Isabelle and Alexander

by Rebecca Anderson

  “Ah, good afternoon, Mrs. Osgood,” he said with a smile. “I’d very much appreciate it if you’d join us for the examination. You may be uncomfortable, but it’s time for me to train you.” His eyes twinkled. “There are things you know intrinsically, of course, but I’ll claim the advantage of wisdom and knowledge as far as medical practice goes. After you.” He gestured her inside. “We have a fair few decisions to make today.”

  Alexander looked in their direction, and Isabelle could see no obvious lingering anger or annoyance. She waited for the doctor to take a seat next to Alexander before she sat at a short distance.

  The doctor performed what had become his daily examination—poking here, prodding there, and a few questions about discomfort.

  “We’re going to try sitting up today,” Doctor Kelley said.

  “All of us?” Alexander said, derision dripping from his voice.

  Undaunted, the doctor gave him a look of impatience. “It will most likely take all of us to get you there.”

  Isabelle was pleased to hear the doctor fire back at Alexander. It proved Alexander was capable of receiving censure, even if it would not be from her.

  “Come, Mrs. Osgood,” the doctor said. “Let’s see what we can achieve together.” He guided Isabelle’s hands, and the two of them lifted Alexander’s surprisingly heavy body until his torso was mainly upright.

  “And how’s that, Alec?” The doctor stood nearby, hands at the ready, and Isabelle wondered if he feared Alexander would tip over.

  “Bit easier to breathe,” he said. “Much easier to see what’s happening in the room.”

  Doctor Kelley nodded. “Mrs. Osgood, why don’t you go sit beside your husband?”

  For a man of gentleness and delicacy, Isabelle thought, he has no subtlety at all.

  Alexander’s legs still stretched out across the main surface of the cushions, she placed herself on the couch where he had laid his head for so many days.

  The tradeoff was instantly obvious. She was sitting very, very close to him, which felt intrusive and uncomfortable. But, on the other hand, as he was still unable to turn his head, he couldn’t look at her, and she didn’t have to look at him.

  Doctor Kelley seated himself in a chair opposite and nodded. “Yes,” he said, as if in answer to an unasked question. “That will do very well.”

  “I might fall,” Alexander said, his voice the barest whisper.

  “Indeed, you might,” the doctor said. “And that is why your wife is there. She’s in a perfect position to support you.”

  Isabelle said nothing, but she watched the doctor as he studied Alexander’s posture and position. After a few minutes, the doctor said, “Take his hand, if you please.”

  Feeling herself stiffen, she realized that she’d never of her own volition extended herself to touch him. At least, not when he was conscious. She took a deliberate breath and reached for Alexander’s hand.

  His fingers were warm, and that made their unresponsiveness strangely frightening to her. It was impossible to see his hand as anything less human than a part of his body, but its immobility felt wrong. Fighting the urge to let go and remove herself from the couch, she inhaled slowly and waited for the doctor’s next direction.

  “Lift his hand. Feel the resistance.”

  Isabelle tried to raise Alexander’s hand to the level of her shoulder without taking her eyes from the doctor. She felt her arm shake at the weight of him and raised her other hand. With his fingers in both of her hands, she brought his arm up.

  “Good, good. What do you feel?”

  What do I feel? Isabelle thought. Terrified. Weak. Exposed.

  Alone.

  “I’m not sure,” was all she could manage. Hands shaking, she kept his arm lifted.

  “Can you feel if he’s resisting at all?”

  Now she turned to look at Alexander’s face. She didn’t want to respond to the doctor as if her husband couldn’t hear or answer for himself.

  “You’re not pulling away,” she said to Alexander.

  “I don’t believe I can,” he replied. Since he didn’t turn to look at her, she had to guess at the tone behind his whispered words. She couldn’t determine if he was referring to his will or his ability.

  Isabelle continued to address Alexander. “Your hand feels warm and heavy.”

