Learning to Walk, a City Hospital Novel

by Zachary, Drew

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher.

  Learning to Walk: A City Hospital Novel

  TOP SHELF

  An imprint of Torquere Press Publishers

  PO Box 2545

  Round Rock, TX 78680

  Copyright 2011 by Drew Zachary

  Cover illustration by Alessia Brio

  Published with permission

  ISBN: 978-1-61040-554-6

  www.torquerepress.com

  All rights reserved, which includes the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever except as provided by the U.S. Copyright Law. For information address Torquere Press. Inc., PO Box 2545, Round Rock, TX 78680.

  First Torquere Press Printing: October 2011

  Printed in the USA

  Chapter One

  Neil slipped into the ER doctors’ lounge to grab a cup of coffee before heading up to the fourth floor physio department. The coffee down here was almost always fresh and hot, and they often had the best goodies.

  Sure enough, there was a fresh pot and a nearly full box of doughnuts from Timmie’s on the counter.

  He nodded at the EMT sitting there as he filled his reusable mug. “Hey, Brian. You coming or going?” Brian usually worked the day shift but occasionally pulled an all-nighter.

  “Waiting.” Brian grinned at him. “On my way home, though. Just need to collect my roomie. How about you? Got new patients today?”

  Roomie. Huh. He could have sworn Brian and his ER doc were together-together.

  “I do. Just heading up to review files before the first one comes in.” He put two creams into his coffee and put the lid back on it, then nodded to Brian. “I hope you’re not waiting too long.”

  “I don’t think so, but you can never tell with the ER. We’ve got lunch reservations, though, so hopefully he’ll be on time.” Brian sipped his coffee and lifted his chin toward the files. “Anyone I’d know?” That wasn’t too likely, since the EMTs rarely had a long-term relationship with their patients. Only the biggest and worst cases would stand out.

  Still, one of his new clients had been in an accident. “I’ve got one guy who was hit by a drunk driver.”

  Brian made a face. “Far too many of those, man. Bad one?”

  “Yeah. Motorcycle versus car. Guy’s lucky to be alive, let alone looking at a full recovery.” Not that this guy would be thinking that right now, though. Neil knew how hard it was to recover from back injuries and head trauma, and this guy had both.

  That was all the info he was going to share, though. If Brian recognized the guy from a call, cool; if he didn’t, Neil hadn’t divulged any personal information about his patient.

  “Nasty.” Brian made another face, this one a wince. “Well, if anyone can get him up and around, it’ll be you. Don’t let him give you too much shit, though.”

  “Ignoring shit from patients is three quarters of my job, man.” He chuckled and waved his coffee in Brian’s direction. “Enjoy your lunch.”

  He took the stairs up to his door at the end of the bank of offices and physio rooms on the fourth floor, stopping long enough to make sure the receptionist knew he was in. Then he settled at his desk and opened the file for his first patient -- Kit Matheson.

  Mr. Matheson was a twenty-eight-year-old night auditor at a hotel downtown. He’d been on his way to work one evening when he’d been slammed into a light pole at an intersection by a drunk in a pickup truck. The motorcycle he was on had been stopped for the lights and was no match for the truck at all.

  The injuries were many, including both back and brain along with broken bones and so many scrapes and cuts that he’d needed skin grafts on his lower arms. The bones had healed and the brain trauma had resolved, resulting in some loss of memory; his speech had evened out and lost its slur, though the file noted that there was still sometimes an occasional pause while Mr. Matheson hunted for a word that he’d either forgotten entirely or “misplaced” in his memory.

  He was currently in a wheelchair, but the prognosis was good for him being able to walk again. His spinal cord was intact. His muscles needed to relearn what to do, and his body had to regain the strength it had lost from weeks of being bedridden.

  All in all, Mr. Matheson was very, very lucky. He could have easily been killed or paralyzed for life. Instead, the prognosis was pretty much a full recovery.

