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Authors: Sarina Bowen
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things we can do to make your stride more natural.”
“Like what?” My straight-legged “stride” could hardly be less natural.
“There are new braces which bend when you want them to and lock when you need it. I think you’re a really good candidate. But the manufacturer requires that you to commit to eight more months of therapy on them.”
“If a brace needs eight months of therapy to work, how good could it be?”
Pat smiled the smile of someone who was trying to be patient. “I think they’re miraculous. But you have to train your trunk, torso and glutes to help you. Think about it. In the meantime, let’s work on crawling.”
I gave Pat a weary look, because crawling was one of the more exhausting things we did.
“Hands down on the mat, please,” she said.
With a barely cooperative sigh, I turned over, placing my hands on the mat. Then I curved my back like a cat, pulling with my weak quads into something resembling all fours. Pat adjusted my uncooperative legs behind me.
“Let’s go,” she said. “There’s only eight minutes left, anyway.”
I stepped one of my hands forward on the mat.
“This is easier if you move the hand and the opposing leg together,” she said. “Let me show you.” Pat got onto her hands and knees too, demonstrating the proper way to unweight the leg that I wish to move.
The door to the therapy room swung open, and a voice said. “Oh goody. Women on all fours.”
“ Mister Hartley,” Pat’s voice was frosty. “That is not an appropriate way to speak to me or my patient.”
“Don’t worry, Pat,” Hartley said. “You get to punish me for the next hour, and Callahan will get her chance to punish me over RealStix later.”
“Damn straight,” I said, sitting my butt down on my useless lower legs, which is a total no-no, for circulatory reasons. At the rehab center, they used to have a fit if I sat on my feet even for a second.
“Let’s go, Corey,” Pat said. “I need you to do the length of the mat.”
But I hesitated. I really did not want Hartley to watch me crawl like a drunk, my butt swaying in the air. I met Pat’s eye and gave the tiniest shake of my head.
Pat studied me for a second. Then she called out, “Hartley, I need a favor. Could you please go down to the front desk and collect my mail? I’m expecting something. And there’s still a few more minutes until we start.”
“O-kay…” he said slowly. “Is there anything else I can get you while I’m out? Coffee? Dry cleaning?”
“That will be all,” Pat said.
When he walked out, I lifted my ass in the air and prepared to crawl. “Thank you,” I said in a low voice.
“Not a problem,” she sighed.
“So, Corey,” Dana said, putting on a jacket. “Did you hear about the Screw Your Roommate Dance next week?”
Hartley was setting up our hockey game, but we hadn’t started playing yet. “Those are always fun,” he said. “I set Bridger up last year. I handcuffed him to a tree in the courtyard, and gave his date the key.”
“Sounds…interesting,” I said. “Do you want to go, Dana?” Although, since she’d brought it up, I could assume the answer was yes.
She shrugged. “I think it sounds like fun. Don’t you? What’s your type, Corey? Do you have a type?”
Hartley handed me a game controller. “There’s only one man for Callahan, and he’s pretty unavailable.”
At that, my heart took off galloping like a pony, and I actually tasted bile in my mouth. Because I was sure that Hartley knew how I felt about him, and that he was about to say it out loud.
“The Pittsburgh Puffins probably have a game that night,” Hartley continued, “otherwise, I’m sure the captain would fly up if you asked.”
My heart rate began to descend back into the normal range.
Dana giggled. “The captain of the Pittsburgh Puffins, huh? Now I have to Google him.” She leaned over my laptop computer where it sat on the trunk, tapping on the keyboard. “Ooh!” she said.
“Like what?” My straight-legged “stride” could hardly be less natural.
“There are new braces which bend when you want them to and lock when you need it. I think you’re a really good candidate. But the manufacturer requires that you to commit to eight more months of therapy on them.”
“If a brace needs eight months of therapy to work, how good could it be?”
Pat smiled the smile of someone who was trying to be patient. “I think they’re miraculous. But you have to train your trunk, torso and glutes to help you. Think about it. In the meantime, let’s work on crawling.”
I gave Pat a weary look, because crawling was one of the more exhausting things we did.
“Hands down on the mat, please,” she said.
With a barely cooperative sigh, I turned over, placing my hands on the mat. Then I curved my back like a cat, pulling with my weak quads into something resembling all fours. Pat adjusted my uncooperative legs behind me.
“Let’s go,” she said. “There’s only eight minutes left, anyway.”
I stepped one of my hands forward on the mat.
“This is easier if you move the hand and the opposing leg together,” she said. “Let me show you.” Pat got onto her hands and knees too, demonstrating the proper way to unweight the leg that I wish to move.
The door to the therapy room swung open, and a voice said. “Oh goody. Women on all fours.”
“ Mister Hartley,” Pat’s voice was frosty. “That is not an appropriate way to speak to me or my patient.”
“Don’t worry, Pat,” Hartley said. “You get to punish me for the next hour, and Callahan will get her chance to punish me over RealStix later.”
“Damn straight,” I said, sitting my butt down on my useless lower legs, which is a total no-no, for circulatory reasons. At the rehab center, they used to have a fit if I sat on my feet even for a second.
“Let’s go, Corey,” Pat said. “I need you to do the length of the mat.”
But I hesitated. I really did not want Hartley to watch me crawl like a drunk, my butt swaying in the air. I met Pat’s eye and gave the tiniest shake of my head.
Pat studied me for a second. Then she called out, “Hartley, I need a favor. Could you please go down to the front desk and collect my mail? I’m expecting something. And there’s still a few more minutes until we start.”
“O-kay…” he said slowly. “Is there anything else I can get you while I’m out? Coffee? Dry cleaning?”
“That will be all,” Pat said.
When he walked out, I lifted my ass in the air and prepared to crawl. “Thank you,” I said in a low voice.
“Not a problem,” she sighed.
“So, Corey,” Dana said, putting on a jacket. “Did you hear about the Screw Your Roommate Dance next week?”
Hartley was setting up our hockey game, but we hadn’t started playing yet. “Those are always fun,” he said. “I set Bridger up last year. I handcuffed him to a tree in the courtyard, and gave his date the key.”
“Sounds…interesting,” I said. “Do you want to go, Dana?” Although, since she’d brought it up, I could assume the answer was yes.
She shrugged. “I think it sounds like fun. Don’t you? What’s your type, Corey? Do you have a type?”
Hartley handed me a game controller. “There’s only one man for Callahan, and he’s pretty unavailable.”
At that, my heart took off galloping like a pony, and I actually tasted bile in my mouth. Because I was sure that Hartley knew how I felt about him, and that he was about to say it out loud.
“The Pittsburgh Puffins probably have a game that night,” Hartley continued, “otherwise, I’m sure the captain would fly up if you asked.”
My heart rate began to descend back into the normal range.
Dana giggled. “The captain of the Pittsburgh Puffins, huh? Now I have to Google him.” She leaned over my laptop computer where it sat on the trunk, tapping on the keyboard. “Ooh!” she said.
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