Some Lucky Woman

by Carmen DeSousa

  No response. He just jotted notes on his pad, pushed back on his rolling chair, then stood. His hands went to my sling, deftly unbuckling all the snaps. “Don’t go back in this. Your chart states that the anchors for the original tear have completely healed. You need to extend your arm so it doesn’t freeze up again.” He inspected the bandaged areas. “I’ll have to wait until I take out the stitches to do electronic muscle stimulation, but I can stretch you out.”

  I winced. “Already? Are you sure?”

  His answer was a glare. “Can you lie down, or do you need help?”

  “I can manage.”

  After raising the table with a switch, he placed a foam leg roll beneath my knees and a pad beneath my arm, then slowly, methodically began to apply pressure. Instead of just using one of his hands to move my stiff arm, he distributed an equal amount of pressure against my entire arm with his chest.

  I waited for the excruciating pain, but it didn’t come as before. It actually felt … good. How was that possible?

  “Okay?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” I said through a breath of relief.

  “That stretch should feel good,” he said as he looked down at me. His eyes were a deep and dark brown, like melted dark chocolate. “The others won’t feel so good,” he continued, “but I’ll go easy on you today.”

  I searched his face for a smile; there wasn’t one.

  “Have you been doing pendulums?” he asked.

  Great. A chance to let him know that I’d been doing my homework. “Up until an hour before the second surgery, which was less than twenty-four hours ago,” I offered as a reminder that it hadn’t even been a full day since I’d been under the knife.

  “Start pendulums again as soon as the nerve block wears off completely, and I’ll show you a few more exercises.” He situated my arm in a different position, then slowly applied pressure.

  Owww … There was the familiar pain. I cringed, attempting not to cry in front of this cold man on the first appointment.

  He released the stretch, patting beneath my elbow, a move I remembered the last therapist doing on our first appointment, right after she’d brought me to tears. I knew it was the PT’s job to push, but bringing me to the point of tears seemed a little harsh. I’d always thought I had a high tolerance to pain. After all, I’d had a child naturally, no epidural.

  I glanced around the room to keep my mind off the pain as he maneuvered my arm into yet another uncomfortable but thankfully, not excruciating stretch. His diploma hung on the wall behind the computer, reminding me that he was a doctor, so I decided I’d try to talk about him. Try to loosen him up a bit since we were going to have to work together several days a week.

  “Have you always wanted to be a physical therapist?” I asked.

  “No.”

  That went well. Time ticked by with only my heavy breathing filling the air — which felt awkward — so I tried again. “So, did you go to medical school and just fall into physical therapy?”

  “It’s the family business. My father started the practice.”

  “Ah … so you’re following in your father’s footsteps?”

  “No. This is just a good position for the time being.” I nodded, then cringed as he held my arm for a longer stretch as he said, “Just a few extra seconds,” then shifted my arm into yet another position.

  “But you’re a doctor, right? Don’t most physical therapists stop with their master’s degree?” I pushed out, doing my best not to grunt from the pain. Last time my cousin had accompanied me to a therapy appointment, she’d teased that my cries of pain could easily be interpreted as sounds of ecstasy. I squeezed my eyes shut and tapped out a rhythm with my toes to keep from crying out as he held my arm at what felt like a ninety-degree angle, which I knew was impossible.

  “I believe in higher education,” he answered. “Open your eyes, Ms. Embers.”

  I obeyed, wondering why he wouldn’t let me suffer through my pain in my own way. And why he’d felt the need to emphasize Ms. Had I offended him by clarifying my title?

  “See where your arm is?” Dr. Kijek asked.

  I peeked over at my arm.

  “Had you gotten there before the second surgery?”

  “No … I … How did you do that?”

  “It’s what I do. If you want to keep your arm there, you need to do all your stretches.”

  “Oh, I will. I’ll even do extra credit if it’ll help get the use of my arm back.”

