“Okay, so you’ve had a few bad experiences,” she conceded. “But still, that doesn’t mean that all men are bad. Plus, people can change, can’t they? Just because someone screws up once or twice, it doesn’t mean you should write them off for good.”
I had the weird sensation that we weren’t just talking about men in general. “Wait, are you seriously implying that I should give Larkin another chance?”
“Aw, hell no,” she retorted. “That guy’s a douchebag.”
We finished our lunch and took a quick walk around the block with our remaining lunch break time. As we walked back to the hospital, I finally let myself ask her a question I’d been trying to let go of for days.
“So,” I said casually, “How is Trig Jackson’s therapy progressing?”
She cut her eyes at me and shrugged. “Not that well, actually. He’s been missing some appointments, doesn’t seem that engaged in the treatment. I don’t know…” she trailed off. “He’s just not progressing. I think he might end up having that nerve damage be permanent.”
“What?” I asked, shocked. I had done a lot of work with femoral neuropathy patients over the years, and had a good track record of getting most of them back to something approaching one-hundred percent of prior function. Vanessa had less experience than I had in that area, but I was confident she could get him to where he needed to be, provided he worked at it.
“Yeah, I don’t understand it.” She shook her head. “He seemed motivated when we started, but I just can’t get him to take the therapy seriously. It’s like he thinks he’s just gonna magically heal up and everything will be back to normal.”
When we got back upstairs to the clinic, I hopped on the computer and pulled up Trig’s file. Sure enough, he was only scheduling appointments once every two or three days. At this stage of his recovery, it wasn’t nearly enough to get him were he needed to be, unless he was doing a lot of exercises at home. Which, from what Vanessa had said, didn’t seem likely.
Not that I cared, of course.
Still, on a purely professional level, it nagged at me that someone would be potentially condemning himself to life-long difficulties when they were almost certainly preventable with proper treatment.
I had noticed that Trig was scheduled for a session with Vanessa that afternoon, and without really planning to, I found myself lingering after my last appointment to see whether he would show up.
When he sauntered in fifteen minutes late (How in the hell does that man manage to saunter with a cane?), I couldn’t stop myself from going out to say something to him.
“Do you always waste Vanessa’s time by showing up late for your appointments?” I demanded as he approached the check-in desk.
He looked up in surprise, then cocked an eyebrow at me.
“Well, if it isn’t my former physical therapist. How’s it going, doc?”
“I’m fine,” I said coldly. “I asked you a question. Do you always show up late to your appointments?”
“Sometimes. When I show up.” A corner of his mouth went up in a half-smile. “What can I say? Stuff comes up sometimes. I’m a busy man.”
“You do know that you’re in danger of having permanent problems with that leg,” I pointed out.
“Yeah. Well.” He shrugged. “Whatever happens, happens, I guess. Besides, the therapy doesn’t seem to be doing me much good, anyway.”
“Because you’re not taking it seriously!” I snapped, frustration getting the better of me. Good Lord, I couldn’t believe he was being so cavalier and irresponsible about this. “It’s not going to do any good unless you take it seriously!”
“Well,” he said stubbornly. “Look. I’m sure she’s a perfectly good PT. But Vanessa… I dunno. I just don’t click with her as a therapist.” He looked at me. “You were better.”
I studied him for a moment in confusion. Then my eyes widened. “This isn’t because she’s black, is it?”
“What? No!” He looked genuinely shocked. “What the hell, Eva?”
“Sorry,” I muttered.
Damnit. I couldn’t figure out why he wasn’t happy with Vanessa. She was one of the best PTs I knew. But if he wasn’t clicking with her, for whatever reason, it was time to think about other options.
“Okay,” I began. “If you’d rather change again, I suppose we could assign you to our third therapist, but…”
“Eva.” He stopped me. “I’d really rather have you back as my therapist.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I said coldly.
He took a deep breath, then let it out.
