Isabel's Healing

by Maggie McIntyre

“What, hey?” (In less than two minutes of humping? You must be kidding!)

  “Er, not quite, but I enjoyed it.” Even at sixteen, Bryon knew the expression ‘damning with faint praise’ but she smiled as well, so that was all that mattered to Mike.

  Bryony’s overriding emotion had been relief that she’d insisted on being on the pill for at least a month before they tried anything remotely risky. She couldn’t get over the difference to one’s life as a girl if she had not been so prudent. Two minutes of being pushed and fumbled in return for having to bear and raise another human being? What a crazy system for procreation!

  Mike had lasted as her boyfriend only for another couple of months; she just couldn’t stand the boredom, coupled with his inappropriate sense of triumph each time. But she did try again; she really did, with other boys, who had different coloring, different speeds, and different levels of sophistication. One had actually read all about the clitoris, and decided to show great respect for hers. He even bit it one day. Bryony told herself she liked boys, she did. She liked being with them, drinking diet coke while they drank beer, swinging on their arm, being courted and kissed and tickled. She liked all those things. She just hadn’t found the right guy. That was all.

  Then she met Aiden, half way through college, and thought that maybe, he’d be the one. They’d been together now for nearly two years, and she had learned to fake orgasms as well as any star of stage and screen. What had started as her default position of not wanting to crush any guy’s ego had moved on to be a result of her guilt at not telling him really what she wanted. But what did she want? She hardly knew. She just knew she felt empty, and a more than a little lost.

  Now, the very day before she left London, he had asked Bryony once again to commit to their relationship, in fact, to agree to marry him, and she had not been able to think of a convincing single reason why she should turn him down. There wasn’t any reason, well, except of course for one inescapable fact, that she didn’t love him at all, not in the way he wanted, not enough to sustain a marriage which might last fifty years, God help her.

  What was she going to say, after so long? “Sorry, it’s the stubble?”

  So maybe she did love him, but she wasn’t in love with him, not love in a way she could hardly imagine. She had to believe in this chimera, this dream that was out there somewhere for her in the universe, elusive, just over the horizon, beyond the evening star.

  She had buried this feeling for too long, but it persisted to throw up inconvenient shoots of doubt and sadness. They were like thistles in her otherwise productive life’s bean patch. She wanted a love which would include physical passion, excitement, the throwing away of all inhibitions and a total communion of souls. She wanted a love to scare her, excite her, stretch her to breaking point, and also sustain her to the end of her days.

  Her true tiny mushroom of self-understanding realized it when she did actually once orgasm in her sleep. She literally dreamed one up, in the middle of the night after yet another unproductive and frustrating session in bed with Aiden. It had been amazing and she actually wanted to cry from the grief of knowing what she’d been missing all these years.

  The only problem however was the face which had swum in front of her closed eyes had been, (God help her) the hard but powerful features of her Math teacher back in high school, the one who had coached to an A in additional math at the age of sixteen, and the one who frightened her into correct answers. It was beyond inappropriate. So she dealt with it by dismissing it as a ‘weird, I mean, really weird dream,’ and then burying it.

  Aiden Webster was what her grandmother would have called a ‘nice boy,’ if she had lived long enough to meet him. He was undeniably good-looking, humorous, going to pass out near the top of their class in medicine, from a normal family with a mother who adored her, and showing her even more affection than her own relations had been able to muster.

  Every one of their friends expected them to stay a couple after university, Aiden included. But by now she knew the special spark, the elusive something, just wasn’t there, and she regretfully realized, never would be. Besides, marriage was outdated. Her parents had never married, well probably because they hadn’t had time to. The fates had taken them away too young.

  Bryony hesitated about calling God into the equation. It sounded irrational to blame a deity one way or another for her singular lack of luck when it came to healthy parents. It would be better just to throw what had happened back over the tennis net as a random missed ball. She was not one to allocate blame, and ranting at a mysterious so-called loving God would achieve nothing. Neither would blame the heavens for denying her the ability to have orgasms.