  “Just the exercises I show you for now,” he said. Still no friendly tone, just matter-of-fact. Man, this guy was a tough nut to crack. I wanted to ask why the chip on his shoulder.

  He handed me back the use of my arm, which I still didn’t have enough strength to hold up on my own. I was thankful he knew that. I’d kept grabbing my arm from the last therapist. She’d known, obviously, but it was as though she’d wanted me to work to grab it.

  Once I had control of my arm, he reached for my left arm to help me get up. I eased myself off the table and sat in the chair he’d pulled out.

  Dr. Adrian Kijek sat down behind his desk again. After clicking the mouse a few times, he reached inside a printer next to the computer and pulled out a sheet of paper.

  His eyes fixed on the paper, he scribbled as he spoke, “Twenty pendulums each. Side to side, clockwise, counter clockwise, and then back and forth.” He turned and faced me, rolled up a white towel he’d grabbed from a basket by the table, then gently stuffed the terry cloth between my elbow and my waist. “Hands at your side, a rolled-up towel beneath your elbow, you need to do a mock clap.” He demonstrated, waiting for me to mimic the move, with little success. “You’ll work on it.” He removed the towel and positioned my arm on the top of my leg. “Lay your arm on top of your leg, then twist just the wrist.” Again, he demonstrated. “Do you have a squeeze ball?”

  Thinking it was a chance to lighten the mood between us, I said, “I do. It was available as a custom accessory with the sling. I went all out.”

  No chuckle. Not even a quirk of his lips. “Do the exercises six times a day, but only for a few minutes right now. Use the ball as often as you think about it. To keep the blood flowing,” he continued. “I’ll see you again tomorrow, and then have my receptionist schedule you for three times a week.” He stood and walked out of the room while uttering the words, immediately greeting the next client by name.

  As I waited for the receptionist to finish talking on the phone, I watched Dr. Kijek direct the elderly woman to a stationary bike. To warm up her knee, he’d said. The good doctor glanced around the room at the other patients working with therapists. His eyes swept past me, not making eye contact, like a stain on the wall, something he saw every day, so he wouldn’t notice.

  Irritated again, not just at his terrible bedside manner, but his total lack of courteous human behavior, I contemplated walking out without making an appointment. But Dr. Bellows had said that he was the best, so when the woman behind the glass window hung up the phone, I did as Dr. Adrian Kijek had instructed and made the next four appointments.

  Other than the fact that Adrian would make a great character in one of my books, I was pretty sure I’d regret not going with my first impulse of walking out the door and never coming back.

  Chapter 16 – The Good Doctor

  “Wow …” Angela cooed as she held open the door for me to exit the torture palace. “Who’s he?”

  I glanced over my shoulder and saw that Dr. Adrian Kijek was behind the receptionist again, watching us leave. I lifted my hand and said, “Thanks! See you tomorrow.”

  All he did was lower his head in a nod, which again, showed his lack of people skills and worse, an air of superiority. Truly, there wasn’t one quality in a man that irritated me as much as arrogance. As much as I despised the smell of cigarettes, I’d go out with a smoker any day of the week before another haughty man. That was my ex-husband’s problem, I was certain; his arrogance made him believe that he was entitled to more than he deserv
ed, including more than one woman.

  As quickly as I could, I made my way to Angela’s Focus, taking care not to bump my now-dangling arm into anything. Without saying a word, my cousin opened the door and strapped me in again, then made her way to the driver’s side.

  Instead of starting the car, she turned and stared at me. “Is there a problem?”

  A few months ago, I would have crossed my arms to let her know how ticked I was. But there my right arm sat. Helpless on my lap. I couldn’t even pick it up without using my other hand. As much as I never wanted to go back to that insolent doctor, I knew I had to.

  “No …” I finally groaned. “Just tired.”

  “Who was the blond hunk? He looks like someone you should consider dating.”

  “Humph! Not in a million years.”

  “Why? He’s gorgeous.”

