Page 31 of Kept By the Loan Shark

Chapter Ten

“Cassie, take a deep breath and try again,” Danny urged in his calm, encouraging way.

I shot Taylor’s older brother an annoyed look as the timer on the game ticked away the remaining seconds. I hated Perfection. The stupid little shapes and the outrageously small spots where they fit were hard enough to figure out when I was in perfect health. Now, with my wonky vision and hand weakness on my left side, I was about to lose my shit trying to make the pieces fit.

The timer dinged, and the game jumped, scattering the pieces I hadn’t managed to slide into place correctly. With a huff of frustration, I dropped back against the hard plastic chair and fought the impulse to sweep the whole damn thing off the table and onto the floor. “I really hate this part of our sessions.”

“I know you do.” Danny made some notes on his iPad. “I know this is hard for you, but the work you’re doing is already showing improvements. Your scores are already climbing.”

“Not fast enough,” I growled, glaring at my offending hand.

“You can’t fix this overnight, Cassie. It’s going to take time. Weeks. Months,” he said, setting aside his tablet. “You will regain your hand strength and coordination.”

“And my eye?”

“That’s a question for your ophthalmologist,” he reasoned. “We’re doing the exercises she suggested. You’re patching your eye, right?”

I nodded. “I look ridiculous wearing that thing.”

“If you were one of my younger clients, I’d help you bedazzle it or turn it into a pirate patch,” he teased.

“Taylor tried to convince me to let her go Pinterest crazy on it.”

“That sounds like something my sister would suggest,” he replied with a smile. “There are other options for your eye. I’m sure the doctor talked to you about them.”

I nodded again. “Glasses, Botox and surgery, but the thought of having a needle anywhere near my eyeball makes me want to hurl,” I admitted.

“They give you the good drugs before they start working on your eyes,” Danny assured me. “I had Lasix done on my eyes a few years ago. I was zonked out of my gourd by the time they started the surgery.” He glanced at his watch. “I think we have time to run through some hand stretches before you leave.”

Once the stretches were done, he handed out my homework for the weekend. It was more of the same—memory games, patching my good eye, mazes, puzzles, hand exercises and stretching. As I left his office, I slipped on a pair of sunglasses and zipped up my well-worn hoodie. The walk down to the METRO stop wasn’t far, and I slowly shrugged my shoulders to release the pent-up tension.

I didn’t like failing. I didn’t like not being able to master something on the first or second try. Sitting through my therapy sessions was absolute torture. Being forced to acknowledge my new shortcomings was painful. Being forced to accept that my life might never be the same was terrifying.

The friendships I had formed during my years at Rice were the only thing keeping me going these days. Taylor, Kunal and Kyle had stepped up in a huge way, ferrying me back and forth to appointments, helping me move into the little sublet and keeping me company in the evenings when I tended to get a bit maudlin. Classmates offered their notes or study sessions. My professors had all made any accommodations necessary to help me finish my degree.

Kyle had helped me get established with a counselor at the center on campus where he volunteered. I hadn’t been keen on the idea at first. Taylor finally convinced me I was being ridiculous and pointed out that the university would be more likely to give me all the accommodations I needed with class and work if I was using the on-campus services. So far, it had been nice to have someone to talk to without judgment.

While I appreciated the care and concern of my friends, it was Hagen’s concern and care I yearned for more than anything. Taking my seat on the METRO, I fought the urge to pull out my phone, to cover my left eye and check my messages. It had been almost four weeks since he walked out on me, leaving me alone in the hospital after our argument. Four weeks—and not a single word.

Not wanting to believe that he would end things so cruelly and coldly, I had been seized with the idea that he was in trouble. Had he been arrested for Travis’s murder? Was he being held without bail? Did he need help?

I had checked all the news outlets and the daily arrest reports. I even called HPD and the Harris County Sheriff to make sure he wasn’t being held. He wasn’t. And, when the two officers who had visited me in the hospital followed up with me, I had asked them if they had any suspects in Travis’s death. They had mentioned clearing Hagen, and that was the moment I knew he had turned his back on me and given up on us.

A few days later, Kyle had showed up at the door of my new apartment with a stack of boxes. They had been waiting on his doorstep and were labeled with my name in handwriting I would recognize anywhere. Apparently, not knowing where I was and not wanting to speak with me ever again, Hagen had boxed up all my things at his place and dumped them on Kyle’s welcome mat. It was the final nail in our relationship coffin.

Yet I couldn’t stop thinking about him. I played our last conversation on a loop in my head, trying to figure out where it had all gone wrong. Looking back, I could understand how hurt Hagen must have been that I doubted him or thought him capable of murder. At the same time, he had lied to me about the bruises on his hands. What else was I supposed to think?

It didn’t matter anymore, I supposed. It was done. Over. Finished. The promise of the future we had together had been blown up by ruined laundry, of all the stupid things. That one ridiculous event had caused a ripple effect of bad decisions that ended with Travis dead, Janine on the run, and me recovering from a brain injury. It was a total shit show.

I tried to enjoy the cooler, dryer fall weather as I walked from my stop to the tiny studio I was renting. It was in an even older complex than the one I had been living in earlier, but it was filled with young families and graduate students. I had purged even more of my things after moving, donating, selling and trashing what I could to pare down to the necessities.

Exhausted from a long day at the university and my therapy session and walks, I dropped down on the love seat I had decided to keep. I tossed my backpack aside, not caring where it landed. The moment I closed my eyes and tilted back my head, the low, pounding thump of pain that seemed to always be with me grew more insistent. I blew out an angry breath and tried to relax.

The headaches seemed to be the one side effect that hadn’t gotten better. The neurologist handling my case had warned me they could last for months. I had bottles of medications that were supposed to help, but none of them did much. So far, caffeine seemed to be the most helpful. Quiet, dark spaces, too.

But the problem with sitting quietly in a dark space was that the peace never lasted long. Intrusive thoughts would bombard me, and I would slide into a pit of melancholy and worry. What would happen to me if I never got my vision back? If the headaches never went away? If my memory didn’t continue to improve? Would I be able to finish a doctorate? Would I be able to find a job?

My phone chimed, and for once, I was grateful for the interruption. I still had a hard time reading text on any sort of screen right now. All of my friends knew to call or video chat with me. Kyle’s smiling face came into view after I swiped the screen. “Hey, Kyle.”

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