“Look. This isn’t easy for me. I’m not… I’m not used to being laid up like this. I think you’ve got what it takes to get me back up to where I need to be to be able to ride again.” His eyes met mine, his expression sober. “Please.”
Shit.
I did not want to do this.
I really, really did not want to do this.
But professionally, it killed me to think about someone who had a good chance at getting better not succeeding, especially when I knew I could help.
Trig was silent as I struggled with how to respond. Finally I spoke.
“Okay. But.” I looked him in the eye. “This is therapy. And therapy only. We only talk about therapy. Nothing else. No personal questions. Got it?”
“Got it.” He nodded.
“And no more showing up late to appointments.”
“Promise.”
“Okay, then,” I said reluctantly. God, I was pretty sure I was gonna regret this. “If you can abide by the rules… I’ll work with you. But I swear, if you start slacking off, I’m done.”
“Eva?”
“What?”
“Thanks,” he said quietly.
I was going to brush him off, but something in his voice made me hesitate.
“You’re welcome,” I finally said.
I went back to find Vanessa and let her know that Trig had shown up, and that if it was okay with her, I was taking him back on as a patient. “Take him,” she said, waving me off. “I can’t do anything with him. Maybe you’ll have better luck.”
By the time all was said and done, we only had time for a short session, but Trig surprised me by working hard and staying on task. He hadn’t backslid as much as I was afraid he might have, which was a relief.
At the end of the hour, I told him to go home and do a few more sets that night, and had Adele schedule him out with me for the next couple of weeks.
11
Trig
I was trying to think of a way to thank Vanessa for figuring out a way of getting me back as Eva’s patient again. I thought about sending her a fruit basket or some shit, but I figured that might arouse some suspicions.
So, for the moment, I settled with a quick thumbs up when I saw her in the hallway of the PT clinic a couple days later.
Eva was clearly still pretty nervous around me, so I made damn sure to focus on the therapy and not talk about personal stuff at all. I figured I could wait her out. Despite her best efforts, she tended to be a little chatty during our sessions, which seemed like the result of nerves. Sooner or later, I figured, she’d be the one to break our “no personal talk” policy.
One day, about a week and a half after I had re-started my therapy with her, I came into the clinic for my appointment and was told by the receptionist that Eva was running a few minutes behind. I sat down in one of the chairs in the waiting room and stared absently at the muted TV that was mounted high on the wall in the opposite corner.
Under it, there was a children’s play area. A little girl of maybe four or five years old with cotton-candy blond hair was listlessly playing with some blocks that were clearly for younger kids.
After a couple of minutes, she got up with a frown and wandered over to the receptionist.
“Is my mom done yet?” she asked in a sad voice.
“No, honey, she’s got one more patient after this.” The receptionist, whose name was Adele, nodded towar
d me as she spoke.
I frowned in confusion. The little girl turned to me, her sapphire eyes meeting mine, and something clicked.
Holy hell. This was Eva’s kid.
In other words:
Holy hell. Eva had a kid.
The little girl wandered over to me, a curious expression on her face. “Are you my mom’s patient?” she asked.
I nodded. “Sure am.”
Her forehead scrunched up. “Well, can you tell her to hurry up and be done soon?”
I grinned in spite of myself. “I can tell her,” I said, “But I’m not sure she’s gonna listen to me. Your mom kind of does what she wants.”
The girl sighed. “Yeah,” she agreed. “I know. It’s irritating.”
I burst out into loud laughter; the receptionist threw me an admonishing glance.
The little girl’s eyes wandered to the intricate patterns that covered my arms. “What’s that?” she said, pointing to a stylized tattoo on my bicep.
“It’s a dragon,” I replied. I flexed my arm to show her.
Her sapphire eyes widened. “Like Toothless?” she asked in wonder.
I was lucky I even knew what she was talking about, but I remembered one of the MC brothers’ kids talking about a dragon cartoon with a character named Toothless in it.
