by T. D. Jakes
Clarice had heard many “Miz Ida” stories from Michelle. She was an elderly woman from Michelle’s old neighborhood who had been not only like a grandmother but as much of a mother as Michelle had while growing up. To hear Michelle tell it, Miz Ida and Jesus sat on the front porch together every single day. “She’s got a wisdom that doesn’t come from her own head,” Michelle often said. Clarice felt she could certainly stand to have the prayers of such a person.
“Thanks, Michelle. I’ll be okay. I just need to get everything back on track and I’ll be fine.”
“There you go. You just focus on getting that leg better, and let Michelle take care of the details, all right?”
“Sounds good. Okay, I’ll probably check back in a day or two. But call me if you can set up something with the Farbers, all right?”
“You got it, sister.”
Clarice hung up. Talking to Michelle had actually helped her a little bit. She felt slightly reconnected to the office and her business, and it was reassuring to know Michelle was bringing her efficiency to bear on keeping Clarice’s clients informed and serviced. Clarice guessed she could probably get back up to speed at work without too much trouble.
But her personal life . . . the way she sometimes felt inside—all jumbled up and fragile, as if anything could hurt her—was another story. Clarice wasn’t sure she could keep it together long enough to get back to work. There were moments when it took all her concentration just to keep from running out the front door in a panic. If getting onto her crutches wasn’t so much trouble, she might have done it.
She could just imagine what Mama would say: “Girl, you better get yourself together. A broken leg ain’t the end of the world. Why don’t you think about what you need to do instead of getting yourself all lathered up over something you don’t even know what it is?”
The fact was that Clarice didn’t have an answer to her mama’s question. She didn’t understand what she was afraid of. The source of her dread and anxiety was a mystery to her. All she knew was that she had no defense against an enemy that seemed to live inside her own mind; she carried it with her wherever she went. There was no escape. And that was maybe the most frightening thing of all.
Her cell phone rang. Clarice looked down at the screen; it was Mama.
Chapter Eight
Wondering if her mother had somehow sensed her thoughts from afar, Clarice pressed the button to answer the call.
“Mama?”
“Clarice, how you doing today, honey?”
She sounded all anxious and concerned, like you’d expect a mother to be, but Clarice thought carefully about her answer anyway. After all, it was Mama.
“Not too bad, Mama.”
“You sure about that?”
How did she know? I’d have sworn I kept it out of my voice.
“Yeah, Mama, I’m—”
“I think maybe I better come down there and see for myself.”
“Mama, really, David is taking good—”
“Yeah, I know about David. A man’s got his uses—”
“—but taking care of the sick isn’t one of them. Really, Mama, we’re doing just fine.”
“Well, you don’t sound right to me. I’m going to have Freddy drop me off there next Friday.”
Her phone beeped, ending the call. Clarice stared at the screen for maybe ten full seconds. Then she sighed and let her head fall back on the cushions. Sharing her house with David and Mama. What a cozy little triangle this will be . . .
Julie looked at her weekly planner and shook her head in disgust. She had five empty slots that she couldn’t fill because doing so would put her over the maximum hours the clinic had imposed on all the therapists. It was crazy; because of some bean-counter’s fretting over insurance companies and what they were willing to pay for policyholders’ therapy, she was supposed to limit the number of people she was seeing. Not only did it not make sense for the people who needed her help, it didn’t make sense for Julie’s bank account, either.
Ted was late with the child support check this month, again. It had gotten so that Julie almost looked on Ted’s payments as a surprise bonus. Meanwhile, Bryson’s swim coach wanted to take the team to a meet out-of-state, and even with the fund-raising the Y and the kids were doing, each parent was being asked to pony up around two hundred and fifty dollars. Julie didn’t know where that was going to come from, especially since it was due in two weeks’ time—exactly halfway between her already-decreased paychecks from the clinic.
She stared at her planner and fumed . . . and thought. She started remembering what some of the other therapists had threatened as they left the employee meeting and wondered if she could see a few patients on her own time, outside the clinic’s hours. She wasn’t sure, but she thought as long as the patients had a doctor’s order and Julie had a valid license to practice therapy in the state, she ought to be able to take on some outside work. She might need to do a little research on the reimbursement question, but the professional association had resources to help with that; she just needed a little time to go online and get the facts.
She looked at her contact list and started thinking about whom she might call. Her pencil paused at Dave and Clarice Johnson. What about them? Given Clarice’s emotional state, Julie thought she might welcome the chance to work on her recovery in the privacy of her own home instead of taking on an unfamiliar regimen in front of a roomful of strangers. Slowly she drew a circle around the Johnsons’ names as she thought. A few seconds later she picked up the phone.
“Clarice, I got a call today from Julie down at the clinic. She had an idea I thought you’d want to hear.”
Clarice was sitting at the computer desk, her fingertips poised above the keyboard. Dave stayed in the doorway; he decided not to try to see whatever it was she was working on. The way her state of mind had been lately, she might club him over the head with one of her crutches.
“What’s that?” she asked.
