Strategies

Riley

I slow my roll down the hall slightly, just so that I can get a view of Row edging ahead of me. Today for the first time in ages, she's not wearing yoga pants and a black death metal sweatshirt down to her knees. For whatever reason, she put on ripped up jeans and a white tissue t-shirt today.

And her long necklaces. A beaded necklace that might very well be a rosary, which she surely knows should not be worn as jewelry, given the fact that her grandparents are Roman Catholic, even if her father does not practice. She's also wearing a sandalwood mala, though she couldn't sit still to meditate if her life depended on it. And some kind of Native American feather thing, which is mostly likely probably also a religious artifact she is profaning by wearing casually without any thought to its meaning.

I love the swing of those necklaces.

The sway of her constant rebellion.

My spectacular heathen.

I sigh.

How can the same thing I love about her be the very thing I cannot abide?

She turns, and her mop of messy blonde flares. I snuff a laugh. Even that mess is growing on me. Especially when she wears it in that braid. Stroking down the back of her skull through the full length is like stroking a cat from head to tail.

Not quite our Lion. Sleeker. Slinkier. More feral. More skittish. More elusive.

A little bobcat, that's what she is.

Although her brother and sister are tormenting her with that cheetah nonsense. So obvious about it, too. As if I wouldn't notice. As if I don't notice nearly everything.

I ignore it, because it doesn't merit acknowledgment. They may have their childish sibling interactions, but it's no joke, what Row did.

She nearly destroyed me when she cheated.

Worse, she nearly destroyed herself.

She has no idea that the bigger part of what I can't forgive is the fact that she contemplated, for however briefly, ending her life rather facing what she had done.

Not only did she betray me, she thought to leave me forever, and leave me in the way she knows I could never recover from.

Losing Priscilla was a devastation. Losing Row the same way?

It would have been the death of me.

Letting her go was the only way I could survive even the thought of it.

Reckless woman.

Stubborn girl.

Reckless in her anger, but stubborn in her love.

She can't stop loving me, she says, in the same breath she curses me. What did she call me? Insufferable, arrogant, prideful fuck? She's not wrong.

Oh, I forgot. British. I laugh under my breath at the way she's made that the most profane adjective she can attach to me.

She swings around, her necklaces clattering as she grins at me. "Come on, slowpoke..."

"Just enjoying the view," I say mildly pushing my wheels quickly three times to catch up. She gives me a sexy side eye.

I ignore it. I have to stop this. Flirting with her, being tender with her. Giving her mixed signals.

It's not fair to her, given the likely outcome of this journey.

I'm a fairly strategic bloke, and I can see clearly what's waiting for us down the mostly likely path.

Another heartbreak, the likes of which will make our divorce seem like child's play.

Because even though she still loves me and even though I still love her, and even though it might be possible for me to forgive and for her to be faithful and for both of us to change the ways we have frayed our love in the past, I cannot live with Row as half a man.

I can't hobble along beside her, always a labored step behind, wanting her in ways I can't have her, expecting her to keep up a pretense of wanting me the same.

She doesn't deserve that. And I could never abide it.

So I know what's likely coming. I will let her go—and I will hurt her to do it if I must. I should do it now. I should have never let her come home. I should have sent her away at the hospital. But I am weak selfish bastard, and the truth is...I need her right now. Not like oxygen or food or water.

I need Rowan like I need sunlight. Like I need music.

I need her to be human.

If I must turn her away, I don't know what will be left for me. I won't be fit for anything but perhaps, my job. I imagine it could be quite a bit easier to do my job if I didn't care about anything, including my artists. I wonder what terrible tragedy befell Dawes Eddison in his life, to turn him into the despicable son of a whore that he was.

We've reached the door of the PT department. Row opens it for me and lingers a moment, smiling at Blake across the large room filled with equipment.

"So," she says, giving me a nod.

"Thanks for walking me to the door. Do I get a good-bye kiss?" I grin.

See? I should NOT say things like that. What the fucking hell is wrong with me?

Her eyes widen but then gets a devilish look on her face. Some new idea has popped into her head. She leans close and I think she's going to kiss my cheek but instead she whispers in my ear. "Nope. You have to buy the cow if you want the milk."

