by Nella Tyler
I thought about the overtime signup sheets in the office and wondered if I should sign up again to cover any emergencies. It was always hard to tell if we would be busy—and there were emergency physical therapy cases, as well as those who really couldn’t risk the setback that would come along with skipping a session or more. Some of our patients came in several times a week for long-term health conditions, and they needed to keep making progress even though they might prefer to simply go sledding or hang out at home. Some of the other therapists at the office I worked in were occupational therapists too; they had patients who had been born with fetal alcohol syndrome or other conditions that had long-lasting effects on motor skills and other functions. Occupational therapy wasn’t my specialty, but I knew enough to be able to cover a shift, at least.
I finished off my hot chocolate and threw the paper cup into the garbage bin when I stood up. The cold was starting to get into my bones; I needed to get moving or I would—as I’d joked to my mom—freeze up and just stay there until I could find someone to help me up. As I started to walk back towards the office and my car in the parking lot, I thought to myself that just for once it might actually be nice to have someone to take home to meet my parents and siblings. I didn’t want it badly enough to fake it, but almost. It would be nice to have a break from people worrying out loud that I was working too hard and missing out on my best years of adulthood.
“If I had a boyfriend—even if I didn’t date him enough to be able to bring him home—it would probably help matters,” I said, thinking out loud. In spite of how cold I was, I admired the fresh layer of snow that had coated everything sometime after lunch but before the end of day; it was obviously going to be a beautiful holiday season—I just wished I could enjoy it as much as I always wanted to. “Oh well,” I told myself, starting to think about all the other things I had going for me to keep from getting into any kind of slump. “I have my health and I have my work and the kids are great. I am way too blessed of a person to go around moping because I don’t have time to date.” I was sure that I’d be saying almost exactly that to a handful of questions in a few weeks; but for the moment at least, I was happy to get in my car and get back to my warm apartment. Everything else was just an extra.
Chapter Two
Pat
“Hey, Pat. You’re in a rush to get out of here.”
I gave Alicia at the reception desk in the lobby a quick smile, but I couldn’t quite bring myself to keep going, even though I was in a hurry. “How’s Landon?” she asked.
“He starts physical therapy today,” I told her, smiling a little more warmly. “That is actually why I’m cutting out early. I need to get him to his PT appointment.”
“Don’t let me hold you up then,” Alicia said, beaming at me. “I hope he makes a full recovery!”
I nodded and continued on my way, heading for the revolving door at the front of the lobby. My son was almost as excited about doing physical therapy as I was dreading him having to do it; he wanted to make sure he could get back to practicing with his team as soon as the league started up again.
I walked up the ramp to the parking garage outside, my keys already out of my pocket. I’m cutting it close, I thought irritably. I had wanted to leave fifteen minutes before I’d actually walked out of the office, but something had come up—something always seemed to come up whenever I had plans of some kind.
I unlocked the car and climbed in, thinking about Landon waiting for me. He was the only thing I had left of my wife, the only thing that made sense in my world since she left us. He was getting to the age where kids always think their parents are too protective—and maybe he was right in my case. He was at the best private school in the city, and I’d found a PhD-holding tutor for him before he’d even gotten in, just in case he ever fell behind or ran into trouble. Without his mom around, I had to take on both roles—mother and father.
I started up the car and waited for the heat to come up, slapping my hands together to keep the circulation going. I pulled out of my parking spot and navigated the parking garage, thinking about the crazy situation that had led to Landon needing physical therapy in the first place. Traffic’s never really light in Chicago, but I was at least beating the worst of it by getting out early; I slipped out of the garage and into the street, matching the speed of the cars around me. Landon had been such a trooper—he’d barely even cried. In fact, I’d cried more than he had.
I shuddered as I remembered the game when Landon had broken his leg. He had been playing as well as I’d ever seen, really going for it on the AstroTurf. His coach had been teaching him more evasive maneuvers, and Landon had really brought them all together, darting and weaving, making me proud. I was cheering for him in the stands, on my feet, acting like a madman. Landon had looked up into the stands more than once to see me there cheering for him; it felt good to be there for my son, especially since I missed out on so many other things going on in his life.
I’d missed the game the week before—which was why I’d made such a big point of going to his game that day. I was glad that I’d taken the time away from the office, especially when Landon tried to pivot to get away from the other team’s defense and instead of darting left he moved right, and I saw him moving in slow motion as he fell over. At the time, I almost imagined I could hear the snapping sound as Landon hit the turf on his side.
In an instant, I had started up the row, heading for the stairway. I almost screwed up my own leg tripping over my feet as I pounded down the stairs in my rush to get to my boy. He didn’t get up; he was obviously more injured than some twisted ankle. I remember thinking of how worried his mother would be, of how her heart would have been in her throat just as much as mine was. I stumbled onto the sidelines and looked around; the coach had already hurried out onto the indoor pitch, and I followed in his wake. Landon’s other teammates were clustered around him, one of the refs hovering. Someone signaled a medic and the man arrived just as I came to a stop, dropping to my knees at my son’s side. “Landon! Shrimp, are you okay? You took a bad fall there.”
