Something in the way he said the word two, linking them together, made Quillan want to try. He sensed the doctor’s vested concern. It was important to him. He had worked hard for this moment. Quillan gathered the ragged edges of his will and nodded.
The doctor stood slowly, taking Quillan’s arm over his shoulders. Quillan forced his muscles to respond and came up standing, though most of his weight was on the doctor.
“Shift to your right.”
Carefully, gingerly, Quillan allowed his right leg to take some of the burden. Pain, but not unbearable. Little strength, but no snapping or splintering of bone. The thigh looked slightly crooked as Quillan looked at it. But that could be the wasted muscle and the scar.
The doctor eased out from under his arm, keeping hold of the small of Quillan’s back. “It bears your weight.”
Quillan nodded, though the leg had started to shake uncontrollably.
“Sit now.” Dr. DiGratia eased him down.
Quillan was amazed by the gentleness of his aid. What brought it now, after their constant brusque sparring? Again the doctor’s fingers were on his thigh probing deeply to the bone. Quillan grimaced.
The doctor flicked him a glance. “Painful?”
Quillan glared. What did the man think?
Angelo DiGratia laughed softly. “You and I do not have an easy time between us, eh?”
“It might be easier without the poking and prying.”
“Ah.” The doctor smiled, deep lines forming between the sides of his nose and his chin. Quillan couldn’t recall seeing the man’s smile before.
“Then I would not do my duty.”
His duty. Was that it? Had he imagined the unity of purpose, of concern? Quillan looked away.
“To my son.”
The words jolted through him like lightning. Had he heard right? He looked back at Carina’s father, found a look of begrudged affection.
“I don’t excuse what you did. But—” he stood—“maybe . . .” He spread his hands like Carina. “Because I have worked so hard to mend you, it makes a bond . . . like family.”
Quillan’s chest tightened painfully. Had he misunderstood, used God’s words to support his own resistance? Was it harder to bear their acceptance than their rejection? “Dr. DiGratia—”
“I think . . . it must be Papa DiGratia.”
Papa. Quillan gripped the edge of the couch. Lord? Was it allowed him? If ye abide in me, and my words abide in you, ye shall ask what ye will, and it shall be done unto you. Ask now, and it would be done. Which did he want? His fierce independence or that sweetness of which the author Mazzini spoke?
The doctor held out his hand. “We will make our peace as you did with Flavio?”
Throat taut, Quillan took his hand.
The doctor, his . . . papa . . . leaned down and kissed both his cheeks. The oddness of it was washed away by the sheer wonder. “You said to judge you by yourself.”
Quillan remembered. It had been brash and defiant of him.
Papa DiGratia gripped his forearms. “I have done so.”
Their eyes met in mutual esteem. For the first time since Carina, Quillan felt that someone had seen him as he was—not perfect, but neither more nor less flawed than the next man—and accepted him as such. “Thank you.”
Papa DiGratia released his arms. He began gathering up his books, Gray’s Anatomy and other heavy tomes Quillan had no better use for than to work his muscles. He started for the door, then stopped, looked over his shoulder. “You don’t need to learn Italian. You already speak the language of Carina’s heart.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
What jaunts the path of life does make, what least the heart foresees Beware oh careless traveler of life’s tempestuous seas, Lest path should turn and waves rise up, and you be blown upon life’s breeze.
—Quillan
AT THE SOUND OF raucous male voices, Carina headed for Quillan’s porch. He had to be there, but she could not see him with all her brothers crowded in. Joseph was nearest her, and she tapped his arm. “What is it? What’s going on?”
“Nothing to worry you.” He held his position.
“Uno . . . due . . .”
She tried to press past him and see what they were counting, but Tony’s back prevented her. She nudged his shoulder. “What are you doing?”
Tony half turned. “Don’t push. There’s no room.”
Angelo’s voice rose up. “You can’t do better than that? Carina could swing as well.” Laughter from them all.
She could not hear Quillan’s answer over her brothers’ laughter. What were they up to? She pushed Tony again. “Let me in. What’s going on?”
Tony spoke over his shoulder. “We’re just helping.”
Helping? She rose to tiptoes and caught a glimpse of Vittorio waving Angelo back.
“Give him a moment.” He held an arm up toward Lorenzo, as well.
“Tired, eh?” Angelo swung playfully, and Quillan, sitting on a stool in the middle of the room, blocked it. Her brother swung again with his left arm and caught Quillan in the shoulder. Quillan grabbed his wrist and jerked his arm down, but Angelo twisted free, grinning. “Tre for you.”
Carina frowned. There was a time Quillan could have taken Angelo to the floor with no effort at all. Lorenzo feinted toward him, and again Quillan blocked the blow. Two on one, it wasn’t fair.
“Stop it.” Carina pushed between Tony and Joseph and into the space around Quillan, where Angelo and Lorenzo both danced in and out aiming slaps and pokes. “What do you think you’re doing?” She glared at Vittorio, who certainly should have known better after all the time he’d spent nursing Quillan.
He gave her a level glance. “Don’t get your hackles up. We’re training his reflexes. Building his nerves back.”
Angelo swung his palm and smacked Quillan’s right arm. Quillan’s eyes stormed, but he warned Carina off with a glance. She put her hands to her hips and glared at Vittorio. “How is this helping?”
“He needs to use his arms.” Vittorio crossed his own over his chest.
“He does use them. He lifts the pail.”
“This is different. Instant motion forces the mind to talk to the arm, and the arm to respond.”
Lorenzo moved swiftly and poked Quillan’s chest. He darted again, but Quillan smacked him away. At the same time, he blocked Angelo’s swing.
Tony caught her arm. “Stop interfering. They’re not hurting him.”
Angelo flicked the back of Quillan’s head, grunting when Quillan elbowed his chest hard. “Quattro. That was four.” But even as he spoke, he swung again. “Against my twenty.”
Quillan caught Angelo’s shirt and pulled him close. “You keep score now; I’ll settle it later.”
“Is that a threat?”
Quillan cocked his head. “A reminder. Once my arms are back . . .”
Lorenzo slapped from the left and caught Quillan above the elbow. Quillan twisted and landed a jab in Lorenzo’s belly. Lorenzo staggered into the bookcase and caught his breath with a gasp. Tony and Joseph cheered. “Cinque! Five hits.”
“You see?” Angelo turned on her. “He doesn’t need you. Go stitch some lace.”