She smells like the spice market again, minus the cigarette smoke. She smells like ripe fruit and cinammon sugar and an indescribable exoticism. She smells like an old-school music studio I know of in New Orleans, whose rugs can never be stripped of all the incense and hash-hish and voo-doo. I inhale, long and slow. She backs away, but reach for her hand, stilling her movement so I can inhale her for just a little longer.

"Ah. If that's the case, that's quite a leaf you've turned over, since offering yourself with no-strings an hour ago..." I murmur.

"Rejection stings, Riley. You can only push a girl so far," her voice is entire playful and throaty. "Frankly, I've decided you don't deserve me..."

"That's true," I agree. "Just as you certainly don't deserve me..."

I say it with irony, but I mean it. She doesn't deserve this. Not if I'm going to be disable and incapable.

"Well, we'll just have to find out who breaks first. I'm done offering to get on my knees in front of you and having you reject me. I should have learned my lesson with that at eighteen, but you've taught me well this time, thanks." She's not a bit angry, but at the same time I don't think she's entirely insincere. "Aren't you the one who keeps saying you have to focus on your recovery?" She rolls my wheels backwards lightly pushing me away from her, rising to her full height.

"Get in there and fix yourself. Then we'll see about fixing us," she shrugs.

I smile. "I can see right to the heart of your caprice, love. Tenderness didn't work, so now you're challenging me in an effort to get me to...to—"

She arches her eyebrows. "To rise?"

I chuckle. "Very clever."

"That's what you love about me," she says with exaggerated movement of her lips as she closes the door.

Her scent disappears. One of the many things I love about you, love.

I roll toward Blake who is opening a box. "She could stay, you know. A lot of the wives stay. Cheer their man on, all that."

"Row's not really the cheerleader type. It's always been more like...I'm her cheerleader." I give him a curious look. "You do know...I mean...not to sound...whatever, but...you do know who she is, right?"

Blake nods as he works on opening the inner box. "Yeah, she's Matt del Marco's daughter. Sister of the Soundcrush guitarist."

I laugh. "It's a good thing she didn't stay. If she heard you label her like that, you'd need physical therapy."

He laughs. "Sorry. That came out...sort of rude. It's just her dad's a legend, and I'm a big Soundcrush fan."

"Me too," I say mildly.

He nods agreeably. "I guess you would be, being their manager and all."

I smile. He's never said a word about Soundcrush before, and he's only making small talk now because I've opened the door by discussing Row's celebrity. However, he must be a somewhat serious fan, if he recognizes me. How many people who call themselves fans of an artist would recognize the artist's manager?

"Have you seen them play before?"

He nods. "Oh yeah. About a dozen times."

"Soundcrush is doing a set at a local benefit concert next month. I'll get you tickets if you want. Backstage passes," I offer.

He grins, then drops it somewhat quickly. "Thanks. That's awesome." He's unwrapping my new ankle braces. "I saw your girl perform too, when her band opened for Soundcrush. She's something."

I sigh. "That she is, mate. That she is."

I don't know why I say it, maybe because I'm proud of her strength and resolve, I add, "You know, we're divorced, actually. My accident was the last day we were technically married. She doesn't have to be with me in this."

Blake's eyebrows raise in surprise. "That's news."

"Not really. It was news, about six months ago, when we first split up," I say in amusement.

"Yeah, I don't go in for celebrity gossip. I didn't know." He's checking over the braces, feeding straps. "You two don't seem divorced."

"We don't?"

"Not at all." He gives me a teasing grin. "You're sure you're divorced? Doesn't seem like somebody got the memo, there..."

"It's complicated."

"I hear that, brother," he says. "It's complicated all over. So..." he pulls a chair in front of me and slaps the braces. "These are your new orthosis." He bends them. "Ankle-foot braces. You need them because every part of you is ready to walk except your feet aren't quite with the program, yet."

I nod. I've been walking with the parallel bars and it's slow going. I can't accomplish the heel—toe movement quickly. It takes a lot of concentration and effort, and it's not a normal gait. Basically I have to kick my legs out a little to forward to get on the heel, then lean forward, using weight to roll onto my foot, instead of my foot accomplishing this motion naturally.

"These are going to help with your foot drop," he says. He hands me one. "Put one on."