“She said that if it was agreeable to us—to you—that she’d be willing to come to the house and get you going on your therapy. She said you might appreciate the privacy, especially at first, and she had some open time in her schedule. She said all we needed to do was let her know what the doctor said, and she could get you started as early as next week, depending on how the doctor rates your leg. Well? What do you think?”
Dave had immediately liked the idea, but he knew better than to let Clarice know that, so he tried to downplay his own opinion of the plan. He watched her as her eyes flickered back and forth, considering.
“That might be nice,” she said finally. “I’ve been trying to remember to do the things she said that day, but I don’t know how much more she’ll want to start with . . .” She looked up at him, and Dave saw the closest thing to enthusiasm he’d seen in his wife’s face since before the accident. “Yes, David, I think that sounds good. What did you tell her?”
“I told her I was gonna have to talk to you. But if you want, I’ll call her tomorrow and get it set up.”
“No, why don’t you let me call her? Actually, I never really thanked her properly for all the time she took with us at her office. I need to mend that. Let me do it, okay?”
He studied her face, looking for signs that Clarice was putting up some kind of smokescreen to keep from having to actually take action, but he didn’t see that. He nodded and smiled at her. “Okay, baby. You got it.”
And then she smiled at him. “Thanks, David. Thanks for everything.”
“Ain’t no thing, baby girl. Goes with the territory. You want something to eat?”
The next day was Thursday. At her appointment, the orthopedist looked at Clarice’s X-rays and nodded.
“Mrs. Johnson, your bones are knitting nicely. I did a pretty fine job of getting them reset, if I do say so myself. I might just put these X-rays on a billboard with the ones we took the night you came in . . . sort of a before-and-after kind of thing. What do you think about that?”
Clarice
gave him a cautious smile. “Sounds good to me—if that means my leg’s getting better.”
“Well, it is,” the doctor said. “Not that you’re ready to go out dancing, but I think these bones are okay for partial weight-bearing.”
“What does that mean?” David said.
“Among other things, it means you can start light physical therapy.”
Clarice saw David’s grin and realized she was wearing one, too.
“It also means I can take this fiberglass job off and give you a pneumatic walking cast. Not exactly the height of fashion, but considerably more portable than what you’ve got now. And you can take it off to bathe. Unless, of course, you’d rather keep what you’ve got . . .”
“No, I don’t think so,” Clarice said quickly.
“Hallelujah!” David said. “You hear that, Reesie?”
“Sounds like I need to call Julie again,” Clarice said.
Clarice agreed to have Julie come over the following Tuesday afternoon at three o’clock for a one-hour session. “Wear something comfortable, something you can move in,” Julie suggested. “We won’t need much in the way of equipment—nothing I can’t haul in my trunk. I’ll see you then.”
Clarice hung up, realizing that for the first time in a good while, she was looking forward to something.
Then she remembered. Tomorrow was Friday, and Mama was coming.
Dave heard the sound of tires rolling up the driveway and looked at Clarice. She gave him a little shrug and tried to smile. He pushed himself out of his chair and walked to the front door like a man going to the gallows. He went outside just in time to see Clarice’s mother hauling a suitcase out of the trunk of her son’s car.
“Here, Mrs. Clark, let me get that for you.”
“Never mind that, I been carrying my own suitcase for nearly seventy years and I can still do it for myself. Freddy, you’ll be back to pick me up next Friday?”
“Yes, Mama.”
“All right. Drive carefully.”
She walked past Dave, grunting with the weight of her suitcase, and stepped through the front door. Dave watched her go, shaking his head.
“Just as cuddly as ever,” Freddy said, giving him a sad smile.
“I feel you. How’s it going, Freddy?”
Clarice’s brother shrugged. “Doin’ awright, I guess. How’s Clarice?”
“Getting there. She sees her physical therapist early next week.”
“Hope Mama likes her,” Freddy said, grinning.
“Well, if she don’t, ain’t nobody gon’ have to wonder how she feels,” Dave said.
“I heard that. Catch you later, man. I gotta get on back.”
“Take it easy. I’d say thanks for bringing her down, but—”
Freddy waved him off, laughing.
On Tuesday, Julie rang the doorbell right on cue. Clarice was waiting for her.
“Hi, Clarice. Ready to get this show on the road?” She had a foam pad rolled up and tucked under one arm.
“Sure. Come on in.” Clarice moved herself away from the door and Julie walked into the living room.
“Wow, Clarice. This is a beautiful house. Oh . . . hello.” Julie was looking toward the couch. Mama sat with her arms crossed over her chest.
“Thank you. We’ve worked hard at it. Julie, this is my mother, Mary Clark.”
Julie stuck out her hand. After the briefest hesitation, Mama took her hand. “Glad to know you.”
“Yes, ma’am. You came down to help your daughter for a few days?”
“I came to make sure she’s able to help herself.”
Julie absorbed this with only the barest waver of her smile. “Well . . . it’s nice to meet you.” She turned toward Clarice, looking relieved to have that particular bit of socializing taken care of.
“Okay, so the first thing I want to do is see you get up and down off the couch,” Julie said.
