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Cassie
Luke and I left the cafeteria. He had one last physical therapy appointment before his discharge, which was all the way across the hospital and on the third floor. He began to struggle a few minutes in, after we stopped joking. It wasn’t until he was out of breath that he gave up trying to manipulate his wheels himself. I silently eased behind him and helped him push forward.
He was quiet when we reached the elevator. He had seemed fine minutes before. Another mood swing. This was becoming a pattern. When the doors opened, he muttered, “You don’t have to come.”
“I should, though,” I replied. “To see what your exercises look like if I need to help you.”
He didn’t respond. He was a runner, I reminded myself. He must hate not being able to move in the ways he used to.
I wanted to remind him that he wasn’t as helpless as he felt. Before he’d gotten tired, he’d been steering with a certain expertise, turning quickly around corners and moving at least as fast as anyone could walk. And he sat tall in his chair, still browned by the Afghanistan sun, face a little hollow but as handsome as ever.
Jake was waiting on the third floor for us; he’d wanted to come help see Luke off.
“Evening, Private,” he said, hands on the hips of his oil-splattered jeans and Bruce Springsteen T-shirt. They looked like brothers in small ways—in the joints, in the eyebrows—but Jake was softer everywhere, from his rounder cheeks to his thick thighs and middle, to his curly hair.
I put my hand on Luke’s shoulder. I felt him relax. The friendlier Jake was to him, I’d noticed, the happier he was.
“Hiya, Juke,” Luke said.
Jake snorted, giving me an embarrassed look. “Haven’t heard that nickname in a while,” he said. “Hailey’s getting something from the car, she’ll be here in a few.”
We continued down the hall past the row of windows behind which patients of varying mobility sat on exercise balls, balanced on beams, stretched bands with their shoulders.
“Well, maybe because you haven’t juked in a while,” Luke shot back.
“What’s juking?” I asked.
“It’s a fake-out move in sports that Jake used to be good at,” Luke said over his shoulder. “Honey,” he added, loud enough for Jake to hear.
Luke was greeted by a therapist in scrubs with a pixie cut and New Balances, who ushered him inside to show him some stretches. His left leg was two centimeters shorter than his right, the doctor had told us, but he would regain full mobility if he stuck to his routine. Jake and I watched from the windows.
“Y’all get everything sorted out with the social worker?” Jake asked.
The woman had Luke sitting on the floor, bending and straightening his leg. I had to look away every time his face contorted with pain. He could barely get his knee past 180 degrees.
“For the most part,” I answered evasively.
“I’d love to say Hailey and I will help out, but”—he paused, sighing—“I’m just not ready to take that on. We got our little JJ at home. And Luke’s got more problems than being in a wheelchair, as you know.”
He gave me a look of camaraderie, like, Am I right?
I froze. He may have been right, but I didn’t know what he was talking about. But it was probably something I was supposed to know. And it wasn’t like Luke and I had the excuse of knowing each other only a week this time. We were five months into marriage now, almost six. So I gave him the same look back, raising my eyebrows, like, Whew, you’re telling me.
“He wasn’t always like this, though.”
I offered the trait about Luke I was most sure about. “Moody?”
“Ah, no, he was always moody, just like our dad. But the good moods used to be bigger, more frequent. But then he took on a lot of responsibility right away after our mama passed. Our dad all but checked out. He practically raised me.”
“He didn’t mention that.” At his words, some hard part of me melted, the stored annoyance dissolving with images of Luke as a boy holding his brother’s hand as he crossed the street. “We have a lot to catch up on.”
“You two are just in a whirlwind of—” Jake was at a loss for words, spinning his hands around. “Just going for it? Aren’t you?”
“Yes,” I said, and composed an adoring gaze as the nurse helped Luke prop himself up on a bar to stand, his face clenched with effort.
“He seems happy with you,” Jake said, following my eyes.
“Does he?” I realized the tone of surprise in my voice a little too late. Luckily Jake didn’t seem to notice.
“I mean, look.” Jake nodded toward Luke, who was now raising his chin at us, lifting his hand with a relaxed smile, signaling five minutes. “Thank you for taking care of him.”
“Hey, it’s my job,” I said, shrugging. “And my pleasure, of course,” I added quickly. My heart started pounding. I thought of our plan to eke out the next few months on our own.
Being a bartender is practically half nurse, I figured. All that throw up? I’m used to long hours and demanding people with weird needs.
But looking at Luke, his face twisted in agony, his leg a spider web of red flesh and scar tissue, I wondered what the hell we were in for.
