Page 3 of A Touch of Fate

Tears of anger and frustration burned in my eyes after ten minutes of trying to move the light wheelchair the nurse had brought me for practice.

“I think you accidentally engaged the brakes.” She pulled a lever at the wheel, and I could move the wheelchair forward, but as I tried to move it past the bed, my wheel got stuck on one of the legs. I dropped my hands in my lap, pressing my lips together firmly.

Danilo leaned against the windowsill and watched everything with a stoic expression. Mom couldn’t bear seeing me in a wheelchair, so she had left for the canteen with her bodyguard.

“I need to go to the toilet,” I said tonelessly.

“Would you like me or your brother to help you? Maybe it would be good if he learned how to assist you until you can do it without help.”

My eyes widened in horror, and Danilo straightened with a look of shock, torn out of the controlled calm he always displayed around me. He quickly masked it and nodded slowly.

I shook my head. “No. I don’t want Danilo to help me.” My voice broke.

“Maybe your mother?”

Danilo’s mouth thinned.

“She won’t be able to handle it,” I said. Mom had to take care of Dad, which was already incredibly tough for her.

The nurse seemed at a loss. “Well, your family plans to take you home in a week, so we need to figure out how to help you.” She looked at Danilo. “Have you hired a private nurse for her?”

Danilo glowered. “Our situation is special. We don’t appreciate strangers in our home.”

“Then you’ll have to help her. Right now, she can’t do it herself yet.”

Danilo walked toward me, but I shook my head. “No!” I didn’t want my brother to help me undress so I could pee. I didn’t want him to lift me on the toilet. I’d prefer to go back to having a catheter before I allowed him to help me.

Danilo regarded me, but I could tell he wasn’t sure what to do.

My despair rose at seeing him helpless. My big, strong brother.

I swallowed hard. “I’ll practice every day so I can do it myself.”

“You go home in just a week unless your family changes their mind. Your body still has a lot of healing to do, Emma.”

She moved toward Danilo, and his expression became hard. “Listen, I don’t know anything about your world. But I know that your sister will need help in the beginning. Her body’s been through a lot. Her scars need to heal, inside and out. If she does too much too soon, it could set her back. Either you hire someone who’ll help her or someone from your family needs to do it. There are ways to preserve modesty if that’s a concern.” She paused. “And your sister needs a therapist. She needs to get grief counseling to come to terms with what she’s lost.”

I swallowed hard. In our world, people didn’t talk about going to therapy. Getting help for mental problems made you look weak. But at the moment, I felt weak—body and mind.

Coming to terms with what I’d lost… could I? Because sometimes it felt as if I’d lost too much to bear.

“My family will handle it,” Danilo clipped.

I tried to move the wheelchair back and finally got it unstuck. My progress toward the bathroom was slow, and my arms and hands tired quickly. The parts of my body that I could feel ached despite the pain medication. Once inside the bathroom, I froze. I didn’t have the strength to hoist myself out of the wheelchair and onto the toilet seat. I couldn’t even undress the lower part of my body without help. I would have to lift my hips to remove the sweatpants and panties, and that simply wasn’t an option—yet.

Danilo came in. I fought the urge to send him away but lost my fight against the tears of frustration and shame. He stepped up to me and touched my shoulder. “What can I do?” His voice oozed utter control, but I could see the strain around his eyes.

“If you grab me under the arms and lift me, I can try to push my pants down.” The nurses had always done it, so I wasn’t entirely sure if I could do it myself. “Then you’ll have to put me down on the toilet.”

I closed my eyes, hating every moment of this.

“Will I hurt her?” Danilo asked the nurse.

“I’ll take a look, but it’s been five weeks since her surgeries, so everything should be fine as long as you move slowly and carefully.”

I opened my eyes to see Danilo looking at my face with utter concern. He grabbed me under the armpits and lifted me a few inches from the wheelchair. It hurt, mostly in my hips and shoulders, but I stifled a noise. I reached down and tried to push my sweatpants down, but the waistband made it difficult. I couldn’t put enough strength behind the movement because of my awkward position and tired muscles. Eventually, the nurse had to help, and Danilo set me down on the toilet seat. Theyboth left, but it took me several minutes before I could finally let loose.

I didn’t immediately call for Danilo when I was done. I felt angry at my body for failing me, angry with the man who caused the accident, and angry with the doctors who couldn’t help me. But overwhelmingly, I felt utterly heartbroken and sad. Nothing would ever be like I was used to. How could a therapist change any of it? Would they make me forget reality?

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