Eye of the Storm (15 page)

minute. Go on, wheel on out of here on your own,"
she charged.
I turned from the table and started away. When
I looked back, I saw her wipe something out of the
corner of her right eye.
Only someone who has cried a great deal
knows why someone else wants to stop the tears. I
thought.
.
The physical therapist was right on time. I
heard the doorbell ring at exactly ten A.M. I waited nervously in my chair facing the door. After all, this was someone with whom I was going to spend a great deal of time and most of my physical energy. I had liked all my therapists at the hospital. They were kind, patient and very knowledgeable people. Most of them were in their mid-thirties and forties and very experienced. That had helped instill some confidence
in me.
I heard Mrs. Bogart's voice. She always spoke
with authority. overpowering. I could barely hear the
therapist as they came down the corridor. My heart
raced. I gripped the sides of my wheelchair and sat as
firmly as I could. Even so. I was not prepared for the
man who appeared.
He had bright carrot short hair, small freckles
on his forehead, nearly luminous turquoise eyes, a
perfectly straight nose with a sensual mouth and a
strong jaw. He was easily six feet two and slim like a
avail
^-
last with wide shoulders and a narrow waist. He was dressed in white pants, sneakers and a
light blue jacket under which he wore a tight T-shirt.
The jacket was open so I could see some of his muscle
development, especially his chest.
What surprised me the most was I didn't think
he was older than his mid-twenties, yet Aunt Victoria had described him as the best therapist in his company. I wasn't prepared to turn my broken body over to a man who didn't look much older than I. I hoped I wasn't going to be someone's guinea pig or
the subject of someone's internship.
The look on his face when he confronted me
told me I was not exactly what he expected either. He
stared for a moment, his lips softening into a soft,
amused smile of surprise. Finally, he realized we were
both staring dumbly at each other and he practically
jumped toward me, his hand extended.
"Hi," he said. "I'm Austin Clarke."
I lifted my hand slowly and he pulled
it
into his
impatiently, holding it longer than I expected. Mrs. Bogart stood back in the doorway
watching a moment. "If you need anything, just
shout," she said, "I won't be far."
"Thank you," he said and turned back to me, his
eyes narrowing and his lips now forming a slightly sly
smile, almost impish. "You're disappointed I'm not
same older guy, huh?"
"Yes," I said, pulling my hand from his. "They tell me I'll always look like a teenager. I
have that complexion or maybe ifs just this carrot top.
I was thinking about dying it black, but then I'd have to dye my eyebrows and do something about these freckles. It's easier to tell everyone
I
take Dick Clark pills." He widened his smile in anticipation of my laughter. "They think we're related. Austin Clarke, Dick Clark?"
I
didn't react. "Dick Clark. 'Teenage
Bandstand,' the guy who never seems to age?" "I know who he is," I said.
He nodded and looked around the room. "Good. You've got it all here."
He put dawn his small gym bag and approached
the first
machine.
"This is a leg pump. You know why we want
you to use it?"
"Stop atrophy." I recited dryly.
"Yeah, that's one thing. When the muscles of
the calves and thighs are in contraction, blood low in
oxygen, what we call venous blood, is pumped
through the leg muscle pump from the legs to the
heart.
"The veins of the legs have valves which are
similar to those of the heart. They allow blood to pass
through towards the heart while they prevent the
blood flowing backwards towards the foot. In this way
they only allow blood flow in one direction: toward
the heart.
"During the pumping phase or muscle
contraction, the pressure within the veins is increased,
pumping the venous blood towards the heart. "During the filling phase or muscle relaxation,
the pressure within the veins is reduced and the veins
fill themselves with blood in preparation for the next
pumping phase. This prevents thrombosis, blood
clotting, and increases peripheral circulation which is
necessary for tissue nutrition, oxygenation and
removal of metabolic waste. And yes, muscle
strength, prevention of atrophy.
"Well?" he said standing back with his hands
on his hips.
"Well what?"
"Aren't you impressed yet?"
"Overwhelmed," I said and he laughed. "Okay. Let's just start and see where we go,
okay?"
