by Gun Brooke
“Thank you. I know I will be able to make life a little easier for you, Ms. Ward.” Lark leaned forward, examining Sheridan with kind brown eyes. “Forgive me, but you seem to be in quite a bit of pain. May I help you with that? I mean, right now?”
Stumped, and amazed at Lark’s audacity at skipping any preliminaries, Sheridan didn’t answer.
“Ms. Ward?” Lark seemed to take Sheridan’s silence as a yes. She rose and rounded the desk. “Is it your neck?”
“How did you know?” Sheridan mumbled under her breath, bracing herself for the searing pain she feared would be unavoidable even at the lightest touch. She knew from experience how she paid the price for any manipulation by a physical therapist.
“Your posture. Let me know if this hurts too much.” Lark skimmed warm fingers along the rigid, swollen muscles that led up from Sheridan’s shoulders and attached to the base of her skull on either side of her spinal column. “Oh, yes, there’s the problem, right there.”
Sheridan held her breath, determined not to show any weakness, no matter how bad the pain became. Lark found the sore spots at the base of Sheridan’s skull and began to massage them with mild insistence. For a few seconds the pain peaked and Sheridan nearly pulled back with a growl, then suddenly it became duller and the whole area nearly numbed. Lark’s thumbs pressed the sore spots harder against the base of Sheridan’s skull, as if flattening the ligaments.
“God.” Sheridan’s self-restraint crumbled for a few seconds. She had not expected any relief, only more pain, and unless it was sheer coincidence, this demonstration might prove Lark’s skill, compared to that of the other physical therapists she’d fired, one after another. “Thank you.”
“I suppose you’ve tried heat to alleviate some of these stress symptoms?” Lark asked as she returned to her chair.
Sheridan glanced at the small hands that had manipulated her with such strength and proficiency. “I used a special heat lamp, a Japanese invention.” She shrugged, again stunned at how loose her shoulders felt. “Didn’t do much good.”
“Well, I’m more for the low-tech solutions that I know work, rather than fancy equipment that regular people can’t afford anyway.”
“I’m not regular people.” Sheridan nailed Lark, who didn’t even flinch. Her self-confidence was quite impressive.
“Not so very regular, when it comes to your circumstances. Very regular, when it comes to your body. We can all become ill, Ms. Ward.”
“Sheridan. If you’re going to be my PT, you need to call me by my first name. I get enough of the title thing at work.” Hardly anyone called her Sheridan anymore. Sheridan wasn’t sure why she suggested that Lark use her first name. She hadn’t even thought to bring the subject up with her predecessors.
“Sure, Sheridan. That will actually make our work easier.”
“Oh? How so?” Sheridan knew her raised eyebrows could make any one of her employees nervous.
“I may have to pull rank and be really tough at times, and using your first name makes that a whole lot easier. It’s my experience that no matter how good our intentions are, most patients reach a point when they just can’t see the light at the end of the tunnel, to speak in clichés. It’s up to me to see it for you and keep you on track.”
Nobody had ever cared to explain that point to her, or, Sheridan mused, perhaps nobody had dared to explain it. “I don’t intimidate easily, Lark,” she said and clasped her fingers on the desk.
“It’s not a question of intimidation, but more of persuasion.”
Lark’s voice, clear and unwavering, made something stir inside Sheridan. It didn’t sit well with her, this feeling of embryonic trust, and she pushed her shoulders up, disregarding the renewed pain her action caused.
“All right. I take it that it’s no problem for you to start right away? My assistant suggested you’re…between jobs.”
“Right away, as in Monday.” If Lark caught onto the needle prick, she didn’t let on. “I wish to discuss some of the conditions in my contract—”
“You can do that with Erica. She’s familiar with my terms and can answer any administrative questions you might have. I wish you could start tomorrow.” Sheridan was eager to test this new physical therapist and discover sooner rather than later if she was as incompetent as the previous ones. She fully expected to be let down.
“Tomorrow is Saturday, and I don’t work weekends, unless you have an emergency.” Lark spoke clearly, but not unkindly.