  He was gorgeous, which I was sure was the problem. Too many women falling at his feet. Worshiping him as though he were a god. And he was a doctor to boot!

  “Looks aren’t everything, Angela!” I snapped. “Didn’t you learn anything from my book? It’s more important to find someone who enjoys what you enjoy.”

  “Sheesh! Is it time for your next dose?”

  I glanced at my phone, wishing it was time, even though I knew I had at least two hours to go. “No. Sorry.” And I was. I never took a tone with Angela.

  “Other than the obvious — I know you’re in pain — what came over you? You’re rarely sullen.”

  “I just hurt. I’m tired of being in pain. It’s been four months.” I’d had my first surgery only a month before the second one, but prior to that, I’d been in pain for three months before it was clear that I needed surgery. I wasn’t used to relying on people to help me. In the last five years I’d become independent. The last thing I wanted was to lose everything that I’d gained. “That gorgeous man is none other than Dr. Adrian Kijek, and it turns out that not only is he apparently the best physical therapist in the area, he knows it.”

  “Oh,” she said, understanding. We both hated self-important pricks.

  I huffed out a breath. “Oh, well. It’s not like I have to live with him. I just need him to get me better.”

  Angela peeked over her shoulder before changing lanes. “That’s true.” Had I detected a note of sarcasm in her tone? I decided not to mention it, since it was probably a reference to her earlier comment about my love life — or lack thereof.

  ***

  The next day, I decided to work really hard at being nice to Dr. Adrian Kijek, but before I got “hello” out of my mouth, he pointed to a row of free weights. “Have you done your exercises this morning?”

  This morning? It was still this morning. It was only nine-thirty. I’d barely rolled out of my recliner with enough time to brush my teeth before Angela had knocked on my front door.

  “I did them last night,” I said as sweetly as I could muster.

  “Six times a day,” he muttered, handing me a one-pound weight. “Warm up.”

  I accepted the weight that felt as heavy as an anvil in my state and proceeded to do the pendulum exercises I’d been doing for more than a month.

  He pushed lightly on my shoulders. “Lean over. Legs hip-width apart, thumb forward.”

  I immediately felt a deeper stretch. Dammit! Why did he have to be better?

  “Do twenty each, then meet me in my office.” He strolled off, stopping at different stations where other patients were exercising. He made a few comments, patted one elderly gentleman on his back, then finally disappeared into his office.

  Sucking in my annoyance at the fact that he interacted pleasantly with everyone but me, I continued as he instructed. What could I have possibly done to tick off this man?

  As soon as I stepped into his office, he stopped what he was doing on the computer, waiting while I positioned myself on the table. At least he had the decency to stop working on other stuff when it was my scheduled appointment. He started with the same stretch as yesterday, and again, I exhaled at the relief. For some reason, I was incapable of doing this myself. But I had to admit that even the pendulum exercises felt good. At two a.m., I’d actually gotten up to do them. Why hadn’t I thought of that when he’d asked if I’d done my exercises today?

  Gotten up was an exaggeration, of course. I’d been sprawled out on my recliner, just staring up at the ceiling. The Percocets were barely dulling the pain, but I refused to take extra. The last thing I wanted was to become addicted to painkillers.

  As Dr. Kijek moved on to different stretches, my mind scampered for something to say. Not only to fulfill my goal of befriending this unfriendly man, but to keep my mind off the pain.

  “So,” I started, “you said being a therapist isn’t what you’ve always wanted. What do you want? To do as a career, I mean?”

  Dr. Kijek stared down at me, his russet-colored eyes focusing on me as he counted with his lips. All I could think about was the deep dark chocolate I loved, with swirls of caramel mixed in.

  He released the stretch, patting beneath my elbow. “Art,” he said in a low voice, so low I almost didn’t know he was answering my question.

  “Oh,” I said, surprised. He didn’t seem the type. But I was ecstatic to break through at least one barrier with him, so I pressed for more information, “Art as in painting, or designing?”

  “Graphic design.”

