Page 34 of Free to Fall

Finally, a breakthrough.

“Then how about I help you?”

Bailey shrugs.

“Look at it this way. What’s the worst that happens? If you end up not liking me after a few days, I go back home.”

“And what happens to me?”

“You spend more time at the hospital if you want to be ready to play like your friends in time for school.”

Bailey makes a face that’s a cross between tasting sour milk and sucking a lemon. “No, thank you.”

“Physical therapy doesn’t have to be a punishment, although I will concede there are days it feels like it.”

She frowns. “What does concede mean?”

“Admit something is true.” As if she just had the idea, Laura snaps her fingers. “You know, Bailey. You can help me with my own physical therapy.”

Bailey scoffs. “What do you need therapy for? You can walk.”

“My shoulder was ... hurt. I have to do exercises every day to ensure I don’t lose the range of motion.”

As Bailey digests the words, I admire the strength inside the woman sitting on the floor of my hallway who would carefully admit her own vulnerability to earn a child’s trust.

Pushing to her feet, Laura says to Bailey. “I’ll make you a promise.”

Wary, Bailey asks, “What’s that?”

“Nobody’s perfect, but I’ll never lie to you, and I’ll do everything in my power to protect you from being hurt.”

Without another word to my daughter, Laura turns and heads back toward me. It’s then I take in the slim doctor’s beauty, her aqua-colored eyes, and determined expression—one I’m very familiar with since I studied her so closely the day we met at Hudson. She holds out her hand to me. “I look forward to hearing from you both.”

“You will. Soon, I hope.” I take hers to shake and am almost dropped to my knees. Another bolt of electricity runs up my arm that might have felled a weaker man.

She automatically balances herself after letting go of my fingers.

She feels it too. It’s not just me.

What god-awful timing to remember I’m a man and not just a father, I chastise myself as I close the door and turn to face Bailey.

But I can’t quite get the feeling of the delicate doctor’s hand off my mind for the rest of the afternoon.

My daughter is noticeably distracted during dinner that night. Head down, she’s pushing her spaghetti around her plate with the fork scraping against the plate. After a few minutes, I lay my hand on hers. “What’s wrong, Buttercup?”

“Why can’t you watch me?”

I put my fork down and place my hand on hers to still it. “Bailey, there are a number of reasons.”

“Tell me,” she demands.

I narrow my eyes at her imperiousness. “Watch your tone, young lady.”

She grumbles, “Sorry, Daddy.”

Lifting my napkin, I wipe my lips, giving myself a moment to consider how to navigate this minefield. Whoever said girls during their teenage years is the roughest time to be a parent obviously hasn’t been in a situation like this. I ask her, “How do your legs feel?”

Her face brightens. “Great, Daddy! I was able to do a whole set of my exercises with Mrs. Destry.”

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