  Neil knew very well how hard that luckiness was to see from a wheelchair with months, maybe even years of physiotherapy in store. He’d have to see where Mr. Matheson’s head was at when the guy came in. Neil made a few notes on the file, mapping out his plan of attack.

  A tap at the door made him look up and one of the nurses stuck her head in. “Ready for Mr. Matheson? He’s a little early. Also, do you want him alone at first?”

  “Bring him into physio room B. I don’t think anyone’s using it right now. I’ll take a few minutes to assess his mood.” Early was good, actually. A positive sign.

  “Sure thing.” She vanished and the door closed softly. In a moment he could hear the murmur of voices, one male voice louder than the others before they all fell silent. A few seconds later he could hear the nurse talking as she passed by him again, presumably speaking to Mr. Matheson as she took him down the hall.

  He added a couple of blank pages to his file on Mr. Matheson and headed for room B, ready for a number of attitudes from Mr. Matheson.

  He was pretty sure which one he was going to get as soon as he opened the door. Mr. Matheson was sitting in his wheelchair next to a regular hospital visitors’ chair and glaring at it. He didn’t even look up when the door opened. He had on a long-sleeved T-shirt, fleece track pants, a baseball cap, and sneakers. His beard was more “I haven’t bothered to shave in a few days” than an actual groomed beard, and he had the air of a man who hadn’t been outside in far too long.

  “Mr. Matheson. I’m Neil Kirkpatrick. It’s nice to meet you.” Keeping his voice cheerful, he went right over to Matheson’s chair and held out his hand. The man was pretty good looking, even dressed down and looking pretty low.

  Mr. Matheson looked at it for a long moment before shaking. “Yeah, hi. Kit.” He didn’t sigh, but his voice lacked any enthusiasm, and he sounded tired. He didn’t look up to meet Neil’s gaze.

  “Kit. Cool.” Neil grabbed a rolling stool and sat across from Kit. “So, I’m going to be your physical therapist for the duration of your recovery. From your medical file, it looks like you’ll be able to walk again. I’m not going to blow sunshine up your skirt -- it’s going to take work, but it is entirely doable.”

  Kit finally looked at him, his blue eyes dull. Not drugged -- Neil had seen enough of that to know -- but without spark. Without hope. “So they tell me. And they tell me the work is going to hurt, and that it’s up to me. They tell me a lot of things.”

  “Well, I’m not a ‘they’, I’m just me. And I’m telling you that yes, it’s going to take work, and yes, some of it -- a lot of it -- is going to hurt. None of it is going to be easy. And it’s totally up to you. You have a choice to make -- walk again or don’t.” Neil grinned. “Personally, I think walking again is by far the better option.”

  “Sure you do.” Kit shrugged one shoulder. “Sure I do. But I’m in pain as it is, and you’re not the one who’s going to be adding more on top of it. You get to tell me what to do, and I’m the one who winds up eating painkillers like they’re candy and fighting addiction.
” Kit grit his teeth. “Do you know how many doctors I have?”

  Neil did a rough calculation in his head. “Probably four. Maybe five.” They’d have the man at a psychologist at least once a week. “It’ll get better, though. As you strengthen your muscles and relearn how to walk, the pain will lessen. I’m here to help you, Kit. I want you to succeed.”

  That got him a bitter smile. “I wanted that, too. I was working on it when my whole life got taken from me. Just do me a favor, all right? Never tell me I’m lucky it wasn’t worse. If you do, I’ll leave and I’ll never come back. There’s nothing lucky about this.”

  Neil carefully schooled his features. “All right, I won’t tell you that.” He got that Kit couldn’t see that yet, that he wouldn’t believe it, maybe for a long while.

  “You’ll be among the first. You and my shrink.” He looked toward the door with a jerk of his head. “I can’t drive. I can’t do much of anything. I had to move back home with my father. My dad is out there, probably charming the nurse. You can tell him how lucky I am -- he’ll be thrilled to talk about it.”

  “I’m not here for your father, Kit. I’m here for you. I’m not going to give him a report on how you’re doing or share anything with him that we do in here, okay? You are my patient. Not your father or anyone else.”