He went over to the equipment and brought out
a rolled thick mat that he undid and spread on the
floor. Then he looked at me.
"We'll go through a very basic evaluation. You
know what I want you to do first?"
"Warm up and then some stretching," I said. "Terrific. Maybe you should be the therapist.'" "Believe me," I said. "I wish I could," His smile widened and he stepped toward me.
With tentative hands, waiting for my cooperation, he
urged me to lift myself from the wheelchair. I knew
he was waiting to see just what I could do with my
right leg. I started and he came around behind me and
put his hands on my hips.
"Don't worry," he said. "I have you." His face was so close to my hair. I could feel
his breath on my neck. I put all my weight on my
right lea and started up. Then he took over and with
ease gently lowered me to the mat. He had me lay flat
and then he hovered over me a moment,
"You okay?" he asked.
"Yes." I closed my eyes and pressed my lips
together and kept myself from screaming. I opened
them and looked up. He was on his knees beside me. "We're going to rotate every joint in your body
and what you can't do yourself. I'll help you do," he
said.
"Why am I doing this?" I muttered to myself. He smiled down at me, those beautiful eyes full
of laughter. "So I can have work, why else?" he said. Even if I wanted to. I couldn't stop a smile from
settling on my face.
"Oh, one other thing," he said rising and going
to his Gym bag. He unzipped it and took out a small
tape recorder. "I like to work with music. Is that
okay?"
"Yes," I said. He turned it on.
I was expecting elevator music, soothing, soft
melodic tones like they had at the hospital.
Instead, there was a wham and a barn and the
rock music began.
He shrugged.
"You can take the kid out of rock and roll, but
you can't take rock and roll out of the kid."
My smile turned into a laugh,
"Okay?"
"Yes," I said. "It's fine."
A moment later I saw Mrs. Bogart look in on
us. The music had drawn her back. Austin saw her.
too. She glared a moment, smirked, shook her head
and walked away.
"Maybe she's not a rock music fan," he said. I laughed.
"Hardly."
He started me on rotating my neck muscles and
he worked me down my body until we reached the
places I couldn't move and then he leaned over me
and gently, gracefully began to rotate them himself. He started to sing along with the music and I
groaned.
"Okay, okay," he said. "Now you know why
I'm a therapist and not a rock star."
"Did Aunt Victoria meet you?" I asked him,
suddenly very curious about this whole arrangement. "Who's your Aunt Victoria? I just was given
my assignment and showed up."
"She prides herself on being right about every
decision she makes. She was told you were the best in
your company. The owner told her so himself." He leaned forward until he was only inches
from my face and he winked.
"My uncle owns it," he said. Then he laughed.
I did too. I laughed so hard those familiar tears
came again. only this time. I didn't seem to mind
them.
Not at all.

9
Pills to Kill Pain
.
Austin Clarke was actually twenty-eight years

old, even though he could probably pass for a senior in high school or at least a freshman in college. His uncle really did own the physical therapy company. but Austin told me his father wasn't happy he was working for his uncle, his mother's brother.

"My father wanted me to follow in his footsteps instead," Austin explained. "He owns an electric switch company in New Jersey. but
I
never found it very interesting or challenging to spend your life frying to manipulate costs so you could be more competitive in your bidding for jobs.

"My uncle Byron was always into health and physical fitness. He was a runner up in one of those Mr. Olympia contests, body builders, you know? My father thought he was wasting his time, but while my uncle was at the health clubs, he got interested in physical therapy and went to school for it. Then, he started his own company. I guess he was a big influence on me because
I
began working out and studying health foods and everything. Eventually. I got into it. too.

"Needless to say, my father's not going around bragging about my accomplishments."
"Why not? You're helping people who need you," I said. "Why wouldn't he boast?"
"It's a father-son thing, I guess. Manly pride stuff. Every father hopes his son wants to be like him and be as interested in his business, the things that interest him. Parents are always trying to make themselves over in their children, forgetting their children are individuals too," he said. "Sony," he quickly added. "I don't mean to on a soapbox my first day."
