Read Online Me Again by Keith Cronin - Free Book Online Page A

jumbled “word salad” that came out whenever the man attempted to speak. Aware of how difficult even basic communications can be after a stroke, I chose not to adopt that uncharitable moniker, instead always referring to him by his proper name.
    I nodded to him. “Sorry if I disturbed you, Mr. Samuels. I was just talking to myself.”
    He waved a bony hand dismissively. “Hamster lightbulb,” he said simply.
    Nodding was the conversational technique I’d found most successful with Mr. Samuels, so I nodded in his direction, then said, “You have a nice day, okay?”
    His expression grew puzzled. “Zucchini?” he asked.
    Clearly I should have stuck with a simple nod. Opting for a wave and a smile, I set a new course for my wheelchair and proceeded down the hallway.

 
    Chapter 8
     
    T HAT NIGHT, after giving my dinner some time to digest, I made my way to the PT room. I was determined to get out of the wheelchair and into a walker, at least for short periods. But that meant I had a lot of work to do on my arms and legs.
    Approaching the room, I heard the clank of weights, telling me I would not be working out alone. But the pace of the clanking was unusually rapid – somebody was exercising furiously in there.
    As usual, the door was open, but I was surprised to see no light emanating from the room. Why would somebody work out in the dark? Then I remembered that there were numerous patients in the facility who had lost their sight – I often heard the tap of their canes in the hallway.
    The steady metallic rhythm grew louder as my chair brought me nearer to the doorway. I wheeled into the room and felt along the wall for a light switch. Finding it, I flicked it on, bathing the room in the harsh glow of fluorescent light.
    The rapid clanking continued, and my eyes tracked the source.
    Sitting on the leg-press machine, pumping away at a frenzied pace, was Rebecca. She still wore her black flowered dress, but it was soaked with sweat and hiked up in an unladylike way to accommodate the machine. Her face was streaked with makeup and sweat. She ignored me, her eyes clenched shut as she chanted a series of numbers punctuated by short, panting breaths. I presumed these to be a tally of the reps she had performed. They sounded like very large numbers.
    “Rebecca?” I said. No answer.
    I tried again, louder. Still nothing.
    Finally I shouted her name. This got her attention – she stopped pumping her legs and looked over at me.
    I saw now that more than sweat was streaking her face. She was crying, her eyes wide and red in their sockets.
    “What do you want?” she demanded.
    “Are you okay?” I asked. It was a stupid question – clearly she wasn’t, so I said, “What’s wrong?”
    “Me,” she said between breaths. “My dress. My hair. My cane. Everything.”
    Wheeling close to her, I tried to speak in a soothing tone. “What do you mean? What happened today?”
    “I worked so hard,” she said, starting to sob. “I got dressed up. I fixed my hair. Nora helped me with my makeup. And I walked all the way to the lobby, with just a cane.”
    She shook her head in disbelief. “Eight weeks ago, my left leg was partially goddamn paralyzed, and today I’m walking to meet my loving husband with nothing but a cane. You can’t even use a walker yet.”
    I looked down at my legs, wishing I hadn’t worn shorts to work out in tonight. My legs looked pathetically weak and pale.
    Seeing my reaction, Rebecca put her hand to her mouth. “God, I’m sorry, Jonathan. I know you were in a coma for years – that wasn’t fair. And you’re working hard, too.”
    I started to reply, but she cut me off.
    “But I’ve been working so hard. And does he notice? Does he appreciate it?”
    Before I could answer, she said, “Not even for a second. First he tells me my eye makeup looks funny. Then he says my dress looks like an old schoolmarm. Then—" She paused to blow her nose into a towel. “Then, he says my cane makes me