“Yeah, exactly like that. He’s my dragon.”
“What’s his name?” the little girl asked.
“I dunno. What do you think his name should be?”
“Toothless!” she yelled.
I chuckled. “Okay. Toothless it is.”
She smiled shyly. “What’s your name?”
“Trig. What’s yours?”
“Zoe.”
“Pleased to meet you, Zoe,” I said, sticking out my hand.
“Pleased to meet you, too,” she replied, stumbling a bit over the words. She put her tiny paw in mind and we shook solemnly.
Her eyes wandered from my arm to my leather cut. “What are these?” she asked, running a curious finger over one of my patches.
“Those are patches. They say the name of a club I’m in.”
“Sto…nne…” she began, sounding one of the words out.
“Wow,” I said, impressed. “You can read?”
“Yeah!” she said, beaming. “My mom taught me. She used to read books to me every night, but now she makes me read them with her.”
“Okay, so. If the first word says ‘stone,’” I encouraged her, “what’s the second word?”
Just then, the door to one of the therapy rooms opened and Eva stepped out, followed by a young boy of around eighteen wearing an arm sling. She said a few words to him, then glanced over and noticed me with Zoe.
For a moment, she froze, her eyes growing wide. After a second, she seemed to remember where she was, and pulled her eyes away to focus on her patient.
“King!” Zoe was saying excitedly as Eva approached us. “I know that word from Cinderella!”
“What’s going on here?” Eva asked as she knelt down to Zoe’s level. Her tone was halfway between mad and confused.
“I think Zoe got kind of bored with the toys over there,” I explained, nodding toward the corner.
“They’re all for little kids, Mom!” Zoe complained. Her shoulders drooped dramatically. “It’s so boooring here!”
“I’m sorry, honey,” Eva soothed. “I only have one more appointment to go, though, and then we can go home.”
“Awww!” Zoe whined. “You take forever.”
“Zoe, that’s enough.” Eva’s voice was stern, but she looked toward the receptionist. “Adele, can you please set Zoe up with a movie in one of the treatment rooms?”
“Yeah!” Zoe cheered. I had to laugh. I wasn’t around kids very much, and this one was an emotional roller coaster.
Zoe trotted off toward Adele, and Eva and I went into the main exercise area. She started putting me through some preliminary stretches, as usual.
“Cute kid,” I said.
Eva shot me a suspicious look. “Thanks. You don’t really seem like the ‘kid’ type.”
I shrugged. “Depends on the kid.” The truth was, Eva was right. I definitely wasn’t the kid type. But Zoe was kind of funny. Plus, I was impressed she was already reading.
“How old is she?” I asked.
“She just turned five. She’ll be starting kindergarten this fall.” Eva was quiet a moment. “I had to bring her here after pre-K today because her sitter is sick.”
I nodded, and decided not to push it with any further questions.
We worked in silence for a while. Eva had moved me from what she called “gravity eliminated” exercises to “gravity neutral” exercises. Which, she said, meant that I was getting stronger.
It seemed like maybe she was right, but these “gravity neutral” exercises were a bitch. It didn’t take much for me to start sweating and grunting like a fucking weightlifter. So I just focused on my leg and tried to do better than I did yesterday.
Eva eventually broke the silence, which surprised me.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.” I grunted as I finished up my final quad set.
“How’d you get the gunshot wound?”
I shot her a teasing grin. “I thought we made a deal about no personal talk.”
She looked down, embarrassed. “I know. But… well. You don’t have to tell me.”
I was silent for a moment. “Let’s just say… I didn’t know she was married.”
She shot a glance at me and frowned. “Are you serious?”
I winked at her. “Yup. I seriously didn’t know she was married.”
Her face flushed red. “That’s… Wow. Okay.”
A low laugh rumbled deep in my throat. “Hey, you asked.”
She made a face. “Yeah. I wish I hadn’t.”
I waited a few seconds. “So, can I ask you a question?”
