Dream Mender. Sherryl Woods
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the past couple of days. It might be fascinating to discover just how far off the mark he had been. “And I’m Frank.”
“Frank.”
They’d stopped outside a closed door marked Therapy and might have stood right where they were, awareness suddenly throbbing between them, if Otis hadn’t strolled past, whistling, giving Jenny a conspiratorial wink. Suddenly she was all business again, opening the door, pointing to a chair. “Have a seat. I’ll be right with you.”
Frank stepped into a room filled with ordinary, everyday items from jars to toothbrushes, from scissors to jumbo-size crayons. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected, but it certainly wasn’t this dime-store collection of household paraphernalia. He hooked his foot under the rung of an ordinary straight-back chair and pulled it away from a Formica-topped table so he could sit. He eyed the assortment of equipment skeptically. He suspected his insurance was going to pay big bucks for this therapy, and for what? So he could play with a toothbrush? His spirit of cooperation took another nosedive.
“What’s all this?” he asked derisively the minute Jenny joined him.
“Advanced therapy,” she retorted. “If you’re lucky and work hard, you’ll get to it in a week or two.”
He regarded her incredulously. “It’s going to take two weeks before I can brush my teeth? I thought you were supposed to be good.”
“I am good. You’re the patient,” she reminded him. “Two weeks. Could be longer. The bandages won’t even be off for three weeks. Think you can handle it sooner?”
There was no mistaking the challenge. “Give me the brush,” he said.
“Get it yourself.”
He reached across the table and tried to pick it up. He managed it with both hands, by sliding it to the edge of the table and clamping it between his hands as it fell off. At least his quick, ball-playing reflexes hadn’t suffered any.
“Now what?” Jenny said, all bright-eyed curiosity. The woman was just waiting for a failure. Frank was equally determined not to fail. He was going to set a few recovery records of his own.
He pressed harder to keep the brush from slipping and tried to maneuver it toward his mouth. “Do you have to watch every move I make?” he grumbled, sweat forming across his brow with the taxing effort.
“Yep.”
Irritated by his inability to manipulate the brush and by her fascinated observation of the failure, he threw it down. “Forget it.”
“Maybe we ought to work up to that,” Jenny suggested mildly. There wasn’t the slightest hint of gloating in her tone.
He scowled back at her, but her gaze remained unwaveringly calm. “Okay, fine,” he bit out finally. “You call the shots. Where do we start?”
She sat down next to him, inching her chair so close he could smell the sweet spring scent of her perfume. “We’ll start with flexing your fingers. I’ll do the work this first time, okay? It’s called passive motion.”
Momentarily resigned, he shrugged. “Whatever you say.”
With surprising gentleness, she took his hand in hers. At once Frank cursed his fate all over again. He couldn’t even feel the unexpected caress. His imagination went wild though. He wondered if her skin was as soft as it looked, if the texture felt like rose petals. He was so fascinated with his fantasizing, in fact, that he barely noticed what she was doing, until she said, “Now you try it.”
“Mmm?” he murmured.
She regarded him indignantly. “Frank, weren’t you paying a bit of attention?”
“My mind wandered.”
If she was aware of exactly where his wayward thoughts had strayed, she showed no evidence of it, not even the faintest blush of embarrassment. She picked up his other hand.
“Try to pay attention this time,” she said as she slowly flexed each finger back and forth. The range of movement was minuscule. Frank couldn’t believe how little she expected or how inept he was at accomplishing it. He needed her to move his fingers for him—and he hated that weakness.
“That’s it?” he scoffed when she stopped. “That’s your idea of therapy? You dragged me all the way down here for that?”
“You could have done it in your room, but we tried that routine yesterday and you didn’t seem to like it. It occurred to me you might take it more seriously if I brought you down here. Just remember there’s an old saying that you have to walk before you can run.”
“It usually applies just to babies.”
Jenny rested her hand on his forearm and regarded him intently. Compassion and understanding filled her eyes. “In this instance it might be wise if you think of your hands as being every bit as untutored as a newborn’s,” she told him. “The instincts are there, but the control is shaky. Right now we’re just trying to assure that the joints don’t stiffen up as you heal and that the skin maintains some elasticity.”
Frank wasn’t interested in baby steps. He wanted desperately to make strides. “All I need is to get these bandages off and I’ll be just fine.”
“You will be if you do the exercises religiously, ten minutes an hour. Got it?”
“I’ve got it.”
“Want me to walk you back to your room or send for Otis?”
“Hardly. My legs aren’t the problem.”
“I’ll be in later to check on you.”
Her tone was all business and her gaze was directed at his chart as she scribbled in a notation. Frank found it thoroughly irritating that he’d apparently been summarily dismissed now that she’d gotten her way. He was just about to tell her in grumpy detail what she could do with her ridiculous therapy, when the door opened and another patient was wheeled in by the formidable Otis.
The young girl was swathed in bandages over fifty percent of her body. Only one side of her face peeked through the gauze and only one arm remained unbandaged. Even so, she struggled for a smile at the sight of Jenny. Frank felt his heart wrench at the pitiful effort.
“Hey, Pam, how’s it going?” Jenny asked, her own smile warm, her gaze unflinching.
“Pretty good. I just beat Otis at poker. He has to go out and bring me a hamburger and fries for lunch.”
Otis leaned down, his expression chagrined. “I thought that was going to be our little secret.”
Jenny chuckled. “That will teach you, big guy. There are no secrets between therapist and patient. As long as you’re buying, you can bring me a hamburger, too.”
“Women! The two of you are going to put me in the poorhouse,” the orderly grumbled, but he was grinning as he left.
Frank watched the byplay between Jenny and the teenager for a few more minutes, irritated by their camaraderie, the easy laughter. He could feel the pull of the warmth between them and envied it. Feeling lonelier than he ever had in his life, he finally slipped out the door and went back to his room.
Late into the night, long after he probably should have been asleep, he struggled to move his fingers just a fraction of an inch. He wasn’t sure whether he was trying to prove something to himself…or to Jenny.
Jenny had met some tough, self-defeating patients in her time, and Frank Chambers ranked right up there with the worst of them. Right now he was suffering more from wounded pride than he was from his physical injuries. A man like Frank, used to doing for others, according to his family, would hate being dependent, even temporarily.