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BREE
"Give me one more," I say, smiling encouragingly. I get exactly what I expect, and I don't bother hiding my grin.
"Fuck off," Wes growls, glaring at me. He glares at me the whole time he gives me one more leg press, then glares at me as he punches out one more without my asking. "There. You happy now? You're a damned sadist."
"Thrilled. You're a champ. You just made it to the top of my favorite client list, Wes." He side eyes me, then with a shake of his head, wipes his face with his white gym towel. His cheeks are still red, and his breathing is labored, but not as much as it was a few weeks ago.
I drop to the floor beside the leg press machine and pat him on the shoulder. "I'm serious. You did so well. Every little bit of extra effort is paying off. Your mobility is so much better. Your muscle tone is coming back. These are all good things."
He sighs and rolls his head to look at me. "I guess so. It don't hurt as much, anyway. That's something."
"That's a lot of somethings. You've been through a lot. Your body's been through major trauma. But it's coming back."
His lips curve the tiniest bit. "It ain't nothing special. Never was. Too short, too fat, too creaky."
I'd never say so, but he's right about some of it. He has a distinct garden-gnome look to him, especially with the way his beard is growing in. All he needs is a little pointy hat, and the picture would be complete.
"I think sometimes we don't give our bodies enough credit. It got you here, didn't it? It didn't quit on you after your car crash, even though it could have. It's been there for you for...what...fifty years?"
My teasing does exactly what I hoped. A rusty chuckle escapes him. "Quit flirting with me, missy. You know I'm seventy-three." Shadows creep into his eyes. "Besides, I'm taken."
"Yeah," I murmur, taking his hand. The old coot lets me too. "I do know that. And she's damned lucky to have you. Come on, let's get you up. That's enough for today."
He grumbles at me halfheartedly, but I see the tiredness, and I see the sadness. Other than going home to shower, he spends all his time at his wife's bedside, holding her hand, talking to her. I can't imagine how he must feel, having his wife of fifty years lying in that bed, body broken. A mixture of hope, fear and dread all swirling in his mind. Will she wake up? Will she be whole again? That car accident flipped his entire world. I know he's only pushing to get better because of her. Because he hopes that one day, she'll open her eyes and come back to him. He wants to be whole for her.
"Head home for a bit. Have something to eat. Have a nap," I urge him. He won't, but I can't help asking every time I see him.
"Stop nagging me. That ain't your job." He tips his chin at me and heads for the doors, cane tap-tapping on the floor. He won’t need that thing much longer. And he's not going home. He's going straight to her. I watch from the front windows as he slowly makes his way to his big, red pickup and heaves himself in. He mentioned more than once that they would've been in better shape if they'd been driving his 'tank' instead of his wife's smaller car.
The regret in his voice when he says it is hard to hear.
I understand loss. Cara and I lost our parents too soon. I was only sixteen. We both had to grow up fast, and Cara had to figure out how to take care of a hurt, angry teen. We both turned out okay, if a little too attached. But they were gone in an instant. This long, drawn out agony he's living through is a whole other beast.
I wave at my next client coming in the doors, and put my mind back on my work. I'll try to put aside Wes and his poor wife. I don't want to think about loss right now. I just want to do my job. I want to help people.
Physiotherapy wasn't my first choice of careers. Though to be fair, my first choice, international thief, wasn't really a great career plan. But I'm still damned good at stealing. I think I would have been a Robin Hood kind of thief since I don't really care about material stuff. It's probably better that I headed in another direction. A more legal one.
Playing as many sports as I do, you're bound to get injured. I ended up with a major ankle sprain my first year of college, and it changed everything. I found the whole physiotherapy process fascinating. I loved how strong my therapist was. I loved how concrete the fix was. Do this, do that, and you'll get better. That doesn't apply to a lot of areas of my life, but at work, it mostly holds true. I help people feel better, live better, and with less pain.
That's something I'm proud of.
Plus, I'm not stuck behind a desk all day. I need to move. I crave it.
That's why this clinic is perfect for me. It's right near the University hospital, so we get a ton of referrals from there. And I love mentoring the students. And okay, sometimes, there's some serious eye candy. It's my happy place, and it has been since I graduated. Here, I know exactly who I am.
I'm safe.
It's the rest of my life that's the problem.
My judgment is shit. I made such a big mistake in trusting someone. I ignored every red flag, and it went horribly, horribly wrong. Actually, horrible is not the right word.
Deadly.
He's dead, and my sister and I had to do something I never imagined.
We killed someone.