Oh, for heaven’s sake. “I see. Very well. Until Monday, then.” Sheridan wished she could rise to show that their meeting was over. Instead she waved her hand dismissively and pulled the Pocket PC phone to her, tapping it twice with a stylus.
“Thank you, Sheridan. Have a good weekend.”
“You too,” Sheridan replied, careful not to look up. For some reason she was furious and felt as if her nerve endings were exposed to the world. She couldn’t risk showing even a hint of frailty, not to anyone. If she had to be perceived as a corporate witch, so be it.
When Lark didn’t make a sound, Sheridan finally glanced up from her phone, only to find her new physical therapist gone.
*
Lark found Erica pleasant and easy to deal with, unlike her boss. Sheridan seemed anything but easy, and Lark had to admit this might prove to be her most challenging case to date, even counting the Henderson twins. The thought of the identical twins, born with identical birth defects and subjected to multiple surgeries during their seven-year life span, made Lark smile. The twins had become as precious as her nieces and nephews.
“Ms. Ward employs three assistant nurses, who between them tend to her around the clock. She doesn’t use them as much as she could,” Erica said apologetically. “Ms. Ward is a private person, very independent. She prefers to manage on her own as much as she can.”
Lark had noticed that. The tall, pale woman in the inner office had tried to act as if nothing was amiss in her life, and she probably had no idea how obvious this charade was to Lark. When she first met a new patient, she could read between the lines. She saw pain where others saw false bravery, and she spotted the cause, whereas others chose to take things at face value. It’s easier to assume that things are just as fine as the patient implies.
“Let me call the housekeeper, who can show you around. That way, you can check out your room and make sure everything is as you like.”
“I wasn’t sure yet if Ms. Ward wanted me to live here or commute from Boerne.” In fact, Lark was relieved that she was going to be a live-in PT, since she anticipated that she was going to need her energy for things other than sitting in the “parking lot” that I-10 turned into every rush hour.
“Ms. Ward was absolutely clear on that point,” Erica said, her hand hovering over the receiver. “She always sets high standards for her employees and demands twice as much of herself. Her former PT didn’t live at the mansion, and Mrs. Ward was constantly frustrated when she had to wait more than an hour for the PT to get here. It was hard for the rest of us to watch her suffer a lot of unnecessary pain.” Erica looked darkly at Lark.
“I have no problem with staying here,” Lark stated calmly. “In fact, at the beginning of a case, if I can be available when I’m needed the most, my job is easier and the patient benefits. Apart from the physiotherapy program I’ll design for Ms. Ward, I know how crucial the working relationship is between a seriously wounded or ill patient and their PT.” Lark knew she sounded serious and confident, but inside she wondered if Sheridan Ward really could be counted among the average cases. She seemed to be the one to call every single shot, including her own treatment.
The housekeeper, who introduced herself as Mrs. D, looked nothing like the stereotype for her line of work. Tall and slender, with iron grey hair, she could easily model mature women’s wear. “Welcome,” Mrs. D said and shook Lark’s hand firmly. “Come with me, and I’ll show you to your suite.”
Suite? Lark had lived in several luxurious homes, and so far he
r quarters had been everything from a room above the garage to a bungalow on a wealthy Arab family’s estate. This was, however, her first suite.
The mansion boasted a wide marble staircase as well as a spacious elevator.
“The elevator was installed for Mrs. Olivia Ward, Ms. Ward’s mother. No one used it much before Ms. Ward became ill. Now…I guess it’s good that we kept it in working order.”
Mrs. D’s voice became muted, and Lark saw what she interpreted as true worry in the housekeeper’s eyes. She knew words were not enough and merely nodded as they walked up the stairs.
In the middle of the north wing, Mrs. D held open the door to a large living room. “Here we are then,” she said and motioned for Lark to step inside. “I’m sure you’ll be comfortable here.”
