Page 8 of The Spy Ring

He ran his hands through his shaggy brown hair as his eyes darted to the floor and I licked my lips. He must have realized he was overdressed.

“You must be the PT. I’m Tiffany, David’s mom.” I held out my hand and forced a smile that didn’t appear too lecherous.

His eyes shot up to mine and widened. But that was it. He didn’t shake my hand or say a word. The man stood there staring at me.

“And you are?” I asked tilting my head.

He blinked but still no sound.

“Okay, then. Please, come inside. David is getting dressed. He will be out in a minute. I can explain his history while we wait.” I moved and waved him inside.

He hesitated but after a minute decided it was safe to come into my apartment. We walked past my small galley kitchen to the right and straight into my living room. As he lowered himself onto my brown suede chair I had to pry my eyes away from his ass. The man had a nice butt but I reminded myself it wasn’t for staring at while I sat on the pale green sofa.

“I’m afraid I don’t know your name. I am sure I wrote it down somewhere but can’t seem to find it,” I said.

“Jagger. My name is Jagger,” he finally spoke.

The hairs on the back of my neck rose as he told me his name. There was something about his voice which was unexpected. Maybe it was because he refused to speak when he was at the door that I anticipated his words to be whisper-quiet.

They certainly weren’t soft. In fact, they were the opposite. Hard with a dark edge that pricked at my skin. But there was something else, too. My heart beat a little faster as if I knew him.

“It’s nice to meet you, Jagger. Now about my son,” I said as I put my instructional face on. “He was in a car accident when he was two that left him unable to develop at the same pace as his peers in regard to motor skills. He is twelve now, will be turning thirteen in a few weeks, and this year he took his first steps.”

I found that when speaking with professionals about my son’s history, it’s easier to remove the emotional element. Like reading from a textbook, just the facts.

Jagger’s brow creased. He appeared uneasy but let me continue.

“The accident affected his primary motor cortex. This past winter he had a fairly new procedure to try and reverse what the accident had done to him. It worked. He can now speak and walk and do most of the stuff a kid his age can do.”

“What’s the PT for?” Jagger asked.

Wait . . . What? Was he serious?

“Why wouldn’t my son need physical therapy?”

Jagger’s face lit up with merriment mixed with surprise. “Oh, physical therapy. You think I’m a physical—”

He was cut off as my son entered the room.

I got up and walked to David. He was my height, not so little anymore. Now that he could tell me anything he wanted, he decided he had to let his hair grow. The boy who stood in front of me was tall, skinny, and had a big brown mop of hair.

“Hey.” David’s blue eyes stayed focused on the floor.

“David, this is Jagger. He will be your new physical therapist.” I took David’s hand and helped him onto the couch.

“As you can see, while David can now walk,” my smile widened as I gazed at my son’s reddening face, “he is still building his strength and coordination. That’s where you come in.”

Jagger’s eyes bounced between my son and me with a strange expression on his face. The best way to describe it was that he appeared to be holding in a fart.

The man stayed silent. Was this how it was going to be with him? Am I going to have to show him how to do his job?

“David. Is there anything you would like to ask Mr. Jagger?”

“No,” my son said as his eyes stared at the gray block-patterned rug.

I was so happy when I found out my new insurance would cover most of the cost of home visits from a physical therapist. Who knew that I would end up with the worst PT in the world. Maybe I could request a new one from the group I contacted.

“Is there anything you would like to ask me, Mr. Jagger?”

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