The medic came in on Landon’s other side and started asking questions. My little boy, my five-year-old son, was on his back, his hands wrapped around his leg right underneath the knee. My heart pounded in my chest as the medic said the words I was dreading to hear: “His leg is broken. He’s going to need to go to the hospital and get a cast on it.”
I had lifted Landon into my arms and hurried him out to the car. My little boy—who always made a fuss about having to put on his seatbelt—didn’t even argue with me strapping him down in the back seat to get him to the hospital. We waited for what seemed like days instead of a few hours, but finally we went back to see a doctor. The diagnosis wasn’t great; Landon had fractured both bones in his lower leg, just under the knee. If it didn’t heal properly, he could have trouble just walking for the rest of his life.
Now, two months later I pulled into the pickup loop at Landon’s school and spotted him next to one of the teachers. Once the bone had started to knit, the doctor had said that the best thing Landon could do when he was able to get the cast off would be aggressive physical therapy—several times a week, for a couple of months. The doc had recommended a place and I’d set up Landon’s first appointment there right away, before the cast had even come off. Landon took one hand off of his crutches and raised it to wave at me as I drove up to where he was standing. Now, even though the bone was whole, my little boy still had a lot of healing to do.
I put the car in park and jumped out, smiling at my son.
“Almost makes breaking your leg worth it, to get out of school early, doesn’t it champ?” I looked at the teacher; she was tall, with blonde hair, and absolutely dedicated to the kids. She’d worked with me as much as the school rules allowed when Landon had had to take a few days away from class during a bout of strep, making sure that my son was able to catch up. I wasn’t surprised to see her standing with him to wait for me.
“Landon has
been waiting very, very patiently,” the teacher informed me, smiling a little. “He’s been so excited for physical therapy.” She turned to me, frowning slightly. “You’ve explained that it’s going to be hard work for him, right?” I nodded.
“Landon knows it’s probably not going to be very comfortable for him for the next few weeks at least,” I said, reaching out and tousling my son’s hair. He giggled. “But he’s so excited to finally get rid of the crutches and the cast, and hopefully be able to get back to the team.” The teacher’s smile came back and she turned to head back into the building.
“We’ll see you tomorrow Landy,” the teacher said. I helped my boy get into the back seat of the car, putting his crutches off to the side.
“We are running late, buddy,” I told Landon as I climbed into the driver’s seat and started the car back up. “We’re going to have to make good time to get there for your appointment.”
“Will they give us a tardy?” he asked quietly.
I laughed.
“Something like that,” I said, pulling around the pick-up loop and heading back towards the streets. “The most important thing though is that we want to make a good impression. You only get one chance at that.”
“Are you going to be in trouble at work for leaving early? Ms. Fitz said that it’s important to have an excuse if you have to leave early.”
“They know I’m taking you to get therapy,” I told my son. “I’m sorry I was late though, bud. Someone needed me to help them with something right when I was getting ready to leave.”
“Everyone gets you to help them, don’t they?”
I glanced in the rearview mirror and saw Landon playing with one of his Skylander figures.
“Is it because you’re the boss?”
“I’m not the boss; I’m one of the bosses,” I told him. “People want to make sure they’re doing things the right way, so they come to me to make sure before they keep going.”
“Like when I needed your help with the tie for Grandma’s party?”
“Just like that.” I smiled.
Traffic slowed a bit and I forced myself to take a deep breath, to stay patient. “How was school? Did you talk to that girl you like—Jessica?”
“Jessie is nice,” Landon informed me. “She was sad that I wasn’t allowed to keep my cast, because she’d spent so long drawing on it.” I laughed.
“That cast smelled nasty,” I pointed out. “You don’t want to hang onto something like that. It’d stink up your whole room.”
“We learned about all of the holidays in class today,” Landon told me. “Did you know that there are tons of holidays in December Dad?”
“Tons? I can think of three,” I replied. “What else is going on?”
“Ms. Fitz says that almost all of the cultures of the world have some kind of holiday at the end of the year,” Landon said. “So that’s why a lot of people say happy holidays instead of Merry Christmas—because they want everyone to feel included.”
“That’s right,” I said, smiling to myself. “But I think for us, we’ll stick with just Christmas—what do you think bud?” I glanced at the time; we were almost certainly going to be late, especially the way that traffic was starting to tangle up.
“Everyone usually goes with their family,” Landon said after a moment. “Jessie and her mom always make cookies together for Hanukah.”
“That sounds like a lot of fun!”
“I wish mom was still here,” Landon said quietly. “Did mom like to bake cookies for Christmas, dad?” I felt my heart give a lurch in my chest at the question.
“I think so,” I said; I had to give him some kind of answer. “But you know buddy—I don’t remember her ever doing it. Maybe she baked cookies with her mom when she was your age.”
“Do you think that we’d be baking cookies if she was still alive?” I swallowed the lump in my throat.
“I think if she was still alive and you wanted to bake cookies, she’d be on board.” I felt my eyes stinging with the threat of tears and blinked a few times. “We could bake cookies, you know…chocolate chip, or butter cookies. Your grandma has a great recipe for my favorite oatmeal raisins.”