"That's all right. I agree with you anyway."
We were outside. After a little over an hour of warm-up, stretching and some strengthening exercises. Austin decided I should always include fresh air as part of my therapy. It was a warm summer day, even a little humid. but I didn't mind. He pushed me along the path toward the lake. When we got down to the shore and the small dock, he dipped his hand in the water and nodded.
"Not as cold as I thought it would be," he said. "Anyone ever swim in this?"
"Not for a long time. Why?"
"Aqua therapy is very effective," he said.
"You mean you expect me to go swimming?" I asked. astonished.
"Sure, why not? It's still summer and the days are hot enough, aren't they?"
I shook my head.
"No way. I wasn't much of a swimmer before I got injured. I didn't have all that much opportunity. I'm a city girl and my school didn't have an outdoor or indoor pool. I didn't even go swimming until I started school here in my senior year."
"Hey, we all came from the ocean, don't you remember? It comes natural to us. We'll see. I think this could do you a world of good, especially these dog days."
"Dog days'?" I laughed.
"Isn't that the way you Southern girls would put it?"
"I'm no Southern girl and you don't have much of a Southern accent. Where are you from?" I asked him.
He smiled and stood up.
"Trenton. New Jersey. My mother's the Southerner. She was born and raised in Norfolk. I have a younger sister who loves to sound like a Southern belle, honey," he said overacting a Southern accent. "Her name is Heather Sue Clarke and she always goes by Heather Sue. If someone calls her just Heather, she'll correct them and say, it's Heather Sue. She's been doing that ever since she was three.
"What about you?" he asked. "You have any brothers or sisters?'" He looked back at the house. "This is a pretty big house to be in all by yourself. Where are your parents? Both working? Why is your aunt in charge of all this?"
I stared up at him and he just broke out into laughter.
"Sorry, sorry," he said holding up his hand. "Didn't mean to overwhelm you with my nosiness and hit you with a shotgun of questions."
"That's all right," I said. Then I sat back enjoying the air cooling over the water for a moment before I started.
Here I go again. I thought.
"I have a stepbrother and a half sister."
He nodded like someone waiting for the punch line of a joke.
"And I don't live with my mother. I live in this big house all by myself. With Mrs. Bogart, too. now. She was just hired. Not that she's much company," I added.
"Really?" He turned to look at the lake.
"I thought you would have had to know all about me before starting to work with me," I said.
"Well. I do know how you got injured. Sorry about that. You know," he said looking at me again. "I've done some interesting therapy work with children using horseback riding. Maybe someday you'll get back in the saddle."
"I doubt that."
"Don't underestimate yourself. Rain." he said, his eyes small. intense. "Don't live in a world of fantasy either, but before you come to any ironclad conclusions about your future, about what you will and will not do, give your recuperation and
rehabilitation a chance. End of lecture," he quickly added and pretended to zip his mouth shut.
I gazed up at him. With the midday sun beaming down, its rays slipping between two puffy, lazy clouds over us, it looked like we were both in spotlights. My nose was filled with the fresh fragrances of wild flowers mixing with all the scents that rose from the water: the dampness of the wooden dock, the redolent smell of wet earth.
Austin's face was radiant even without the glow of sunshine on it. In broad daylight, his turquoise eyes showed some specks of green. He looked healthy and strong, young and vibrant. everything I was and dreamed I'd be again. Whenever he looked at me, he had laughter on his lips, a kind, happy laughter that followed interesting discoveries.
How could anyone look at me and think of anything else but pity and sorrow? I wondered. What secret did he possess? What magic potion did he drink every day that gave him the power to see beauty and goodness, hope and promise in a world that I saw only as dark and foreboding now? Was it just his good fortune with health and fitness?
"Are you married or engaged or anything?" I asked him, assuming this radiance in his eyes, this glow in his face had something to do with being in love. Someone out there filled his heart with neat joy.
Days and days of memorizing Romeo avid Juliet for class in London had kept it in my bank account of sweet thoughts and some of the lines came quickly to my mind:
'Love is a smoke made with the fume of sighs, Being purged, a fire sparking lovers' eyes...