“Really?”
“Sure. You’ve got to start where you are and go from there, right?”
“I guess.”
“So just crutch over to the couch there and sit down beside your mom, then get back up again.” Julie tossed the rolled-up mat onto the floor behind the couch and watched as Clarice lowered herself onto the couch, sat for a few seconds, then got herself back up on her crutches.
“Not bad, not bad. The doctor said your leg was partial weight-bearing, right?”
“Right.”
“Okay. So this time, I want you to do the same thing, only with one crutch instead of two.”
“You sure about that?”
“Absolutely. I’m going to spot you, so you don’t have to worry about falling or anything. But one immediate goal I have is getting you where you can use a cane instead of those clunky crutches. And with that snazzy new walking cast, you ought to be able to do it. We just need to work on your confidence a little bit.”
For the next fifteen minutes, Julie helped Clarice get up and down from the couch using only one crutch. Next, she had her walk across the living room to the kitchen. Finally, she had her go all the way to the bathroom, open the shower door, and step inside.
“See how well you did that? Now, for a while, when you’re taking a shower you might want to sit in a plastic or aluminum lawn chair, just until you’re feeling good about your balance again.”
“Okay.”
“But we’re going to start working on that, too, pretty soon.”
Clarice was getting tired just listening to the plans Julie had for her. But she felt good, too; she was finally doing something about her situation. This was more familiar territory.
Next, Julie had Clarice go back to the living room. The therapist spread out the foam mat and asked Clarice to lie down on the mat on her back with both legs stretched out straight.
“Okay, I want you to bend the knee on your good leg. Then I want you to slowly raise your right leg—keep it fully extended—up to the level of your knee. Got it?”
“I think so. These are those leg lifts you warned me about, right?”
“You got it. And now you’re going to wish you’d been working on them before I got here.” They both laughed. Clarice was feeling as if a cold, dark crust were breaking loose inside her, letting the air get to her lungs for the first time in weeks.
“Okay, now hold it right there at the top for one . . . two . . . three . . . counts. And now let it back down. Slowly, though.”
“This cast is heavy!”
“Oh, gosh, I totally forgot. You can take the cast off while we do this.”
“I can?”
“Sure. The cast is to hold the bones when you’re walking or putting slight weight on them. They’re knitted, just not securely. But for stuff like this, you can take the cast off, just like when you’re bathing. Just one more reason to look forward to our little visits.”
“I heard that.” Clarice sat up and started ripping back the Velcro straps that secured the cast. She slid the bootlike device off, then carefully peeled away the athletic sock that protected her skin from chafing.
“Looks like you lost some muscle mass while you were in the hard cast,” Julie said.
“I know. I look deformed with these scars and all.”
“No, you look like someone who had a broken leg.”
Clarice really liked Julie; her encouraging manner and expertise were doing wonders for Clarice’s confidence.
“Okay, lie back down and let’s do a few more reps. And since you don’t have that walking cast on anymore, your form should be perfect.”
“You sure you weren’t Jane Fonda in another life?”
“Where I come from, the stuff she did was for sissies.”
Julie took her through several repetitions of the straight-leg lift. Then they moved to what Julie called hip abductions. She had Clarice lie on her back with both legs extended and then move her broken leg in a scissor motion to the side to try and extend the range of her hip joint. For the weeks following the accident, she explained, Clarice’s right
hip joint hadn’t had anything more strenuous to do than just hang there, holding her motionless leg. Sure enough, when Clarice did the exercise, it felt like her hip had been in cold storage for about a year.
“When you’re a little stronger,” Julie said, “I’ll have you do that lying on your left side, scissoring your right leg up into the air. But let’s build a little more flexibility and strength first.”
“Amen, sister.”
Next, Julie took her to the kitchen counter and had her hold onto it as she raised her right knee like someone in a marching band. She did that several times and then, at Julie’s direction, Clarice kicked her leg straight out behind her, then to the side.
“Okay, that’s enough, Clarice. You do ten reps daily of everything I showed you today and it ought to keep you busy until the next time we get together.”
“I heard that. I think I was wrong about you. You weren’t Jane Fonda; you were Idi Amin.”
“Whatever it takes to get you back on both feet. And I plan to recruit Dave as my assistant, just to make sure you don’t slack off when I’m not around.”
At hearing her husband’s name, Clarice felt a little of the wind leave her sails. “Oh, he’ll keep me honest; don’t worry about that.”
“He really cares about you, Clarice. You’re lucky to have him.”
There was a sniff from the couch.
Clarice looked at Julie. “I guess you’re right. But what about you? I don’t see a ring on your finger, Julie.”
Julie gave her a sad smile and a shrug. “Kinda lost my interest in wearing it after he moved out,” she said.
“I’m sorry. That must have been hard.”
“Yeah, I don’t recommend it.”
A few seconds of silence slogged past in cement shoes.
“Well, I’d better get going. I’m supposed to pick up my son from school and take him to a swim club on the other side of town. His coach has arranged for a former Olympic trainer to work with them today.”
“Fantastic. He seems like a good boy.”