“I don’t like the raisins,” Landon said. He has no idea that he just twisted the knife in my heart. Don’t let him find out.
“Then we’ll do oatmeal-chocolate chip, how does that sound? And maybe if we get permission you can take some with you to school to share with the other kids.”
“That could be fun,” Landon said from the back seat. I turned my attention onto the road in front of me, asking Landon to go through his vocabulary words for the week to review them while we made our way to the office; it was called Kid Care Pediatric Physical Therapy, and I kept my eyes peeled to see the sign for it.
Chapter Three
Mackenzie
It was almost the end of the day, and I was ready to leave; I had to wait to make sure my last patient either became a no-show (if they were more than fifteen minutes late) or came in after all. It was a new patient—a little boy by the name of Landon Willis, who according to his chart had suffered a severe fracture two months before during an indoor soccer game. It was a pretty straightforward case; mostly I would be helping the little boy regain the range of motion and rebuild the muscle he lost while the bone was healing, and make sure that there weren’t any long-term problems with his mobility. Fortunately he had just missed shattering the growth plate at the top of the bone—so he hadn’t had to have surgery.
“Girl, what are you sitting around for?” I looked up from the computer where I was reviewing the case to see Amie leaning against the counter a few feet away. I shrugged.
“My four-thirty isn’t here yet,” I said, glancing at the time quickly. It was 4:32, and in another thirteen minutes I could consider the patient a no-show. I could—in theory—make a run to the coffee shop a block down from the building and maybe pick up some treats for the other people in the office before making an early start on my Christmas shopping.
“Which one is that?” Amie came to the desk and peered at my screen. “Landon Willis, five years old.” I scrolled down to let her see the x-ray on the file, sent to the office by the child’s primary. “Oof, that is a tough fracture! Just missed the growth plate.”
“He’s lucky,” I said, nodding as I looked over the X-ray again. “He’s been cleared for PT, and his father is supposed to be bringing him in for eval today.” I shrugged, dismissing the file for the moment.
“Probably one of those helicopter parents,” Amie suggested. “Parents constantly trucking the kid to this or that or the other thing.” Between the two of us—and the other therapists and therapy assistants—we’d seen it all: kids whose parents were too busy for them, who just dropped them off at the office and picked them up and signed paperwork without even looking at it, kids who’d been born with birth defects like spina bifida or hemiplegia or something else, whose parents thought their children were made of glass. I’d chosen to work with kids because they were so resilient; when I’d done my rotations, I’d worked with all kinds of people needing physical therapy, from elderly patients to athletes to kids to regular adults suffering from the long-lasting effects of an injury. Athletes were almost as much fun as kids—they were used to the ache of working out, and usually they were interested in the process of recovery—but I couldn’t stand the fact that I would have had to regularly tell people in the prime of their lives that they would have to change their careers completely. Kids, even when we couldn’t bring them back up to what they’d been able to do before their injuries, were more adaptable.
“It’s a five-times-per-week schedule,” I told Amie, crossing my arms over my chest. I’d worn a thick thermal shirt under my scrubs, but even still I’d definitely need to change before I left the office; it was too cold outside, colder than it had been when I left my apartment that morning. “If he can’t even make it to the eval session on time…”
I heard the bells at the door ringi
ng and stood up quickly to see who was coming in. Most of the other therapists were working with patients in the therapy area, and the assistants were doing paperwork. I saw a tall, broad-shouldered man with brown hair, clean-shaven and wearing a tailored suit. In his arms he carried a young boy; the little boy was maybe five years old, with big blue eyes and dark hair, paler skin than his father but the same curve to his lips. The man had a pair of child-size crutches tucked under his arm, dangling behind him as he hurried to the desk.
“I’m so sorry,” I heard him say quickly to the office manager. “We’ve got an appointment for 4:30. I tried to make it on time, but traffic was just terrible.”
“Name please?” I slunk back away from view to let Alice handle the man.
“Willis—it should be Landon Willis,” I heard the man say. Amie grinned at me.
“No luck for you, huh?” she wandered off to the break area further back in the office, leaving me to get myself together for the appointment. It irritated me that the guy was late for his son’s first session—a lot of parents thought that the evaluation was really just a formality, and when they started out with that attitude, they were almost always chronically late, which mean that I ended up having to supervise two patients at the same time at least four or five times a day.
I gathered up the charts I would need for my evaluation of little Landon, and waited for Alice to call me up to let me know that it was time to bring the boy back and start the process. The phone on my desk rang and I picked it up quickly. “Yes?”
“Landon Willis is here,” Alice told me. “He’s checked in, his insurance is verified.”
“I’ll come get him then,” I said, managing as much enthusiasm as I could. I put the phone back in the cradle and strode towards the door between the clinic and the waiting room, where Landon and his father sat waiting. When I stepped through, holding the door open, I saw that Landon had reclaimed his crutches and was bouncing them on the floor by the rubberized bottoms. “Landon?” I looked at the little boy and he stopped what he was doing, looking up and giving me the most evaluating look I’d ever seen from a kid.