  “Let it fall,” Alexander said.

  She looked to the doctor, who nodded his permission. The idea of letting go of his hand gave her simultaneous fear and relief. “Will it hurt you?” she asked, her voice lowering to match his.

  Alexander closed his eyes before responding. “Right now, I can imagine no comfort greater than feeling my own pain.”

  With those words, Isabelle felt a wave of sympathy wash over her at how exposed and fragile Alexander had become, had allowed himself to be.

  She blinked away a tingling in her eyes and said, “I am going to let your hand fall.”

  Her hands wouldn’t move. She had to concentrate all her strength on separating one from the other and letting his fingers go. His arm dropped heavy and landed on her leg, where she felt the heat of it through her dress.

  There, directly upon her leg, where he would never have placed his hand of his own will, his long fingers covered her skirts above her knee.

  Certain that Alexander would move it if he could, she nonetheless could not bring herself to do it for him. When she pulled her gaze away from the place where his body touched hers, she looked at his face. He was staring at his arm, as well. There, where it lay. She wondered if, even though his muscles were immobile, his skin could feel her pulse pounding. How odd for such a reflexive action to lead to a feeling so powerful.

  She cleared her throat. “Is that,” she asked, looking across at the doctor, “what you expected to happen?” Her voice shook like an autumn leaf.

  “Nothing was expected, but you need to know how it feels. How his muscles react. What resistance there is, and what there is not.” He rubbed his hands along his trousers in what must have been an unconscious representation of what he wished to see Alexander do.

  Isabelle attempted to make her voice more solid. “I hardly know what I should have noticed.”

  The doctor nodded and said, “Of course not. But now you’ve felt something. Next time, you’ll notice if it feels the same or different.”

  Isabelle thought that if she had to sit this close and perform such an intimate action again, her heart might burst from her chest.

  As if he could read her thoughts, the doctor said, “Practice that at least three times every day.”

  Alexander produced what Isabelle assumed was a laugh, although it sounded absent of all cheer. “And when she tires of that, she can pick up a fireplace log and drop it on the floor.”

  Doctor Kelley ignored Alexander’s pessimism and said, “Then make sure Yeardley stocks the log holder with plenty of cut wood.”

  Alexander’s scowl did not intimidate the doctor. Isabelle envied the man’s fortitude.

  “Next,” Doctor Kelley said, “we work on the legs. Mrs. Osgood,” he said, standing and extending his hand, “if you please.” He helped her from her seat and together they settled Alexander back into a reclined position.

  “Ready, Alec?”

  In response, Alexander closed his eyes. The doctor picked up Alexander’s leg at the ankle and pushed it toward his torso until his knee bent. Pulling it back again, he said, “There’s no resistance but significant weight. See if you can manage,” he said, and Isabelle realized she was supposed to bend and straighten Alexander’s leg.

  Shocked, she stood and stared at the doctor.

  “His muscles need to move, or they’ll weaken,” Doctor Kelley explained. “At the moment, he can’t do it himself. Can you do it?”

  With his straightforward clarification, Isabelle felt it would be ungracious to
refuse. Steeling herself against another awkward exploration, she placed both hands on Alexander’s ankle.

  “Higher,” the doctor said. “You’ll need to grasp just here,” he added and placed her hands on Alexander’s calf. “Hold his leg against you. That’s right, directly up to your side there.”

  Attempting to ignore the trembling in her hands at such an uninvited familiarity, Isabelle darted a glance at Alexander’s face, relieved to see that his eyes were still closed. She awkwardly pressed his leg forward, realized she needed to follow, and stuttered a few steps forward. Comprehending she’d succeeded in bending his knee, she let out a cheer.

  Alexander’s eyes flew open.

  “We did it,” she said, unable to contain her grin. “Look,” she said, gesturing to his bent leg.

  “Forgive me for not applauding,” he said and closed his eyes again.

  “You are pardoned. This time,” she said.

