained on pretension.
She held him in the shower as he sobbed, once again coming to terms that sex will not be the same. But she knows that was just one moment in time, one that needs to be carefully left where it was. Now stoicism is what he needs, so she flips out the light and climbs into bed beside him. They lay on their backs staring at the ceiling for a long time. Finally, he speaks, filling a void that neither is sure can ever truly be filled again. “I’m going back to work.”
“What?” She props herself up on one elbow and looks over at him. She can just barely make out his features in the dark, and she can see that he’s pleased at her surprise.
A half-smile appears across his face. “You heard me.”
“You said you’d never go back.”
“I had a meeting last week. With the partners.”
“And?”
“And they said that if I was willing to give it a shot, they’d make accommodations.”
“That’s fantastic.”
“I mean…” he sighs.
She can tell that whatever he’s about to say, it doesn’t come easily.
“Paraplegics work all the time. I don’t see why I should be any different.”
“Haven’t I said that all along?”
“You were right,” he says after another long sigh.
“What changed your mind?”
“Oh, I don’t know…staring at these same four walls all the time. Your absence.”
She senses there’s more to it than that. “Anything else?”
“We lost one of my favorite patients last week.”
“I’m so sorry, Edward.”
“Me too. He hadn’t even had a chance to live.”
“How old?” she whispers, knowing he wants her to ask.
“Fourteen.”
She doesn’t know what to say, so she simply places her hand on his arm.
“I thought we had his case figured out. I thought we were in the clear.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“No. But I should have been there.” He shakes his head, his eyes meeting hers. “I wasn’t though. I was here. Moping around feeling sorry for myself while children—childrenthat I could have been working to save—were dying.”
“I know how important your work is to you.” She leans down and kisses his forehead. “It’s the one thing I admire most about you.”
Her hand trails down his face, then his chest, to his stomach, where she lingers before going lower. He won’t feel her touch, but that isn’t the point.
His face rests against her collarbone. “Thank God. You’re my muse, Ali. You’ve always been my muse.”