“I’m sure I will.” Lark studied the room that held both contemporary as well as vintage furniture, all in mint condition. Dark red walls, floral wallpaper on the ceiling, and accents in gold and black, together with an open fireplace, made for a cozy, warm ambience. A door at the far end led into a large bedroom, with a king-size four-poster bed as the focal point. The fireplace opposite the bed and the room’s moss green, gold, and ivory color scheme made the room seem like something out of a Victorian novel.
“Your bathroom is over there,” Mrs. D said and pointed toward a door in the far left corner.
Lark entered a white and gold bathroom consisting of a Jacuzzi tub, glassed-in shower stall, two pedestal sinks, and a toilet behind yet another door. White marble, faintly lined with light grey streaks, created a stunning effect.
“It’s beautiful. I’ll be beyond comfortable.” Lark found her surroundings opulent, but knew better than to voice such thoughts. The rich and privileged took these things for granted and found it curious, almost suspicious, if a person revealed her more humble beginnings by being too impressed.
“Excellent, Ms. Mitchell—”
“Lark, please. We’re going to be working under the same roof for a while.”
Mrs. D frowned. “I don’t mind being on a first-name basis, Lark. It’s just that I’m Mrs. D to everyone.”
“I have no problem with that.” Lark smiled broadly. “I should get going. Lots to do before Monday.”
“Monday?” Mrs. D. looked surprised. “I thought you were starting tomorrow.”
“No, Monday. I won’t be working weekends unless Ms. Ward’s condition requires it. Here’s my cell phone number, in case you need to reach me. Don’t hesitate to call if something comes up.”
Mrs. D. regarded the business card that Lark handed over. “Very well. I appreciate that you are so clear and up-front about this arrangement. It makes it so much easier to plan for Sheridan’s care.”
“Good. We have an understanding then.” Lark smiled and placed a gentle hand on Mrs. D’s arm. “Thank you for showing me around. The rooms are lovely.”
“You’re welcome. Let me walk you to the door.”
“No, that’s all right. I’m sure you have a lot of things to do. I’ll find my own way out.” Lark hoisted her bag onto her shoulder. “See you Monday.”
Lark walked through the broad hallway and down the marble stairs. Passing the half-closed doors to Sheridan’s study, she couldn’t help but stop and glance inside. Sheridan sat in her state-of-the-art wheelchair by the window, apparently lost in thought. Her fists lay tightly curled on the armrests, and something about her profile startled Lark. As forceful as Sheridan had come across during their conversation, she now looked vulnerable and frail.
Instinctively, she knew that if Sheridan realized that Lark had seen her during an exposed moment, their future working relationship could be damaged. She stepped away from the door and headed toward the main entrance. Pushing the heavy oak door open, she walked down the limestone stairs to her Lexus.
Lark thought of Sheridan, sitting in solitude by her window, perhaps even watching her drive away. Suddenly eager to return to the Ward mansion the following Monday, Lark accelerated down the driveway toward the automatic gate.
Chapter Two
“I can’t do that. Not yet.” Sheridan looked up at the stubborn woman next to her. Lark had put a harness around her waist and now looked expectantly at her.
“Yes, you can. You proved your arm strength to me on the bench press before. You can easily carry your own weight on these bars.” Lark placed her hands on the double bars in front of them. “The harness will be secured to the bars, and I’ll be right in front of you and Cecilia behind you with the wheelchair.”
“I shouldn’t have to repeat myself,” Sheridan said between clenched teeth. “I thought you read my medical charts. My legs are…dead. I can’t stand up, let alone take a single step.”
“I’ve read your file, Sheridan.” Lark spoke kindly, but with an annoying assertiveness. “Come on. Cecilia’s ready and so am I.”
Sheridan wanted to send a scathing glare at the young nurse behind her, whom she knew she could easily intimidate, but something in Lark’s challenge kept her from following her first impulse. “Fine.” Small drops of perspiration dripped down the small of Sheridan’s back as she grabbed the bars. Her hands slipped and she yanked them back. “Damn!”
“Here. Baby powder. You’ll be fine.” Lark puffed some powder onto Sheridan’s palms. “Try again.”
