Home Front(92)

She rolled away from him. Even that was hard to do with only one good leg. The motion was pathetic and lurching. “Go away.”

He came over to the bedside. “You can’t hide from this, soldier girl.”

“I rolled over. Why don’t you give me a treat and we’ll call it a day?”

He laughed at that. It was a bold, rich, velvety sound that clawed at her already-frayed nerves. “I can just pick you up and haul your scrawny white ass outta that bed.”

“You would, too.”

“What happened to the woman who made it through boot camp and flight school?”

“Her leg is in Germany and she needs it.”

“She’s not getting it back.”

Jolene glared at him. “Do you think I don’t know that?”

“You want me to go, Jo?”

“Yes,” she said, almost cried it.

“Then get out of this bed and start working with me. Let me help you.”

She looked up at him, knowing there was fear in her gaze and unable to mask it. “This is killing me, Conny.”

He brushed the hair from her eyes with a gentleness that brought tears to her eyes. “I know that, soldier girl. I been there.”

“How have you been here?”

“Pain’s pain. I have had my share—more than my share, really. My son died. Elijah. I’ll tell you about him someday. He was a beautiful boy, had a smile that could light up the room. After he passed, I was full of anger. Darkness. Started drinking and yelling. Well, I imagine that’s all you need to know. Took me a long time—and a hell of a wife—to find my way back. I know about hurting all the way to your bones. And I know about giving up. It ain’t the way.”

“I used to be the kind of woman who never gave up.”

“You can be her again.”

Jolene turned away from the compassion and understanding in his dark eyes.

“Come on, Jolene,” Conny said, reaching for her. She didn’t pull away but let him lift her out of the bed and into the wheelchair.

The physical therapy room was a huge bright space with four broad, vinyl-covered beds along one wall and windows along another. There were two sets of silver parallel bars anchored to the linoleum floor. Scattered throughout the rest of the area were a variety of steps with and without handrails attached to them, yoga-type mats, physio balls in all sizes and colors, stacks of hand weights, Thera-Bands, and a collection of walkers and crutches.

First, Conny had Jolene warm up. She rolled onto her side on one of the bright blue yoga mats on the floor, and stretched out as far as she could, imagining her foot still there, pressing out, reaching for the end of the mat.

With each movement, Conny charted her range of motion and encouraged her to do better.

“I don’t think that’s possible,” she said, breathing hard.

“Oh. It is. Stretch farther.”

Jolene gritted her teeth and kept at it, stretching her stump until pain made her scream out. Sweat dripped into her eyes and off her face, making the mat beneath her slippery.

“One more inch,” Conny said.

“I hate you,” she said, trying to give him what he wanted.

“I wouldn’t be doing my job if you didn’t,” he said, laughing. “That’s good.” He patted her shoulder. “Now let me see some sit-ups.”

“You are worse than any drill sergeant I ever had. You know that?”

“I aim to please.” While she did her sit-ups, he went to get her wheelchair and rolled it toward her. “Okay. That’s enough. Get in.”

She looked up at the chair, hating it. Sweat dripped down from her hair. She wiped her hands on her tee shirt, leaving damp streaks behind.

Conny lifted her onto the workout bench, got her seated, then rolled the wheelchair closer. “I’ll show you how to get into your chair. Here, make sure this brake is set. Wipe your hand so you don’t slip, and remember, don’t put any weight on your right hand. Just use it for balance. Let me help you, Jolene…”

She licked her lips nervously. “Who would have thought it took all this work to sit down. I used to run marathons. I tell you that? One time—”

“You’re stalling.”

She steeled herself again and began the work it took just to get from the bench into a wheelchair. Groaning at the exertion, she angled herself forward, stood slowly on her good leg. Balancing, she waited until she felt steady, holding the chair in her good hand. Already she was breathing hard again, sweating. And afraid she would fall. It wouldn’t be the first time.

Before, she could have lifted one leg and balanced with ease. Now her equilibrium was as shaky as her sense of herself.

With exaggerated care, she turned on her good foot and sat down in the chair; her bandaged residual limb stuck out like a bowsprit.

“You did it,” Conny said, smiling brightly.

He gave her about ten seconds to revel in her triumph, and then he had her back at the yoga mat, working again. She didn’t have the core strength to lower herself to the mat on her one good leg, so Conny helped her. “More sit-ups,” he said when she was ready. “Two hundred.”

“Two hundred? Are you mental?”

“I told you you’d hate me. Quit whining and start.”

She lay down, wishboned her arms behind her and pulled upward. “One … two … three…”