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In the physiotherapy room mirror I’d watch myself hauling the limb in its droidlike, knee-immobilizing brace with the swing of my hips, or even my hands, like a cord of wood, an object that didn’t even belong to me. Sometimes I could put weight on it, but tonight I could give it about twenty pounds of pressure before the pain would stab me enough to almost knock me out. Less than 25 percent of body weight, that’s for sure.
Cassie and the nurse were right, and I hated them for it. I couldn’t do this alone.
“We can do it,” Cassie said, beads of sweat dripping down her red face.
“I’m game,” Rita said, her breath thin. “This is the closest I’ve been in twenty years to a sweaty man under fifty years old.”
Every step was harder than the last. By the end, I could see tears mixing with Cassie’s sweat. I’d landed my full weight on her toes more than once.
I sat at the top of the stairs as Cassie and Rita went to fetch the wheelchair.
My leg was trembling, my stomach heavy, my face burning with shame. They shouldn’t have to do this. I shouldn’t have to do this. And if this was a sign of what was to come, then I would either be stuck at Cassie’s place, completely frozen, or the equivalent of a two-hundred-pound toddler who’d throw a tantrum every time he had to get out of his stroller.
They held the chair steady as I dragged my lower half up to the seat, grabbing on to any available hold like some desperate, feral creature, slithering into a sitting position.
“Bye now,” Rita said, holding an ice cube to her forehead. “Thank you for your service.”
I could barely respond. The appearance of my creamy, sticklike shin peeking out of the bottom of the brace made me want to vomit.
“We did it!” Cassie said. “You want a glass of water or anything?”
My mouth was dry, but hell if I wanted her to serve me. “No, thank you.”
“Chin up, dude,” she said. “I wrote out my schedule for you so we can come up with a system.”
While Cassie was in the kitchen, I wheeled to where she had put my bag on the floor, reaching with hungry fingers for the straps, hoisting it onto my lap.
On the sky-blue futon, which I assumed would be my bed for the foreseeable future, she had set a folded blanket and a pillow, and on top of that, a handwritten piece of paper reading Cassie’s Schedule.
I could make out the phrases in her slanted hand: Nine AM wake up and play for two hours, sorry, I’ll be playing the same songs over and over. Doctor’s appt on the 9th. Band practice every Tuesday and Thursday.
I took a pill and closed my eyes. I hoped by the time she left the apartment, I’d be knocked out.
