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twenty-three
The quieter you become, the more you are able to hear.
~Rumi
The room was dim, lit only by some battery-operated candles one of the therapists had brought. Chinese flutes filled the air, pouring out of a small speaker that was set on a table in the corner, along with disinfecting wipes and hand sanitizer. A folded Ping-Pong table was tucked away in one corner and a large whiteboard hung on the wall, “The SRU welcomes Chef Spencer!” written on it in dry-erase marker. The room was warm to the point of stuffy, the building itself large and nondescript with four levels of long, carpeted hallways that turned like a maze and were lined with door after identical door. Tabitha had been buzzed into the locked building by the event coordinator, and she’d taken an elevator to the top.
There were four other therapists in the large, open room, all of them set up in their own rectangle of space. One of them was Red, who hadn’t done a shift here in years but had been welcomed in by the coordinator, Jenny, like a long-lost friend. They’d embraced and caught up on their lives while they set up their tables. Tabitha got busy with her own table, and once the sheets and drape were set, she’d looked around the room and assessed the environment.
Red was right next to her, with Jenny on her other side. A man in the corner, wearing a baseball cap with the navy insignia, had set up a reclining chair, instead of a table.
“He only provides reflexology,” Red said, in answer to Tabitha’s unasked question. She pointed at her feet.
In the other corner was an older woman with gray-streaked dark hair. She paced up and down the side of her table while she read over a piece of paper, which provided a list of names of wounded service members who had signed up to receive forty minutes of free therapy. Tabitha had her own list, but obviously didn’t know any of the names. Red had explained that a lot of the men and women who came for the therapy were repeats, had been coming for weeks, months, even years. Red hadn’t worked here in so long she didn’t recognize any names, either, but she’d patted Tabitha on the shoulder and said, “Remember, for most of these people, you’re just here to bring them down.” Red had made a motion with her hands of flattening the air. “You might get someone who asks for deep pressure or a specific area of work, but many of the men and women who come in here just need some hands. They just need someone to make them feel human again. And that, my dear—” Red had leaned in close “—is your specialty.”
But what if I don’t?Tabitha thought.What if I make them feel worse?At that thought, Tabitha glanced down at Trinity, who wore her service vest and waited patiently by the chair Tabitha had put there in case she had some neck routines to do.
“You’re going to be great,” Red said, like she was giving words to Trinity’s expression. Red’s own face was set and certain. “Nobody will understand them like you do. Remember that.”
Tabitha took a deep, cleansing breath and turned to face her table. She contained a startle when she found the older woman who’d been pacing standing only a couple of feet away, the client sheet clasped in her hands. “I’ve had your first guy a couple of times.” The lady, whose name tag read April, pointed at the sheet, to the spot on the chart where Tabitha’s first client was listed. “He’s got fibromyalgia. So you’ll have to use a light touch.”
“Oh.” Tabitha glanced over at Red, who gave her a thumbs-up. “Definitely.” This was the whole reason she was here, right? Or at least one of them. After her conversation with Red, Tabitha had suggested to Auntie El that she go back to the doctor and bring up fibromyalgia, to see what they had to say. Auntie El had listened patiently and, despite her reluctance, made another appointment for the following week. Now Tabitha would actually have the chance to try massage on someone with this condition before she attempted anything with Auntie El.
“Just thought I’d share,” April said.
“Thank you.” Tabitha felt a lump form in her throat but she swallowed it down. She glanced at the clock. It was time to start. She couldn’t bring jitters to the table, that was for sure. Just as April returned to her station, the automatic doors swung open and five people came through, a mix of men and women, some with walking support, others moving just fine but carrying unseen or invisible injuries. The therapists crossed the room to their clients as they settled into a row of chairs against the opposite wall and started taking off their shoes.
One guy, approached by no one, slipped his shoes off, but sat there, looking around, his hands gripping the fabric of his sweatpants at his knees. Red pointed to him and nodded.
Tabitha approached, ready to take on her first official wounded service member massage. “Hi, Paul,” she said as she reached his chair. He looked up at her with heavy eyes, the energy around him like he carried a great weight, his expression anxious, weary, confused and frustrated all at once. Tabitha knew that expression. Tabitha understood that expression. “I’m Tabitha. How are you feeling today?” She took his sheet from his shaky hand and read over his list of conditions and medications. Sure enough, fibromyalgia was listed there. His pain level, when given the choice to circle a one through five, was a four.
“Okay,” he said.
Tabitha smiled. “Based on what I see here, we’ll use a light touch. How does that sound?”
Paul nodded. “Yes, ma’am. I’ll probably fall asleep. This is the only place I get good sleep.” He smiled ruefully.
Tabitha’s heart broke a little bit. Paul looked no older than midtwenties.Younger than me, she thought. She led him to the table and, given the choice, he opted for facedown. After he settled, Tabitha covered him with a light drape, then stood over him and closed her eyes. There was definitely a lot of pain here. Fatigue. Uncertainty. But also...hope. Tabitha wasn’t going to let him down.
She reached out and laid her hands on Paul’s shoulders. Immediately, he tensed. Tabitha felt a trembling, from deep inside—the same trembling that she’d felt when she laid hands on both Candy and Hannah. He probably wasn’t even aware of it, and odds were, neither were his previous therapists. The tremble was so slight, rushing hands or jabbing elbows would miss it entirely. Tabitha stood there, hands rested, and just waited. She took a couple of deep breaths, in and out slowly, and waited until the tremor had somewhat eased. Once Paul seemed a little calmer, Tabitha slid her hands over his back and shoulders, slowly, with barely any pressure. She did this a few times, creating a rhythm.
After the third pass, Paul sighed audibly and settled deeper into the table.
After about ten minutes had passed, Paul’s breathing slowed, the rise and fall of his back deep and even. A tiny snore came from the headrest. Paul was out.
Tabitha continued with her rhythm, going by feel, often closing her eyes and getting the invisible feedback that she seemed more in tune with than anything her eyes told her. The forty minutes went by fast. Paul’s massage was the first massage that Tabitha hadn’t wanted to end. She saw the clock click over to the final minute and she felt sad that there wasn’t more time. She didn’t want to uncover him, rouse him, tell him it was time to go. But she had to.
She leaned forward, near his ear. “How you doing, Paul?”
Paul muttered something that was half word, half sigh.
“Don’t get up fast,” Tabitha said. “Take your time.” She waited another minute, giving Paul time to absorb the change, before she came around the side of the table and offered her hand. Paul took it and hauled himself up. Once he was upright, legs dangling over the side, he drew a deep breath and let it out slowly.
“How do you feel?” Tabitha said. “I wish we had more time.”
Paul nodded. He smiled down at Trinity. “She’s yours?”
“Yeah, that’s Trinity.”
