“You might be able to in the water.”
“What if I fall in?”
“I’ll catch you.”
“But what if you don’t?”
Ian lifted an eyebrow. “If I suddenly have a heart attack and die while we’re in the middle of the pool, I might not catch you. If that happens, float on your back to the edge, and then scream your lungs out until someone comes to help you. Because you are in a hospital, you will get medical care quickly, and because you are on massive antibiotics already, it’s unlikely you’ll get an infection, but if you do, again, you’re already at the hospital.”
“What about you?”
“I’m dead already. Just leave me in the pool.”
I stifled a smile. “That would traumatize the other patients.”
“Toss me in the bin, then. Whatever.”
I took a deep breath and geared up for going in. Ian went to put his palms on either side of my ribs, right on the skin, just under my two-piece top—and watching it happen gave me the giddy anticipation you get when someone’s coming to tickle you.
I sucked in a breath.
He stopped short of touching me. “What?”
No way was I explaining to him how visceral the anticipation of his hands on my body was. That was need-to-know information. “I’m ticklish,” I said.
He nodded, like, Noted, and then continued.
“I’ve got you,” he said—and all of a sudden, out of context, he was different. He was the Ian from the roof. He was not the guy in the PT gym with the cartoon scribble of angst above his head. He was not the guy who answered my questions with one-word nonanswers, and grunts, and total silence. He was a guy who had just cracked a joke—possibly two! He was looking into my eyes, and paying attention, and promising me I could trust him.
“Are you ticklish?” I asked.
He gave me a look. “Do I look ticklish?”
I felt a strong temptation to find out, but I was scared I might fall into the water. “Who are you?” I said then, peering at him.
He frowned, as if the question made no sense. “I’m the guy who’s going to walk you across the pool.”
With that, he pulled me toward him in a little nudge, and I popped off the edge—and instead of floating down gracefully, I squealed and grabbed him tight around the neck in what could only be described as a very clingy hug.
I didn’t mean to. I was just going to bob into the water, like always.
But this wasn’t always. My burns felt extra-naked, and I didn’t trust my legs to work any better in the water than out. I didn’t entirely trust Ian, either. And so: the chicken version of a leap of faith—one that involved clutching his neck with my face buried into the crook of his wet, post-cannonball shoulder.
“Too fast?” he said.
I nodded into his neck, liking the way the skin felt.
“Push back a little. Otherwise, it’s not therapy. It’s just hugging.”
“Hugging could be a type of therapy.”
“Not the type your father’s going to pay me for.”
“He might if I asked him to.”
“You can do this. Take a breath.”
So I did. Then I pushed myself back until there was half a foot between us, and worked my legs into position as if they were foreign objects. He kept his hands at my rib cage, and I braced mine on his shoulders. Then there we were, waist deep in the water, standing. Right then, I felt it for the first time—almost like an electrical pulse: a tiny flicker of joy.
He saw it. He saw me feel it. There was nowhere to look but straight into his face, and he read me in less than a second.
I couldn’t help but smile.
He smiled back. A real smile. The first one of his I’d ever seen. And I felt another electrical pulse.
“You’re standing,” he said.
“You’re smiling,” I said.
“I’m not,” he said. But that just made him smile more. He threw his head back and said, “Focus! Focus!” To himself, as far as I could tell.
For a flash, as I noticed all those muscles and tendons crisscrossing under the stubble on his throat, I forgot all about myself, and why we were here, and the impossible thing we were trying to do. For a second, he was just a guy in a pool in wet cargo shorts—and I was just a girl, being held.
But just for a second.
Then he brought his face down and got serious. “Okay,” he said. “When I take a step backward, you take a step forward.”
But it had been too long. I shook my head. “I can’t remember how.”
“Don’t overthink it. Your body remembers. You know how to bring the knee up. Then let the water help the foot follow.”
When he took a step back, I brought my knee forward. Then my foot followed behind, carried by the current. Then I set it down.
“I did it!” I whispered.
“Good. Do the other one.”
So I did.
It was slow, but it felt so good to work that old, familiar pattern. One foot, then the other, side to side, in that ancient human motion. It was bliss, and heartbreak—both. It was just enough of what I wanted to remind me of what I wanted—who I’d been, what I’d lost. That must have been the aspect that made me cry, because by the time we made it to the far side, my face was cold with tears.
But I was smiling. Crying and smiling both. As sad and happy as I’d been in a while. Not numb, that was certain.
“We made it all the way!” I said. Then, because nothing else seemed like it could possibly be more interesting, I said it again. “We made it all the way!”
“Aye. We did.”
“I want to high-five you, but I don’t want to let go.”
“Don’t high-five. We’re going back across.”
I felt like I could go all night, but he said that was just the excitement. He promised I was working much harder than I realized.
“The thing is,” I said, as we moved back across. “I don’t think my muscles are bringing my foot forward. I think it might just be drifting in the current behind the knee.”
“That’s okay. The theory is, the more your body does it, the more it will remember what to do. Going through those motions helps spark memories in your body. That’s the hope, at least.”
“Thank you for not letting me fall.”
“We’re not out yet.”
“Thank you for being so nice to me today.”
But Ian didn’t have a reply to that, and once again, he got quiet.
Nineteen
ONE NIGHT, A hospital volunteer showed up just after Kitty arrived with Moroccan lamb tagine. She was perky and big-eyed, and she carried a little clipboard. She was recruiting volunteers for a crafts fair that week in the children’s wing, and I was just drawing breath to shoo her out when Kitty said, “What kind of crafts?”
“Oh, everything,” the volunteer said. “Rock painting, finger knitting, friendship bracelets, balloon rockets, beeswax sculpting, sand candles. Also: anything with googly eyes.”
Kitty looked at me. “They are having a lot more fun in the children’s wing than we are.”
“Would you like to sign up?” the volunteer asked.
“Yes,” Kitty said loudly, just as I said, “No.”
The volunteer looked at Kitty. “Great.”
“Can we sign up for knitting?” Kitty asked. “My sister is knitting a slug.”
“Ooo, bring it!” the volunteer said. “The kids will love it.”
Kitty wiggled her eyebrows at me. “Maybe we can steal some googly eyes.”
After the volunteer left, I said, “I’m not going.”
“Yes you are. You just signed up.”
“You just signed up.”
“What else do you have to do?”
“Stop trying to cheer me up. You know it makes me feel worse.”
“You feel worse, anyway.”
“Yeah. But you make me feel guilty about it.”
“Look, I just saw a very inspiring quote on Instagram that said, ‘Our struggles lead us to our strengths.’”
“Say the word ‘Instagram’ one more time and I will burn this building down.”
“Fine, but every single article in the entire world says you need to learn to appreciate what you have and not dwell on what you don’t.”
“Are you kidding me right now?”
She hesitated. “Okay, that sounded a little flip.”