“Ten.”
Going home felt wonderful and terrible.
Sophie ran into me carefully because Clare had warned her not to touch my right side. She had put a sign on the refrigerator that said DAD CANNOT LIFT THINGS, including a drawing of me attempting to pick up a couch.
That evening, I discovered just how much my injury changed our life.
Opening a jar became a team project.
Sophie carried laundry.
Clare cut vegetables.
I stood in my own kitchen feeling useless.
After Sophie went to bed, I admitted that to Clare.
“You’re not useless.”
“I can’t carry a grocery bag.”
“You’re still her father.”
“That is exactly why it bothers me.”
Clare looked at me for a long moment.
“You’ve spent four years believing being her father means being able to do everything yourself.”
“There wasn’t exactly another option.”
“There are always options. You just hate needing them.”
That sounded uncomfortably familiar.
The following morning, Clare drove me back to St. Catherine’s.
My shoulder ached from physical therapy and the exercises had left my arm trembling, but I arrived at ten with two cups from Bennett’s.
Laurel was beside the window.
“You’re four minutes late.”
“My therapist enjoys suffering.”
“Yours or his?”
“I’m beginning to think both.”
She accepted the coffee.
“Clare drove you?”
“She doesn’t trust me to sit in a moving vehicle without supervision.”
“You were hit by a truck.”
“I was not driving badly.”
“You were still involved.”
“That is not how responsibility works.”
Laurel smiled and moved the visitor’s chair closer with her good foot.
I stayed until noon.
She told me she had completed the rehabilitation staircase again and had been approved to recover at home once the hospital arranged a walker, outpatient therapy, and temporary transportation.
“My supervisor is picking me up when they discharge me.”
“You accepted her offer?”
“She didn’t give me much choice.”
“I like her already.”
“You haven’t met her.”
“She sounds efficient.”
Before I left, I asked whether she needed anything for her apartment.
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Food?”
“My supervisor is bringing groceries.”
“Medicine?”
“The pharmacy delivers.”
“Anything moved to a higher shelf?”
Laurel gave me a long look.
“Clare told you about the lower cabinets.”
“She believes kitchens should be organized according to injury.”
“She already offered to come over.”
“And?”
“I said I would think about it.”
For Laurel, that was nearly the same as yes.
The following afternoon, Sophie came with Clare.
This time, Laurel was standing beside her bed with a walker while a therapist adjusted its height. She wore loose gray pants over the brace and put only the permitted amount of weight on her injured leg.
We stopped in the doorway.
Laurel noticed us.
“Twenty-three seconds,” she said.
Sophie looked confused.
“What?”
“That’s how long I stood before you arrived.”
Sophie’s whole face brightened.