  God, the man was bitter. Understandably so. Neil just hoped that between physical and mental therapy, they could bring him around. It would be a shame if someone in their prime gave up when the prognosis was so positive.

  “Yeah, okay. Fine.” Kit did sigh then, but he looked around the room. “What do I need to do today?”

  “Today I’ll assess where you are and get you started on some exercises. I’ll want to see you at least three times a week to start off with; daily would be better. Is your father going to be able to drive you in that often? It’s okay if he can’t, we can arrange transportation for you. There’s some paperwork involved, but I can help you fill it out.”

  Kit looked at him in horror. “The bus with the ramp? Tell you what, I’ll just bring my pillow and move in here. I’ll be real quiet; you won’t even notice me.”

  “Sorry, man. It’s the bus with the ramp, your father, or some other arrangement you can make...”

  “God damn it.” Kit frowned, apparently thinking hard. “He’s got a job, you know? It’s not like he can take off all this time every day. I’ll figure out something. Give me a couple of days.” He glanced at Neil and for the first time there was real emotion in his eyes, a deep sorrow. “It’s hard on him, doing everything for me. And it’s amazing how people in my life just vanished as time went on. The help is gone. Everyone’s moved on from the collision but me.”

  “Yeah, I’m not surprised to hear that. It’s a sad fact that most people don’t stick around for the really hard stuff.” He considered for a moment. “Are you good with early morning appointments? Because I can ride in on the bus with you the first week or so, until you’re used to it. It’s not really as bad as you’re thinking.”

  “It’s... I have a hard time with strangers being all sympathetic at me.” The admission looked difficult, Kit’s shoulders hunching as he spoke. “I hate the neighbors being reminded.”

  “Pardon my bluntness, but who cares what the neighbors and strangers think? You need to get over that and focus on getting yourself back to where you want to be.”

  “Have you met my shrink? You’re stealing his lines.” Kit glared at him, eyes finally alive and wow, that amped up the man’s attractiveness. Neil bet Kit was stunning when he wasn’t feeling as low as he was right now. “And pardon my bluntness, but screw off. When you’re the one getting the looks and whispers and averted eyes while I try to even open the damn door without bracing myself for pain, then you can tell me what to feel.”

  “I haven’t met your shrink, but if we’re both using the same lines, then maybe you should start paying attention to them. And you can keep letting what other people think control your life, or you can start worrying about what the people who matter think. Top of the list of the people who matter is you. People who don’t know you who stare and whisper -- they’re jerks, and you need to get a thick enough skin that they don’t matter.” He wasn’t going to pull punches with Kit. It wouldn’t help the guy in the long run.

  Kit looked stubborn about it, though, but Neil was used to that, too. The stubbornness would be an asset once it got aimed in the right direction. Right then, it was firmly aimed at the world in general, and Kit was doing everything but folding his arms over his chest and refusing to do anything. His lips had gotten thin, and there were creases on his forehead.

  Kit took a breath and let it out slowly, which was better than average. “Whatever. Tell me what exercises to do.”

  “First, we need to assess where you are, so I’m going to work with your legs, manipulate them, and ask you to do a series of tasks, things like that. Then I’ll know where to start.”

  “Fine. Can we get on with it? I don’t want to make my dad any later than he is.”

  “We sure can.” Neil proceeded to do just that, firmly ignoring Kit’s bad mood. That, after all, was half his job.

  Chapter Two

  The best time of the day was either first thing in the morning, right when he woke up, or late in the evening just before he fell asleep. In the morning, Kit was blessed with a five minute window when he could pretend everything was like it had been. His bed was warm, the sun was shining in, and if he closed his eyes he could even pretend that he wasn’t alone.

  Then the water would start running in the bathroom, and he’d hear his dad moving things around, getting ready to help Kit wash up for the day. The world would crash in, and the day would start.