"I'm not anything at the moment. Not too long ago. I thought I was in love and someone was in love with me, but while my back was turned, because I was busy with patients, one of my buddies stepped into the available moment. should I say, and the love I thought was so strong, turned to mush."
He stepped up on the small dock, raised his hands and cried. "She's gone. I am abased, and my relief must be to loathe her."
Then he laughed. My mouth dropped open.
"That's from Othello," I declared. He nodded.
"Seemed to fit at the time, so I borrowed it. It's a passion of mine. I have all these tapes of plays, dramatic readings. and I listen to them while I make myself dinner or when I'm just relaxing, lying on my sofa, my eyes closed." He stepped down again and in a loud whisper said. "I'm a frustrated actor."
I narrowed my eyes. suspiciously. "Did my aunt tell you about me?"
"I never met your aunt. remember? My uncle gave me the assignment. I've read all your medical records. I told you I know how you were injured, but I wasn't given your autobiography. no. Why?"
"I spent most of the year in London at a school for performing arts, training to become an actress." I said.
"You're kidding! Well, we'll just have to get you up to speed so you can start auditioning for all the female wheelchair parts."
I stared at him and then, seeing the impish gleam in his eye. I laughed. It was as if a weight was being lifted from my shoulders. Who would have thought that I would be laughing at myself in this condition? Who would have thought I could find the slightest thing funny about myself?
He smiled.
"That's it." he said. "'That's the secret. You've got to laugh at everything eventually. Only those who take themselves too seriously suffer, really suffer. You're going to get better in a thousand different ways. Rain. I just know it," he insisted. He put his hand over mine on the side of the wheelchair and looked into my eyes, forcing me to look deeply into his eyes so I could see his sincerity.
Was it my imagination or did I see something else there. something I wanted to see? Could a man ever look at me again and think of me as beautiful? If you saw yourself as being only half a person, surely everyone else would see you the same way.
He closed his eyes and pulled back quickly like someone who knew he had stepped over some boundary.
"I guess we should head back to the house. Mrs. Bogart gave strict instructions as to when lunch would be served. That's a woman I don't want to cross."
"Are you staying for lunch?" I quickly asked.
"Are you inviting me?"
If you'd like to stay, you can stay." I said, retreating from any show of feeling. Being wounded so many times in relationships when I was completely healthy made me hesitant. Now I had even more reason to be.
"That's not much of an invitation. My ego's bruised, but," he added grasping the handles of my chair and starting me around. "I'm starving so I'll bear it."
He couldn't see the smile on my face as we started back toward the house, but it was there, sitting firmly on my lips like the memory of some wonderful soft kiss.
.
I had to believe Austin had at least one ulterior motive to his wanting to be at lunch. He spent most of the time talking about different foods with Mrs. Bogart. He believed the diet I followed was important.
I
could see she wasn't happy about having her menus challenged or him dictating anything to her. but Austin had an unobtrusive way about him and complimented her on so many different things that by the time lunch was over, she was smiling at him, albeit reluctantly, nodding her head and looking at him with approval.
"That young man knows his sniff." she told me afterward. "I've seen some pretty poor excuses for therapists in my time. Believe me, it's important to have a good one."
Austin had left instructions for activities I should follow when he wasn't here. He wanted me on the leg machine for at least ten minutes, three times a day. Mrs. Bogart hovered over me when I got myself from the chair to the machine. but I insisted on doing whatever I could do myself, by myself, Nothing haunted my thoughts as much as Doctor Snyder's warning not to become dependant on anyone. Independence was the key to the doorway of any real recovery. I thought,
Even if it meant it would take me ten times as long to get something done for myself, I would do it myself. I quickly learned how to get myself out of bed every morning, how to dress myself, and even as painful and as awkward as it was, to put on my own shoes and socks.
