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Closing my eyes, I stretch my legs out in front of me and let the cool air wash over me. I’ve been inside since coming home from the surgery center yesterday, and it feels good to breathe fresh air.
“Franny,” Stefan’s voice calls from behind me. “I have to go.”
“I know you do.” Carefully pushing myself up from my chair, I stand and make my way toward Stefan, who swiftly closes the distance between us and crushes his lips to mine. Wrapping my arms around him, I pull him close and hold on tight. Whispering when he breaks the kiss, “I love you, Stefan.”
“I love you too, Stats.”
The ringing of the doorbell pulls us apart and Stefan reluctantly turns away, stepping inside to open the door. Following him, slowly, I step into the entryway to find Rachel on her way inside, a duffel bag slung over her shoulder.
“Morrow,” Rachel tips her chin in a quick nod. “Don’t suck tomorrow
night.”
“I’ll try not to,” Stefan laughs, shutting the door as Rachel steps inside. “Don’t make me regret texting you tonight.”
“I won’t. I’m glad you let me know.”
“I’m glad you’re able to stay tonight.”
“Wait,” I interject, approaching the two of them. “Does this mean I’m stuck with Rach tomorrow?”
“Unfortunately,” Stefan answers and Rachel barks out a laugh as she leaves the two of us in relative privacy near the front door. “I hope you don’t mind that I let her know I’d be leaving. I just didn’t feel right leaving you alone. Not this soon after surgery.”
“Thank you.” Tears sting my eyes as I close the distance between us and claim his lips in a kiss. I kiss him like I’m starving for his touch. Like I haven’t spent the day wrapped up in him. “Call me when you get to Ottawa.”
“Callmeafter therapy tomorrow.”
“Promise.” I hold out my pinky finger and Stefan does the same, twining his with mine and pressing his lips to our joined fingers.
“Promise.”
When I was thirteen, I went through physical therapy following the reconstruction of my hip. As an adult, I’ve been through physical therapy to try and prevent further injury to my hip. Physical therapy after surgery, while my body is still trying to heal is another story. There is nopainin my knee. The surgery took away the knee pain. The incision sites are tender to the touch and the muscles in my knee feel tight like an over-stretched rubber band.
I’ve been evaluated by Britt, my usual therapist, and now we have a plan in place for the rest of my treatment. Britt sets me up on a bike and for ten minutes I do my best to pedal, slowly, babying my knee with each rotation. Rachel is sitting along the back wall with the other moral supporters who come with their people to therapy. She’s chatting with the husbands of my friends Gladys and Elaine, women I’ve known here at the clinic since I started my preventative therapy.
“How’s the knee, Franny?” Gladys asks from the parallel bars behind me.
“It was better ten minutes ago,” I respond as I climb off the bike and follow Sophia to the other set of parallel bars, where she helps me step into a looped resistance band. “Ask me again when I’m done.”
As I move my knee forward and back, and side to side with the added resistance, the knee feels fine, but my hip starts to scream. Taking a break from the exercises and taking a few deep breaths, I recenter myself, adjust my stance and get back to work. After the band, I follow Sophia to a table where she has melay on my back and work on leg lifts. Simple leg lifts should be no problem, but now everything hurts.
“Take it as slow as you need.” Britt pats the table before moving toward the bikes to get her next client started. After my first set of five lifts for each leg, I take a break, using my sleeve to wipe the sweat from her forehead and to swipe at the tears I didn’t realize were falling.
“Take my hand,” Rachel’s voice is soft beside me. I turn my head to find her on a rolling stool beside me, slipping her hand into mine where it rests on the table. “I’ve got you, Franny.”
Rachel literally holds my hand through the rest of this exercise, giving me the strength to get through it. Her free hand wipes the tears from my cheeks when I rest between sets, and finally, blessedly, I finish my leg lifts.
“Do you want ice?” Britt asks, helping me down from the table.
“Yes please.”
I sink into a chair along the back wall of the clinic, and Sophia props my leg on a rolling stool before tucking an ice pack around my knee.
“Who are you texting?” I ask Rachel, her thumbs tapping furiously on her screen and every so often I hear the sound of a new text swooping in.
“Morrow.”
“Why?”
