Erik’s own blood rose up around him. A river of red down the aisle. He could not stop James. He could only watch. One point-blank shot to kill Will. Then another to kill Daisy. Then more blood surging over the lip of the apron and water-falling into the orchestra seats. A shattering of glass and the thud of falling plaster chunks. And everywhere blood.
Nothing predicted the onslaught of the dreams. They plagued him night after night, then mysteriously retreated. Lena could not stop the nightmares from manifesting, but she rescued him from their clutching grip, bringing him back to the waking world where she could guard him. She slept on the floor by his bed, at the precise spot where his hand could reach down and find her. As soon as he began to stir restlessly or thrash, her paws were on the mattress and her nose in his neck.
Pete began bedding down on Erik’s floor, too. And with his brother and both dogs close by, Erik began to string together consecutive nights of good sleep. The shadows in his face smoothed out. His appetite returned and he put some weight back on. But his heart was with Daisy. He was exposed and fragile without her. It hurt to breathe. His arms ached to hold her, his eyes longed to connect with hers. He felt severed. He needed her. The sleep he craved was with Daisy pressed against his back and Lena on the floor by his head. Snugly bookended between the greatest love and understanding he had ever known.
Svensk Fisk
The fasciotomies were closed now. The vertical scars running down Daisy’s calf were livid and ugly, crosshatched with staple marks. But neither closing had required a skin graft, which was further indication her repaired artery was pumping plenty of blood and oxygen to the lower extremities. Dr. Jinani was pleased enough to tease her.
“My dear,” he said, “when it comes to being shot in the leg, you are a champ.”
Daisy had unconsciously charmed her way past the double checkpoint of Dr. Jinani’s professional detachment and his naturally shy reserve. They joked and chatted through his daily visits with the ease of uncle and beloved niece.
He originally wanted her to do her rehab at the Magee Center in Philadelphia. But sensing the strength she drew from her family, he agreed she could go to a facility closer to home as an outpatient. On the fourth of May, three weeks after she was shot, Daisy returned to Bird-in-Hand.
“I’m fucking home,” she said to Erik on the phone, her voice a purr of relief. They talked every night, Erik following both her progress and her setbacks.
“‘Rehabilitation protocol,’” Daisy said, reading to him from a lengthy document. “‘Following compartment syndrome release with open fasciotomy.’ Nice to know this is common enough to warrant protocol.”
“You know, release used to be a much sexier word,” Erik said, curled in bed with the phone tucked under his ear. “Now all it evokes is your leg muscles bulging out.”
“I told you not to look when they were changing the dressings.”
“Well you looked. I couldn’t not look if you did. Think you’re going to one-up me in the looking department?”
“I’m sorry, did you just say compartment?”
“Cute. But really, it was the most disgusting thing I’ve ever seen in my life.”
“Thank you, honey,” Daisy said. “I try to corner the market on all your extreme experiences.”
“You have the freakin’ monopoly,” Erik muttered.
The first two weeks at rehab, her trainers left her leg at rest and concentrated on getting her endurance back. Daisy worked side-by-side with one man who was a double amputee, and another who was a paraplegic. They did grueling cardio workouts solely with upper body strength, propelling their chairs in laps around the outdoor track, or in specialized treadmill racks indoors. For strength training, the men used heavy free weights while Daisy worked with resistance bands. Her exercises focused on her core, back and shoulders, and keeping the good leg conditioned. She needed strength without bulk, and had the additional goal of maintaining her flexibility. She worked with a stretching coach daily, and saw a massage therapist three days a week.
“This does not suck,” she said to Erik.
“Is there a release in those massage sessions?”