Page 61 of Shattered Lives

Tom raises an eyebrow at the word “normal”, but lets it slide. It’s not uncommon to hear similar statements from new amputees. Instead, he claps his hands together. “Alright. You want to walk, let’s make it happen. Come over to a table and we'll discuss how we get you there. Today, we create the plan. Your work starts tomorrow.”

Mark looks slightly overwhelmed by the time the hour is up. Just the sheer number of colorful belts, resistance bands, straps, and carabiners is a lot to take in. Tom has planned several series of exercises to strengthen his core, straighten his thigh, and build his quads. He’s also scheduled for upper body massages and hydrotherapy. Then there’s the at-home plan: Pilates with Lila twice a week and weight training with Tom and Tucker three days a week. I’ll handle nightly mirror massages for his phantom pain and any post-workout strains, and Mark is responsible for “tummy time” four times a day, lying on his stomach to stretch and lengthen his thigh muscles.

“It’s going to be a lot of work,” Tom cautions Mark.

Mark shakes his head. “I don’t care. I’ll do whatever it takes.”

“So will we,” Tucker promises.

I recognize the set of Mark’s jaw, the look in his eyes. He’s focused. Determined. And for the first time since his injuries, he looks hopeful.

It’s all going to be okay.

It’s got to.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHARLIE

Lila insists on accompanying me to Dr. Martin’s the morning of my appointment. “I’m just your chauffeur and moral support. I won’t intrude.”

“You might as well come in. It’s not like you haven’t had a front-row seat to my shitshow.”

She scowls. “It’s not a shitshow.”

She follows me into the office under protest. “Look, Lila, you actually see what happens. I only know my side of things. Giving her more information can only help.”

“Well, we’re not having you committed, so don’t even start that shit again,” she mutters.

Having Mark beside me, knowing he’s watching over me, is helping. I had another nightmare last night. I was in the cell again, bound and powerless. The cell door banged open with a metallic crash, and my entire body tensed. When I heard Mark’s voice soothing me, I knew I was safe. I woke up just enough to recognize my surroundings before drifting back off to sleep.

Maybe he and I really can help each other heal.

Dr. Linda Martin is a petite blonde with warm brown eyes and a pleasant contralto voice. Today she’s wearing gold stilettos that put her barely at my eye level, and I’m only five four. She ushers us into her office, a cozy room with peaceful blues and warm wood tones. Linda’s the one who encouraged me to promote inner tranquility by styling my surroundings to encourage serenity.

Lila and I sit on the plush cream sofa while Linda perches in a matching chair across from us. Her fitted deep blue dress says poised professional, but her stilettos scream something else entirely. She smiles warmly. “It’s good to see you again, Charlie.”

“Thank you for working me in so quickly.”

She nods. “It sounds like things have been difficult.”

And with that tiny bit of encouragement, I’m off and running. I admit to the return of my night terrors, initially once or twice a week. I describe the progression in my anxiety, requiring me to be armed to feel safe. I explain my need to remain on the bench at night and how my night terrors have morphed into a daily occurrence. I tell her about the camera Lila and Tucker installed and the custom-made ringtone they use to help bring me out of the nightmares and calm me down.

She turns to Lila. “How long do her episodes seem to last?”

She presses her lips together, thinking. “It varies. A lot of times, we’re asleep when it starts, so we don’t realize there’s a problem until she’s fully engaged. But when I can’t sleep, I watch her. I can always tell when it’s starting because she follows the same pattern every time.”

“What does she do?”

“She starts by looking back over her left shoulder.”

My mouth goes dry. That’s where the door to my cell was. Behind me and to my left, so I couldn’t see who was approaching.

“Then she twitches her shoulders. Sometimes it’s her entire upper body. Well, except for her arms. It’s like they’re detached from her torso.”

They’d lashed my wrists together above my head, suspending me, making my shoulders feel like they were on fire. The only way to move my arms was by thrashing my entire body. My chest grows tight.

“She starts kicking. Cursing, growling, yelling. After a while, she'll move her arms, punching or shoving at someone who isn’t there. Eventually, she’ll raise her gun and fire it in whichever direction she believes her attacker is coming from.”

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