  He moved right into another stretch, and I cringed. I breathed through the stretch as I’d learned in martial arts, but it didn’t help. As he counted to ten, my toes tapped out a rhythm on the table. Anything to release the pain.

  Once again, he released my arm from the stretch, but allowed my elbow to rest in his palm as he shook out the tightness.

  The brief break allowed me to talk again. “You could do both, you know.” He simply stared down at me, so I continued, “There’s a great design company I’ve used. They contract out the work, giving customers hundreds of choices instead of just one, in the form of a contest. They design everything from ads, to websites, to book covers.” I usually didn’t tell people I met in person that I was an author, but since I was going to spend three days a week for the next three months with this man, I figured we should be able to at least talk without scowling at each other. “I’ve used them for my book covers in the past. I’m —”

  “I know who you are,” he cut me off, releasing my arm to me and stepping back. “Let’s start your other exercises.” He bolted out of the room while I struggled to sit up.

  What had I done to this guy? I remembered yesterday when our eyes met how he’d scowled. He was an arrogant doctor who probably had women drooling over him, and for some reason, I offended him. Had he thought that I snubbed him somewhere? Or, a more likely scenario, maybe he was one of Dick’s golfing buddies?

  I glanced at the different images of athletes around the room. Autographed pictures with words of thanks scribbled in black Sharpie lined the walls. Clearly, it wasn’t the idea of a celebrity that bothered Dr. Kijek; I bothered him. Again, I wondered, What could I have possibly done to a man I’d never met?

  Chapter 17 – Loathes Me

  “He knows who you are?” Angela shrieked from my bedroom. “Now it makes sense. He just didn’t want to look like a stargazed fan.”

  I scampered through my closet, looking for a clean pair of yoga pants. Every single pair I’d found so far was covered with white kitty hair. The last thing I wanted was to be late for therapy.

  “Loathes me, is more like it,” I said as I hopped out of the closet, one leg stuffed in the black pants that felt more like the tights I used to wear in gymnastics when I was in grade school. “I don’t think his revulsion has anything to do with coming off as a fan. He has pictures of celebrities posted all around his office. From ice skaters to baseball players to football players; he’s healed plenty of them.”

  “You’re being silly, Jana,” Angela said as she sat down on the chest in front of my bed, absently petting J’Austen. Angela was one of the few
people that my kitty tolerated. “How could he possibly loathe you when he doesn’t even know you?”

  After I got my second leg in, I struggled to pull up the tight pants with one hand. “Exactly! How could he possibly? He has to know me, maybe through Dick. Who knows what awful things my ex-husband might have said to keep potential suitors from pursuing me?”

  Angela smiled, and I was pretty sure she wiggled in her seat, reminding me of J’Austen when she was stalking a lizard on the windowsill.

  “You like him,” she crooned.

  “I do not! Where did you get I like him from everything I said? I happen to think he’s egotistical and pompous. I have no room for like in my appraisal of him. Respect, maybe, for what he’s accomplished at such a young age, but that has nothing to do with like.” I slipped into my flip-flops and scurried out of my bedroom as she followed.

  J’Austen whipped past me, certainly adding a few hairs to this pair of pants too. Maybe it was her way of marking her territory, letting everyone know I belonged to her.

  “ ‘The lady doth protest too much, methinks … ’ ” Angela prattled as she too passed me in the hallway, then stopped in front of me, blocking my path to the door. “You said potential suitor. Is that how you view Dr. Kijek?”

  I shook my head as I huffed out a breath. “What are you? A Psych major as well as a Lit Major?”

  Angela lifted one of her hands and smirked. “See.”

  “Oh, shut up!” I snatched my phone and keys off the credenza, then pushed past her, walking faster than usual out the front door. “I’m going to be late, which will give Doctor Terror something else to complain about.” Angela reached for the seatbelt after I sat down, but I shooed her away. “I got it.” I reached for the door with my left hand. “I have to start doing things for myself.”