  Isabel chose precisely that moment to break into her thoughts with an inconveniently scary suggestion. “Do you have a boyfriend? I imagine there must be someone. If you invite him up to visit us here sometime I would not object. I don’t want to cut you off from all your friends.”

  Bryony gulped so hard a piece of chicken threatened to go down the wrong way. Because Isabel was in no position to thump her on the back, she had to rescue herself from choking, by swallowing copious amounts of water and heaving the obstruction back up herself. It took several minutes for her digestive system to calm down. Isabel looked at her in astonishment, raising her eyebrow.

  “So there is someone? I didn’t mean for you to drop dead though, at the very mention of him.”

  “Er, well, no. There is someone, but he understands he can’t visit, and I won’t be free to go south to meet up with him. He lives in Sussex. It’s too far. But thanks, anyway.”

  “I knew it,” thought Isabel.

  There had to be someone for a girl as attractive as Bryony. Isabel had an unexpected wave of regret sweep through her, and was alarmed by how suddenly unsettled, even sad, the information made her insides feel. Where had that ridiculous emotion come from anyway?

  It had to be crushed immediately if that was the case. Some perverse masochism made her pursue the conversation further to help with the crushing of “gay awareness” syndrome.

  “Well, I think you should invite him anyway. I’d like to meet him. If Claire is here, then you can maybe go off for a night together.”

  “No thanks!” Bryony heard herself almost squeak in protest. “Thanks. You’re very kind, but there’s no need.”

  “Oh, very well, but if you change your mind...”

  Isabel tried to stop herself. What was she playing at? Hadn’t she just insisted to herself that she wouldn’t even ask about the girl’s family circumstances?

  She opened her mouth to speak again, but was silenced as Bryony popped in a piece of chicken wrapped up in spinach. She chewed obediently and they grinned at each other.

  Something was almost funny, but neither could understand quite what it was. They seemed to be running on automatic pilot suddenly. Lunch continued in silence, and then Bryony said.

  “There’s some yogurt for dessert. Do you fancy some? ”

  She had obviously recovered from her coughing fit at the mention of the boyfriend.

  “OK.”

  Now Isabel really did feel just like a baby, being fed yogurt from a spoon and having her chin wiped with a napkin afterwards. She cursed that she couldn’t move her arms even enough to reach a spoon into her mouth. She wouldn’t be able to clean her own teeth either until at least one of the arm casts was removed.

  Bryony had made a game of teeth cleaning first and last thing each day, putting a blob of toothpaste on the electric brush and holding it up to her mouth while she tried to work it round her teeth. Then the girl would switch it off; pass a glass full of mouthwash to her lips and command “Spit!”

  It became a silly challenge to see how far she could spit. A disgusting, childish activity, but one she actually enjoyed. In the hospital, such niceties had been impossible.

  Oh, well, for now she would just have to continue putting up with being a blob in a wheelchair. Maybe it was divine punishment for all the times she had im
patiently pushed people out of her way, or written sarcastic comments about other people’s inadequacies in references and reports. Now she could not even sign her own name with any similarity to her original hand–writing. Bryony had to act as her hands, arms, her legs, everything. It was such a relief she wasn’t irritating either to look at or to listen to. She really was a pleasant and competent assistant.

  Isabel decided to leave it at that. If she developed a crush on the girl, after all these months of feeling absolutely no attraction for any woman after losing Carrie, then that would ruin everything. And she would only embarrass herself and scare her away. The very idea was anathema.

  ***

  Sunday afternoon was spent once again wandering with the wheelchair through the woods. They went further this time, and took a right fork in the track, which meant Bryony had to cope with pushing the chair with its passenger up a long slow incline, and then quite a steep way back down, but Isabel hadn’t fallen out, thank God. They both returned home exhausted, but almost as pleased with themselves as if they’d discovered America. Isabel was definitely thawing out, and even cracked a few jokes.