Her brows knit together into a frown. It was obvious she didn’t want me to.
“Come on,” I chided her. “It’s only fair.”
She sighed. “Fine. Go ahead.”
“Where’s Zoe’s dad?”
Her lips pursed. “We’re divorced. He lives in Seattle.”
I waited, but that’s all she gave me, and I didn’t want to push it.
Her manner turned entirely businesslike then. “Okay. Let’s stop. I’m going to massage the calf a bit, and then I want you to ice the whole thing tonight when you get home the way I explained to you.”
I nodded. “Whatever you say, doc.”
The rest of the session passed with very little conversation. Eva had gotten very quiet, seeming almost angry. I wasn’t sure whether this foray into personal stuff had been a mistake, but she had started it, after all.
After a perfunctory five minutes of heat that she put on the muscles of my thigh and calf, she stood back from the table and nodded. “Okay. That’s enough for today. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
She left the room without looking at me.
As I stood and grabbed for the cane I had hung on the back of a chair, I heard her talking in a low voice to Zoe in the next room. Soon, I saw the two of them emerge down the hall, Zoe’s hand in her mom’s. She looked back at me. “Goodbye, Dragon!” she called.
I waved back as she flashed me a radiant smile that reminded me achingly of her mom.
12
Eva
For the rest of the night, Zoe talked about the man she called “Dragon” almost non-stop, no matter what I tried to do to distract her.
She would see-saw back and forth between asking me questions about him that I couldn’t possibly know the answer to (“What’s Dragon’s favorite ice cream, Mommy?”) and telling me how nice he was and that they were going to watch How to Train Your Dragon together. I told her a number of times that Dragon wasn’t his actual name, but she didn’t care.
At first, I couldn’t figure out why she seemed so obsessed with the tattooed enigma she had barely met for five minutes.
But eventually, it hit me. Zoe had essentially no father figure in her life. David, her actual father, could barely be bothered to remember her at Christmas and her birthday.
Thankfully, he did manage to send his child support payments on time (through an automatic transfer to my bank), but he seemed to think that was the extent of his responsibilities to his daughter. More than once, I had had to text him on Zoe’s birthday to remind him to call her, and I had even taken to buying an extra present or two for her special days, to make sure I had something in reserve “from her daddy” in case he forgot to send her something.
Most of the time, I thought Zoe was doing fine without the constant presence of a father in her life. She never talked about her father, and had never openly expressed any sadness that she didn’t have a daddy at home like most of her playmates.
But sometimes, like today, it became glaringly, achingly obvious how much of a void there was in her life.
“Do you think Dragon would come play dollies with me?” she asked me over her dinner of macaroni and cheese.
“Honey, I don’t think Trig has time to come play with you,” I answered gently.
The look on her face was so crestfallen that I almost caved and told her that he would, but of course it would be even worse to promise her something that just wasn’t going to happen. Not only could I not imagine Trig playing dollies with Zoe in a million years, but there was no way I was letting him in my house. Even on the off chance he’d accept an invitation, Trig Jackson was staying firmly anchored in my professional life.
Zoe finished her dinner in silence, except for a couple of sniffles, and then got up from the table and asked me if she could watch a movie. Predictably, it was How to Train Your Dragon that she chose, which she watched while lying on the floor in silence, clutching her stuffed bunny Rex for comfort.
My heart was fairly breaking for my poor little girl, but I didn’t know what to do to soothe the ache for a father she didn’t have. Eventually, I cleaned up the dinner dishes and sat down beside her, pulling her in my arms so we could watch the movie together.
The next day, Mrs. Hayes called to tell me she was still feeling under the weather. It seemed as though her summer cold was getting worse, and although she assured me it wasn’t anything serious, she didn’t want to risk infecting Zoe. So, I prepared to bring her into the clinic again after pre-K.
RIDE (A Stone Kings Motorcycle Club Romance) Page 8