  At night, after his father had gone to bed and the TV was shut off, Kit could lie in bed and imagine the same things. He could pretend he had his own apartment again, had a job, had a life. In the dark, it was a little easier than in the morning.

  The rest of his time, however, was one jarring moment after another. The constant ache in his hip. The headaches. The way the skin on his arms looked. The red marks that hadn’t faded away yet. The lawyer calling with non-updates and the silence of the phone otherwise. The callus on his hand from his wheelchair.

  The wheelchair. The wheelchair. Not his. Just a chair. It would never be his.

  Kit sat at the kitchen table and ate his breakfast, carefully spacing out his multivitamins with his allotted pain medication for the day. His father had already left for work, hesitating at the door before he finally stepped out. He hated leaving Kit at home all alone for hours.

  Kit hated making his father be a daddy again. The man had earned his life the hard way, and now he was saddled with Kit again, needing more than ever.

  “Not fair,” Kit told his cereal bowl. His therapist -- head variety -- had told him he had to let all notions of fairness go, but Kit was resisting. To give up the mantra of “It’s not fair” felt too close to forgiveness. It wasn’t fair, and Kit wasn’t going to forgive. Ever.

  He was, however, going to make his father’s life a little easier and take the god damn bus to god damn therapy with god damn Nice Neil. Kit told his cereal bowl, “But I’m not gonna like it,” and drank his milk. So there.

  His cell phone rang just as he was finishing up his breakfast. The number showed it was Neil.

  Kit took the call and said, “Right on time, I see.” He’d have to get to the window to see if the bus was actually there, but it was a safe bet.

  “We’re outside. Did you want me to come in and give you a hand?”

  Kit closed his eyes briefly. This part was always so hard. “Well, I’m in my chair and just need to grab my wallet and house key, so that’s okay. But if you can come to the door and help me with navigation, that would be good. We’re still working on the finer points of accessibility.”

  “I’ll meet you at the front door, then.” Neil sounded so fucking cheerful.

  “Great.” Kit hung up and decided he didn
’t care if he sounded resigned. He was, after all, just getting through each day as it presented itself to him. At least his morning pills were starting to kick in.

  He looked around the kitchen, made sure the oven was off, and wheeled himself over to the door at an angle. There was just enough room at the end of the counter for him and his chair, and no room for anything else, so he had to get the angle just right.

  There was a knock on the door, Neil’s voice calling out. “You okay, Kit?”

  “No, I got lost.” Kit rolled his eyes and opened the door, pushing his chair back as he did so, using the door as leverage. “This is how it works,” he said, not bothering with a greeting. “You step back, I roll out. Then you step into the house and I get myself around the corner to the ramp, and you close the door behind us. Make sure it’s locked, please.”

  “I can do that.” Neil gave him a smile and stepped back out of the way.

  Kit double checked that he had both his house key and his wallet, then rolled forward, squinting into the daylight. He navigated the corner slowly, painfully. He’d been told that he’d get better at it, that it was like driving, but he’d also been told not to get used to the chair because he’d be walking in no time at all. Everything was bullshit as far as he was concerned.

  He heard the door close behind him, then Neil’s footsteps following him down the ramp. “There’s no shame in asking for help if you need it.”

  “So they keep telling me.” Kit glanced up at him and then looked away to navigate the ramp. “It still pisses me off, though. I shouldn’t have to ask. I shouldn’t be like this.”

  “Yeah, but you are.”

  “And I’m supposed to be all sunny side up about it.” Kit snorted as he made the end of the ramp at speed and headed toward the large van that was his bus. “Sorry, but I’m not feeling my blessings right now, and I’m a lousy actor.”

  “I just think it takes a hell of a lot more energy grumping about it and resenting it, and you could be putting that energy into your life.”

  Kit had heard it all before, from more than one doctor. His father knew better than to approach the subject. “How about you handle your energy your way, and I’ll handle mine.” He stopped his chair next to the bus and eyed the chair lift with dislike. “All right. Let’s do this, at least.” If he was going to do therapy, he was going to have to get there. Fighting that, at least, was stupid.