I give him a quizzical look. "I thought I wasn't supposed to bend that far."

"You're cleared," he winks. "I just want to watch you bending to your feet to make sure you staying mindful of your spine posture..."

Surprisingly, it's not at all difficult to bend over, remove my shoes and slide the braces on. But I haven't bent over this much before, so Blake tells me to take a break while he loosens my laces and puts my shoes back on.

"Alright. You did all your strengthening exercises this morning right?"

"Of course."

"Then you're all warmed up. Let's see what you can do with these," he gestures at the parallel bars.

I roll over, apply the wheel brake and haul myself up. The first few steps are always the hardest, but there's no denying that I am walking now. At first it was more like I was hauling myself forward with my arms and a hip swing, but now my legs and knees are all feeling like they should. Just the damn feet that won't cooperate, but now...the braces are forcing them into the proper position. I take measured, slow steps all the way down the parallel bars. Then I return. I do it again. And again.

It's unfuckingbelievable how much easier it is with the braces.

"Ready for a break?" Blake says.

"No, I feel fine," I say.

"Okay!" he claps. "That's what I thought you were going to say. Normally we'd work with one new apparatus at a time, but your baseline strength is good and you're making rapid progress. So I have another toy for you..."

He pulls over a space age contraption. It's sleek and black and minimal with curved legs and wheels, an ergonomic handle, and small seat that flips up. It's nothing like the silver geriatric walkers with tennis ball feet that populate my bedroom, closet and living room.

"This is your new best friend. You might want to give him a name," Blake nods, putting the walker in my hands with free space. "Slow. Think about over knee lift. Just like the first time on the parallel bars."

He stays right with me as I move across the floor. I concentrate, I move slowly, but I'm walking.

I'm walking. Not like in the parallel bars. Not confined in a pointless exercise, like a rat in a wheel. Not like the other clunky walkers I use to make transfers that reduce my movements to that of octogenarian. With this device I'm walking where I want to go. I can angle, I can shift directions.

"This is bloody marvelous," I laugh.

"So the test drive has sold you?" Blake laughs. "Because your new best friend doesn't come for free...or cheap, exactly..." He tells me the price. It's no more than Row sometimes spends on a designer piece.

"Worth it," I murmur.

We practice transfers with the new walker. All kinds of transfers. From the wheel chair. From a straight back chair. From a soft foam block.

Then Blake tells me it's time to move from walking as PT exercise to "household" walking. When he looks at my face he says. "You look unconvinced by my words, but I'm serious. Walk only in the house for now. Always with the braces and walker. I cannot stress that enough. And you still need the chair outside the home."

"Are you bloody kidding me? That's not the look on my face is not disbelief because I don't want to use the chair. It's...disbelief that this equipment makes such a difference..." I mutter.

He nods. "I wish everyone had access to the best equipment."

"The braces are covered by insurance, I assume."

"For most people, yes."

"And this walker""

He shrugs sadly. "Sometimes, but many times insurance plans limit the options."

"Why don't you order a couple dozen of these on my dime? Your department can donate them to patients with financial need..."

He blinks. "That would be amazing. Maybe half in a pediatric size...there are a lot of kids who could do really well with one..."

"Whatever you think is best," I say as we continue my therapy.

When the time is up, Blake asks me if Row is picking me up.

"She'll be by the door." She does this because I asked her to wait there, back at the beginning. I didn't know what PT would be like and I didn't want her to witness...failure, frustration, struggle.

Blake gives me a look. "I think you could use a little cheering," he strides over and invites her in.

I walk toward her with the walker. She stares at me blankly, then her face crumples as if she's going to cry. She masters herself, walks to meet me. Her eyes are full of heartbreak and hope.

If I could take her in my arms I would but I'm quite tired, so I lean on the walker, and smirk at her. "I'll have that kiss, then?"

She kisses my cheek, slowly, so slowly that I think I might die from her scent and the trembling of her velvet lips on my skin.

"I'm so glad to see you on your feet." She lowers her gaze, and one tear spills down her cheek. She cocks her head and examines the walker. She flips the seat down. "Look at that. Now you can take out the trash."

This bloody woman. She utterly slays me.

And she's going to be the death of me if I must leave her again, for her own good.