  In the evening Bryony suggested she might like to watch television for a while. Isabel left her chair to be seated on the old comfortable sofa in the living room. She patted the cushion next to her and Bryony plumped herself down next to her. The TV was showing pretty banal stuff.

  “Chewing-gum for the mind,” Isabel called it, but they both enjoyed the repeat of an old film.

  Isabel rarely watched TV, so the very activity was quite a diversion and she had used up her day’s supply of grey matter, so simply wanted to look at somebody else’s life and death struggles. They then watched Murder She Wrote, a real Golden Oldie, and Jessica Fletcher’s detective problems from the early 1990s filled the mindless banter bill quite nicely.

  “Have you noticed how that woman wades through murdered corpses each week without a care in the world? She never seems to lose a moment’s sleep over it either.”

  “Steady work solving crimes must be a great comfort.”

  The girl looked as though her own eyelids were very heavy. Isabel realized if she didn’t nudge her she’d miss her promised massage.

  “You said you’d give me a massage,” she said hopefully.

  Bryony opened her eyes and stretched her arm round Isabel to turn on the lamp behind them.

  “I did, and I’m a girl of my word. Here, lie back on the sofa, and I’ll do you here.”

  It wasn’t exactly an elegant mode of expression, but as Isabel lay back and let Bryony take off her trousers and top, she sank into a state of semi-consciousness. Bryony, as before, started with her toes and worked up her body, rubbing in the fresh green Aloe Vera lotion. She could almost feel her cells regenerating. Bryony then knelt on the floor beside her, and in places where there was no bruising; she exerted a fair bit of pressure.

  She had arrived at Isabel’s mid-section when she said quietly,” If I pad you up with cushions could you turn over for me onto your stomach? I need to do your back and prevent those pressure sores.”

  Isabel turned and resituated herself. Her pinioned arms and leg were a complete nuisance but Bryony worked round them. Isabel buried her head in a cushion and lived for the moment.

  “Mindfulness,” she thought. “Be in the moment. Enjoy the sensation just as it is. No regrets, no resentment, no hopes...ahh!”

  Bryony had now stripped back her underwear so that her backside was exposed, like a baby’s on a play mat after a bath.

  She felt the girl’s fingers dig into her maximus gluteus muscles and work in copious amounts of gel. It felt divine, and so cooling, but oh, lord, undeniably sexually stimulating. Just when she thought she could bear it no longer, and would have to indicate something to make her stop, Bryony moved smoothly upwards, and readjusted her underwear. She caressed and massaged Isabel’s lower back from the top of her butt upwards, then knelt more upright and moved so she could work her neck and shoulder muscles. She dug into the shoulder muscles, with her thumbs next to Isabel’s spine.

  “There’s a lot of tension up here. I’ll give it more time tomorrow.”

  “Are you surprised?” protested Bel, her voice muffled into the cushion. “Heaving about in the woods all afternoon. I’m lucky you didn’t send me flying three hundred feet out of the trees and down the valley at one point.”

  “Sshh. We made it home safely, didn’t we? Anyway, I’ve been reading about you. You’re a fearless explorer. You might have enjoyed it if I’d sent you airborne.”

  “Oh, yes, but I haven’t the time now to recover from a second round of multiple fractures, thank you, girl.” Then Isabel thought about what Bryony had just said, “Reading about me?”

  “Uh, like you suggested. On Google. I’m actually quite in awe as a result.”

  “Oh, right. Only quite? I see.” There was a long pause as she digested the implications of the information.

  “Well, totally in awe actually.”

  “That’s good. I could do with more than a modicum of awe right now.”

  “You know...”

  “Yes?”

  “Any time you want to, you know, talk about...anything, it would be fine. I would understand, or try to. If you just wanted to talk about it, about...her, you know, your partner. I was so very sorry to read how she died.”

  Bryony didn’t stop her hands, but she held her breath. Had she said too much? What would Isabel say? Would she be angry? But Isabel instead did something sweet, and completely unexpected. She turned her face towards Bryony’s hand on her neck and kissed it very lightly.

  “Thank you,” was all she said.

