Page 92 of Maybe in Another Life

“I don’t know if you should be using running terms to someone who can’t walk,” I tell him.

But he doesn’t spit something back at me. Instead, he just smiles. “Good point, Ms. Martin.”

When people are nice and sincere and they don’t fire back with smart-ass remarks, it makes my harmless sarcastic words seem downright rude.

“I was just joking,” I tell him, immediately trying to take it back. “Use all the sports analogies you want.”

“Will do,” he says.

Dr. Winters comes in to check on us. “Looking good,” she says.

I’m half standing up in a hospital gown and white knee socks, leaning over a grown man, with my hands on a walker. The last thing I am is “looking good.” But I decide to say only nice things, because I don’t feel that Dr. Winters and Ted the physical therapist are up for my level of sarcasm. This is why I need Henry.

Dr. Winters starts asking questions directly to Ted. They are talking about me and yet ignoring me. It’s like when I was little and my mom’s friends would come over and say something like “Well, isn’t she precious” or “Look at how cute she is!” and I always wanted to say, “I’m right here!”

Ted moves slightly, pushing more of my weight onto my own feet. I don’t feel as if I have balance, per se, but I can handle it.

“Actually, Ted,” I say, “can you...” I gesture at the walker, asking him to bring it right in front of me, which he does. I shimmy off him and put both arms on the walker. I’m holding myself up. I don’t have my hands on a single person.

Dr. Winters actually claps. As if I’m learning how to crawl.

There is only so long you can be condescended to before you want to jump out of your skin.

“Let me know when you want to sit back down, Ms. Martin,” Ted says.

“Hannah!” I say. “I said call me Hannah!” My voice is rough and unkind. Ted doesn’t flinch.

“Ted, why don’t you leave Hannah and me alone for a minute?” Dr. Winters says.

I’m still standing with the walker on my own. But no one is cheering anymore.

Ted leaves and shuts the door behind him.

Dr. Winters turns to me. “Can you sit down on your own?” she asks.

“Yeah,” I tell her, even though I’m not sure it’s true. I try bending at my hips, but I can’t seem to get control properly. I land on my bed with more force and bounce than I mean to. “I should apologize to Ted,” I say.

She smiles. “Eh,” she says. “Nothing he hasn’t heard before.”

“Still...”

“This is hard,” she says.

“Yeah,” I tell her. “But I can do it. I just want todoit. I want to stop being treated with kid gloves or having people cheer because I can feel my toes. I know it’s hard to do, but I want to do it. I want to start walking.”

“I didn’t mean it was hard to walk,” she says. “I mean that it’s hard not to be able to walk.”

“You sort of tricked me,” I tell her, laughing. “Your sentence was misleading.”

Dr. Winters starts laughing, too. “I know what I’m talking about,” she says. “This stuff is frustrating. But you can’t rush it.”

“I just want to get out of here,” I tell her.

“I know, but we can’t rush that, either—”

“Come on!” I say, my voice rising. “I’ve been lying in this bed for days. I lost a baby. I can’t walk. The only time I can get up is when someone pushes me around the hideous hallways. Something as mundane as walking by myself to the other side of the room is unimaginable to me. That’s where I’m at right now. The mundane is unimaginable. And I have absolutely no control over anything! My entire life is in a tailspin, and I can’t do anything about it.” And Henry. Now I don’t even have Henry.

Dr. Winters doesn’t say anything. She just looks at me.

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