Sheridan grabbed the bars and pulled herself forward. Sure she was going to fall and become suspended in the harness, she gasped when Lark stepped in and held her upright.
“There you go. Find your bearings and secure a good grip of the bars. I’m here and I won’t let go.”
Sweating profusely, Sheridan found that Lark was right; she had no problem holding herself up. She had lost a lot of weight during the last few months, of course, but it still baffled her that she could keep herself erect like this. None of the other physical therapists had ever convinced her to go through with this particular exercise. Instead, Sheridan had trained her arms as if to compensate for not being able to do anything about her lifeless legs.
Sheridan stood practically surrounded by Lark’s arms, certain that they’d both fall any second. “You better let go. I can’t hold on much longer.”
“Yes, you can. I’m backing up a step. Swing your legs forward and try to put weight on them.”
“Why? They’re dead!” Sheridan’s heart was pumping fury-filled blood through her body.
“Because every time you put weight on them, and we’ll do that more in a few days once the right equipment arrives, you’ll build stronger bones. Stronger muscles and tendons.” Lark still held Sheridan’s harness with steady hands. “Good. Try it now.”
Sheridan hated the calm, encouraging tone in Lark’s voice. It was obvious that the other woman didn’t understand the severity of her condition. Lark came strongly recommended by many of her previous patients, but at this point, Sheridan couldn’t see what made them give her such enthusiastic reviews.
“All right,” she muttered, her pride kicking in. She pressed her arms down and lifted her dangling feet off the floor. Trembling all over, she managed to swing them forward and carefully put a little of her weight on them. The braces around her knees kept them from folding, but only Lark’s firm hold kept her from plummeting to the floor.
Standing close together, chest to chest, Sheridan noticed that Lark was at least four inches shorter than she. She inhaled deeply to dig into the reservoir of her strength and found that Lark smelled of something clean and fresh, reminding her of new linens, with a trace of lavender. The surprisingly intoxicating scent filled her senses, and Sheridan pulled herself up once more and managed yet another step, her lower body swinging forward before slumping into Lark’s arms.
“Great! You’re doing fine,” Lark said as she held on to Sheridan. “Cecilia, the wheelchair, please. Thank you.”
Sheridan felt the seat of the wheelchair at the back of her knees and sat down with a thud.
“We have to work on that too. You’ll be able to get in and out of this chair with much
more grace than that.” Lark smiled reassuringly. “You’re off to a very good start. If you do this well during all our sessions, you’ll see a significant improvement in your muscle tone in just a few weeks.”
“Really.” Sheridan tried to catch her breath. Blaming the strenuous physical therapy, she refused to listen to the small voice that told her that the closeness to Lark and her enthralling scent had something to do with her being so affected.
“Really.” Lark walked out from between the bars. “You’ve had enough for now though. I want you to rest. This afternoon, I’ll bring my notebook and we’ll go over your ADL status, Active Daily Living, and what you need to learn to make your days easier.”
“Like comb my hair?” Sheridan huffed. “I can take care of myself. I don’t require any such assistance.”
“No, not easy tasks like that. I mean personal hygiene, dressing—”
“You have a way of not listening, don’t you?” Sheridan’s anger escalated. Lark stood there, so calm and professional in her blue-grey sweats, and seemed so damn superior. “I don’t need help. I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”
“I beg to differ.” Lark obviously didn’t budge. “I don’t mean that you can’t do anything on your own. In fact, I admire how independent you are, and how far you’ve come these six weeks you’ve been out of the hospital. You’re without doubt a fighter, and that’s what’s going to make all the difference for you. Some people in your situation give up. The future seems so dark, and it’s all so overwhelming that they think it’s not even worth it to try.” Lark quieted and a slight frown appeared between her dark brown eyebrows. “The only thing I notice about you is that you seem to have given up on the use of your legs.”
“They’re dead. I have the medical charts to prove it. The neural paths were destroyed by the meningitis.” Sheridan’s voice sank an octave. “Nothing to do about that.”