Page 58 of Love What's Left
Maybe I’ve just spent so much time getting my ass chewed out on a soccer field that people who are “fake nice” rub me the wrong way. Or maybe I met too many of those people in the foster system. I like kind people. But I can’t stand people pretending to be nice to try to control me.
The new doctor doesn’t do any of that. Dr. Akana and her staff are honest and empathetic without pitying me or attempting to control me.
My husband shakes his head. “I shouldn’t be surprised by that schedule. Once you decide something, you put everything into it. You always have.”
My occupational therapist, Nalani, has been helping me build up my strength to make everyday things like dressing and brushing my own hair easier. Daniel works with me on putting words and sentences together and maintaining control.
The idea that I’ve become so captive to some unknown fear that it randomly freezes my tongue infuriates me, but getting angry only makes it worse.
Speech therapy. Physical therapy. Occupational therapy.Therapytherapy. Walks with my husband that get a little longer every day, though they’re still pathetically short. Delicious food again and again. Day after day. And medication twice a day, every day.
Forgetting all my appointments with Dr. Granthy is another one of those weird things my brain does to me . . . like forgetting my husband’s first name, but I have notes from his visits.
McRae nods toward the closet. “Do you want me to put the dress back in the safe?”
Henry brought the sealed plastic bag with the clothing from my captivity the day he arrived weeks ago, but it hasn’t caused any memories to shake loose. I placed it on a small table beside the window. Even Rufus avoids it.
“I should try again. I have time,” I say.
“You could take it with you to your therapy appointment, instead.”
“I want to do it now.”
My husband’s mouth flattens, and he points to his temple. “You see these gray hairs, right?”
I roll my eyes. “No.”
“There are two of them. You have to look closely. They’re hidden undernea—Never mind. My point is you gave them to me the first time you opened that bag. Your stubbornness is affecting my hotness.”
I snort. “1) That’s not how gray hair works. And 2) You know you’re pretty. Stop fishing for compliments.”
“I’m hot, not pretty. It’s like you’re trying to hurt my feelings.”
“You can’t distract me by being cute,” I lie.
The first time I opened that bag, I didn’t even touch the dress before the familiar smell of a concrete-block basement had me passing out cold. I went into shock and hit my head on the table. It took a minute for me to wake up afterward. When I came to, he’d already called 911 and the nurse on call was kneeling over me. It wasn’t fun for any of us.
The second time, I managed to touch the dress before my head spun. I had the oddest memory of an empty roll of toilet paper, but I backed off before I passed out. He whisked the dress away and covered me with a blanket until I leveled out.
“You don’t have to push yourself this hard. It could make things worse.”
Henry’sconcerns about the unknown holes in our security and the potential danger to the kids play in my mind constantly. Sealing that leak, wherever it is, is more important than my potential discomfort. “I’ll be fine,” I reassure him.
“You’ll take precautions,” he says sternly.
I snap the blade of my hand to my temple. “Sir. Yes, sir.”
“Cute.” He waggles his eyebrows. “If we’re pretending you’d ever let me tell you what to do, I have a list of—”
“Gimme the bag, McRae.”
His smile looks a little forced. “That’s what you used to call me when I ticked you off, so that tracks.”
“You made me mad a lot, huh?”
“You have no idea.”
I don’t know the inside joke, but I smile, anyway. “I mean, you thought stealing food was flirting.”
