His expression was patient, unhurried, completely unimpressed by the office or by her. Most people who sat across from her were at least a little impressed by her. "And if you do find something worth pursuing," she asked, "then I'd ask you to consider a 30-day trial program," he said, "supvised by a licensed clinician from my university. Her name is Dr. Carol Meyers. She oversees all my independent study cases.
Every session would be documented and co-signed by her. No charge. No change to my job status here. He waited. One session.
That's all I'm asking for tonight. Helena looked at the folder. She looked at him. 6:00 a. M.
She said before the building fills up. And if you waste my time, we don't speak of this again. Understood. The following morning, he had her close her eyes. "Picture yourself walking toward the window," he said.
"Don't think about your legs. Think about the destination. Just move toward it. " Silence. She sat in her wheelchair in the center of her own office with her eyes closed, feeling faintly ridiculous, waiting for something to happen. Nothing did.
A minute passed, then another. She opened her eyes and reached for the wheel of her chair. Give it one more try, he said quietly. She stopped, exhaled, closed her eyes again. She was about to speak, about to tell him this was exactly what she had expected when she felt it.
Her left big toe curled inward. A small involuntary tightening that lasted less than a second. She opened her eyes. They were both looking at her foot. Neither of them spoke.
She didn't feel triumphant. She felt terrified the way she imagined a person felt when they found out something they had buried very carefully was still alive underground. Hope was not a comfortable thing. Hope had a cost. And Helena Carr had already paid more than she intended to pay.
30 days, Quentyn said his voice careful. Supervised, documented. No promises about the outcome. She looked at him for a long moment. I don't believe you, she said.