  She looked at the doctor, and he nodded his encouragement, watching her shuffle forward and back a few times until he appeared pleased with her ability.

  “Very well done,” he told her. Reaching across her, he patted Alexander on the arm. “You’re in good hands, my boy.”

  Ignoring the compliment to Isabelle, Alexander answered the doctor’s unasked question. “I need to get home. To Manchester,” he clarified, as if there was any question of which home he meant.

  “I believe that is a good next step,” the doctor said, surprising Isabelle.

  She moved closer to the doctor’s elbow and leaned in close. Quietly, she spoke. “Is that wise?” she asked. “Isn’t moving him a danger?”

  Doctor Kelley smiled but shook his head. His eyes held worlds of sadness. “There are dangers inherent in any plan,” he said.

  Alexander made a snorting noise. He said, “Dangers, indeed. A man could fall from a horse in a field he’d ridden in a thousand times.” If he’d meant that as a jest, it fell flat.

  As though Alexander had not made that comment, the doctor said, “In the city you’ll benefit from physicians with more specialized experience.”

  Isabelle was quick to defend the doctor. “Oh, sir. No one could take better care than you do.”

  The doctor shook his head. “I was not looking for a compliment, Mrs. Osgood,” he said, his affection evident in his voice. “I only mean that our Alec might thrive among doctors and surgeons and caretakers who have more training with this kind of injury.”

  At the mention of doctors and surgeons and caretakers, Isabelle felt an uncomfortable lessening of her distress, as if the doctor’s words could conjure a team of people who would know how to repair what had broken—how to cure and care for Alexander. Immediately she felt ashamed that she wanted someone else to do it.

  This was her lot now. She had made a solemn vow.

  This was her life. She could not pass this responsibility to anyone else.

  The doctor reached inside his coat and handed Isabelle a folded paper. “Here are some people who should be able to answer your questions. I recommend you write to them while I secure safe and careful passage home to the city for you two.” He turned to Alexander. “Do you think you’ll be ready to travel within a week?”

  “A week? I am prepared to leave today.”

  Isabelle saw a palpable strain cross Alexander’s face, as if he were attempting to stand up and walk to Manchester.

  The doctor shook his head. “No, you’re not. Don’t be foolish. Instead, continue to eat. Rest. Allow your wife to exercise your muscles. Grow strong.”

  Alexander held the doctor’s gaze. The anger was gone from his face when he replied, “I will do my best.”

  Doctor Kelley stepped close to the couch and placed his hand on Alexander’s shoulder. “Oh, my dear boy. Your best, indeed. No one could ask more.”

  Isabelle watched her husband relax under the doctor’s soothing touch and wished she could have that kind of calming effect on him.

  Doctor Kelley was true to his promise—their planned departure for Manchester was scheduled. Alexander spent time each day propped in a seated position, and Isabelle became, if not comfortable, at least competent in exercising his arms and legs.

  She attempted conversations about his recovery. He made it clear he did not want to discuss mobility or the lack of it. She asked questions about his childhood spent here in the village, which he answered with as short replies as possible. She offered information and thoughts that could spark discussion, and again he refused to engage. With every rebuff, she grew less willing to try again until, by the second week’s end, they were barely speaking as she bent and straightened his arms and legs.

  She remembered their first drive into the country, the quirk of his smile in the carriage as she prattled on about silliness. Would she ever again find comfort in speaking of insignificant things? Would he ever again find her amusing?

  How was it possible she could be standing this close to him, touching his body, moving him in ways he could not move himself, and yet be unable to speak about important or unimportant things?

  She would do it, she decided. She would simply open her mouth and tell him of some of the things she’d been thinking.

  “I’ve made some inquiries,” she said, her voice quivering, “about mobile chairs.”

  He responded with a grunt.

  “Wheeled chairs are available for purchase several places in Manchester. If you prefer, we could have one custom made, although that costs rather a lot and would require several weeks’ wait.”