  Bryony realized she was speaking from a heart so full it could scarcely let out more words. The pressure from the kiss was like a butterfly’s wing, but the imprint of her lips stayed on Bryony’s hand. She flexed her fingers and completed the massage with a light stimulation to Isabel’s head in the manner of the Indian masseuses. She knew just how wonderful it felt, because someone who had been on a training course in India had once done it to her.

  Isabel sighed, and murmured, “Oh, yes, that’s, that’s very...relaxing,” and then she dropped her head and buried her face deeper into the cushion.

  Bryony finished her head massage, stood up to stretch her muscles and then sat back down on the sofa, making room for herself by gently lifting Isabel’s head onto her lap. She didn’t protest, and simply lay across Bryony’s knees with her eyes shut. Jessica Fletcher, as always, solved her case, explaining it all in a very friendly, straightforward way to the murderer, the sheriff and any members of the TV audience who might have missed the vital clue she alone had noticed. Bel and Bryony stayed together on the sofa until the ten o’clock News. It focused mainly on yet more controversial arguments about Brexit, but Isabel slept through it all.

  When she woke, just as the late evening news finished, she awkwardly tried but failed to sit up, so she lay back down on Bryony’s lap and looked at her quizzically. She looked funny with her hair on end, smelling of Aloe Vera gel. Her mouth twitched, as she felt Bryony’s arm casually resting round her body and across her chest and spoke, without thinking just what she meant.

  “I’m stuck. You’ve captured me. What are you doing here, girl?”

  Bryony looked down into her eyes, and gave a very slight shrug. She thought she knew what Isabel might mean though, so didn’t entirely ignore the question.

  “I don’t know, getting you well, making you feel better. Are you comfortable? That’s the main thing.”

  “Yes, I am comfortable. More comfortable than I can tell you.”

  “Then that’s all that matters. Now if you allow me my 10 pm smile I’ll release you and help you to bed.”

  And Isabel complied.

  Chapter 11

  By Monday it felt as though they had been together for more than just one weekend. They were slipping into a routine, one that Bel found very tolerable. She was unwilling to admit it, but Bryony wa
s proving to be a perfect nurse, calm, always pleasant, gentle but firm, and deft when she had to administer personal care.

  She washed and dried Bel carefully, and on Monday morning she took up a hand mirror from the dresser in the bedroom, and positioned her in front of the dressing table to show her how the bruises were beginning to fade on her back. Isabel had to agree that the arnica treatment had speeded up their healing, and her ribs were definitely becoming less sore.

  “Would you prefer if I left off the strapping today, to see how you go. It might help with your breathing.”

  “Very well.”

  “Let me put some more arnica ointment on them for you. Hold on.”

  Bel sat on the bed, naked to the waist. She was used to exposing herself now to the girl, who had turned her slightly away from the dressing table, and more towards the window, so she could more easily examine her back. The sunbeams filtered through the glass and she enjoyed the warmth. Bryony applied the salve over the bruises, and Bel enjoyed the gentle contact.

  No-one had touched her like this, so gently, since Carrie died. Carrie had loved her and had been addicted to her body. She could almost imagine this was such a touch, but of course it wasn’t. It still made her shiver though. The plaster casts were chafing her under her arms, and Bryony applied extra cream there, holding up her arms while she rubbed it gently from back to front, almost as far as her breasts. Then she reached for an old soft cotton T shirt.

  “I found this in your drawer. I think if you wear it, it will protect the sides of your upper body against the rough casts. Let me cut open the sleeves so I can put in on for you.”

  She reached for a pair of scissors and slit open the sleeves to accommodate the arm casts, and then she pulled it gently over Bel’s head. It fell comfortably down over her body and unsupported breasts. A bra would still be too painful across her back and ribs. Without saying anything Bryony gently lifted Bel’s breasts up one by one to settle the T-shirt and smooth it out. The touching sent a frisson of arousal through Bel and she almost moaned out loud, before biting her lip and swallowing the little cry of pleasure.