Sometimes. I would get so exhausted. I would fall asleep in my chair, my head down, my arms dangling, and when I woke, either after twenty minutes or an hour. I would ache in new places. Mrs. Bogart retreated, waited in the wings, or sometimes. I think, just stood there outside my doorway. listening. Maybe she was hoping I would scream for her and be more dependent on her. but I wouldn't call her unless it was absolutely necessary. I was still timid about some things, like getting myself in and out of a bathtub and had to have her assist me there.
Austin was to come every weekday for the first two weeks. It got so I looked forward to his arrival more than anything else. Gradually, he increased my activities. I exercised to his music and grew stronger and stronger. He spent lots of time just going through the basic movements of everyday life, showing me ways to let out of bed easier, move my body better to avoid pressure sores, and how to manipulate my wheelchair to get the most efficient use of it. It took a few attempts. but I was finally able to get myself up the ramp outside.
During our frequent breaks. Austin would tell me about some of his other clients, two of whom were at a rest home.
"Both of them still have pretty young minds. There are a lot of similarities between them and young people handicapped in one way or another. I just look past the wrinkles and gray hair and think of them the same as anyone else trying to regain mobility or movement to accompany their youthful mentality. I was thinking that it would be perfect if we all went brain dead first, like some switch..." he said looking away and smiling. "Yes, a switch would be flipped and our bodies would shut down instead of our bodies weakening or sickening and then leaving us..."
"Looking out of windows?"
I
suggested.
"Yeah." His smile became a flag of firm resolution. "I'm going to get you out of here. Rain. You won't be stuck behind any window. You're doing terrific. What do you say tomorrow we try some of that aqua therapy. It's supposed to be close to ninetyfive degrees and sunny. I bet it would be fun."
"I don't know." I shook my head fearfully.
"C'mon, take a chance," he urged.
I laughed.
"Not much really of a chance for me to take, is it?" I asked. "What do you mean?"
"I don't have much to risk anymore, right?"
"Wrong. You've act more to risk. You have all this extra experience and knowledge to hand down."
"What extra knowledge?" I asked, turning my eyebrows in toward each other.
"You know how to defeat tragedy," he told me.
I wasn't sure if everything he was doing was contrived, planned, right down to his smiles and laughs, but for now. I didn't care. It all made me feel too good and hopeful and that was something I wasn't about to surrender, even in the face of deceit.
"Okay," I said. "We'll go swimming. Or rather, you'll go swimming and I'll be a float."
"No you won't. You'll see," he said.
After he left I went through my wardrobe, searching for my bathing suits. I had the one I used as a uniform at Dogwood and I had two others, but they were both two-piece, one so abbreviated it was technically a bikini. I laid them all on the bed and pondered. It would take me hours to try them all on. I thought, but my fear of looking bad was motivation enough to give me the strength,
Mrs. Bogart looked in on me while I was struggling with the school suit.
"Why are you putting that on?" she asked and I told her Austin's plan.
She looked at me askance but didn't say anything. Without waiting, she helped me pull up the suit and zippered it.
"Thank you," I said. She shrugged and left. I stared in the mirror. My legs looked bony and thin to me and I thought my hips had widened. It brought hot tears to my eyes.
"What am I doing?" I muttered. "This is stupid. What am I doing?"
I started to rip the bathing suit off, pulling and tugging at it so viciously that I tore the zipper away from the material on one side. Then I felt my shoulders start to shake and a strange rippling through my stomach. Looking in the mirror. I saw I was crying hysterically. I was just doing it silently.
Maybe I had been working at my therapy too hard. Maybe I didn't listen to Mrs. Bogart enough and take enough rest time. Maybe I had permitted myself to drift through some world of fantasy in a bubble that finally burst. Whatever the reason. I suddenly felt a deep exhaustion. Both fatigue and depression went to the very bottom of my being, turning me into a limp lump of defeat. Half-naked. I sagged in the chair, devoid of the strength to remove the swimsuit completely and get myself dressed again.
A low moan began at the base of my throat and began to vibrate to the back of my neck and up behind my head. Suddenly. I had a terrific spasm in my stomach. too. My moan got louder and Mrs. Bogart came running. When she looked at me. I was shaking so hard, the chair was rattling.