  He said nothing.

  She continued to talk as though he’d invited further conversation. “There are options. Chairs that could move you through the house, through the mill. I’d thought perhaps your Mr. Connor, who is so clever with machinery,” she said, glancing at him and seeing him staring at her, “might create something that fits between looms so you could continue to make rounds and inspect . . .” Her voice faded to silence as she saw the intensity of his glare.

  Without taking his eyes from her, he said, “You’ve thought this through. Have you approached Mr. Connor with your ideas?” There was no emotion in his voice, no modulation of his tone. She hadn’t any clues to gauge his anger, but if the past weeks had taught her anything, it was that the newly immobile Alexander Osgood was a man who settled into an irritable mood rapidly. She placed his leg back on the couch and moved to lift his arm.

  “I have not,” she said. She heard the defensiveness in her tone and wished it away. “I have written to no one in Manchester about your injury beyond my initial message to Mr. Kenworthy, at which time I was writing only to tell him we would likely be gone from the city longer than expected.”

  When he said nothing, she met his eye for a brief moment. “It is not my information to share,” she added quietly, drawing his hand up and bending at his elbow.

  Unable to maintain this uncomfortable eye contact, she turned her head slightly, recognizing the luxury of an ability that had always seemed a given. Only now that Alexander was without the capacity to turn away did she realize what she took for granted.

  With one hand around his fingers and one supporting his elbow, she bent and straightened his arm in silence until she heard him speak.

  “Thank you.”

  Tears sprang to her eyes, preventing her from asking what had prompted his expression of gratitude. She longed for more—was he thanking her for protecting his privacy? For moving his muscles? For standing here by his side? But he offered no more, and she tucked the unexpected tenderness away, knowing that it might not be repeated as often as she desired.

  With his words, the tenor of the room’s silence changed. It didn’t matter what it was for; he’d shared an expression of gratitude that turned the tension to comfort.

  When Yeardley entered the room with Alexander’s bathing supplies, Isabelle placed Alexander’s hand across his chest. Before s
he released his fingers, she gave them a squeeze.

  What happened next stopped her in her exit. Did she imagine it? Did she feel a return of pressure?

  She looked into Alexander’s eyes again and saw something that might have been surprise, but so much of their daily existence was surprising that she didn’t dare to ask him if he’d felt something. She smiled and excused herself from the parlor.

  Outside the room, she stood with her back against the wall and grasped her fingers together, trying to recreate that phantom of pressure she may or may not have felt. Had he pressed her fingers? Had she imagined the touch, imagined the small shudder of pleasure that had followed?

  And if it happened, if he’d moved his fingers, what did that mean for the future? Isabelle closed her eyes and pictured Alexander lying there on the couch. In her mind, her eye moved from the top of his head and his stylish golden hair to his face, with its sloping brow, aquiline nose, and the eyes that had surely made young women swoon and attempt to compose poetry or paint his portrait. She pictured his mouth, turned up in a smile—a smile directed at her.

  Back still to the wall, she watched in her imagination as he turned his head to face her fully. And then her eyes traveled to his strong shoulders. Move, she commanded in her mind. Move your shoulders. Lift your arms. Make a fist.

  Sit up, she thought. Straighten. Cross one leg over the other. Wave. Snap. Gesture.

  Stand, her mind told him. Stand up and walk toward me.

  Pressing her hands into her chest, she pleaded in her mind.

  Stand even if you want to walk away from me, she thought. Stand and walk and move.

  Isabelle felt drained of energy, as if she’d run a vast distance. But beneath the physical and mental exhaustion she was becoming used to, she felt anxious and eager to move, to push forward, to get back into the room and try the exercise again if it was truly healing Alexander.

  Even with such a premonition of positive things to come, nothing could induce Isabelle to enter the parlor while Yeardley was bathing Alexander. So she paced the entryway for a few moments and then went in search of Mrs. Burns.