Page 3 of A Cure for Recovery

“The important thing,” she continues, “is not to rush yourself. Give your body the chance to recover at its own pace without artificial timelines. And themostimportant thing, is to have a support network, which it seems like you do.” She motions to his hand – to his ring.

“Oh, um, yeah. My husband, and his family. Our best friends.”

She smiles again. He’s never met a doctor who smiled so much. “Good. I’ll give you some pamphlets to share with them when you leave. But now.” She rubs her hands together and stands. “Let’s see what you can do.”

~*~

He can’t do more than usual, and though he expects as much, it still stings: the way he takes two normal steps, and then his toe drags on the third, and he lurches forward. Dr. Wilson catches him, one hand pressed to his stomach, and one to his back, and she’s shockingly strong for such a small person. Lawson would say the same of Tommy, he thinks, with a wry frown.

“That’s okay, don’t get discouraged,” she tells him, and when he rights himself, she keeps her hands where they are. “I want to try some new exercises to work on your balance.”

One of his “challenges” – she doesn’t say “problems,” and he feels coddled, even as he appreciates the distinction – is that he’s trying to walk the way he always has, which is to say,fast. He always outwalked his friends, even Lawson, despite Lawson’s miles-long legs. A memory surfaces, one of the good ones, Lawson huffing and hitching his backpack up his shoulder and calling, “Slow down, dickface!” This was of course in their early teen years before Lawson confessed to being crazy about both his dick and his face.

They work on taking slower steps, and not committing fully to them – not throwing his upper body forward with abandon – until he can assess how his legs and feet will respond. “Right now, walking can’t be an unconscious activity like it was before,” she says.

After twenty minutes, he manages to walk the length of the room and back three times without his cane, and without stumbling.

“See?” Dr. Wilson says, excited.

Tommy sighs. “I look seventy.”

She cocks a brow. “Do you want to look cool, or do you want to walk?”

That’s not really a debate, is it?

They wrap up the appointment with a lot of encouragement from Dr. Wilson, and with a stack of pamphlets that turn out to be more like booklets, dense as they are, bound along the left edges. Most are about his continuing physical therapy, the nervous system, exercise regimens, resources, even a diet plan. The last, the one he hastily shoves back to the bottom of the stack and which he plans on hiding as soon as he’s home, somewhere Lawson won’t look, is titledRecovery and Your Mental Health: How to Adjust to Your New Normal.

Nope. Not going there.

Dr. Wilson says, “That last one might be helpful for your husband as well.” Encouraging. Dare he say eager. “Recovery affects more than just the patient, and sometimes it can be difficult to talk about the mental aspects of it with a partner. Tools like this can facilitate conversation.”

“Do you moonlight as a psychiatrist?” he quips.

“You’d be surprised how much of my job involves the brain versus the body.”

Armed with the makings of a physical therapy library clenched in one reluctant fist, he takes his cane, thanks her, and agrees to schedule his next appointment with Wynonna in reception.

Even with the cane, he walks in the new way, torso held erect, not leaning forward or back, and moves his feet slowly – much slower than he wants to. Having both hands occupied is a dangerous move, nothing free to catch himself with if he falls. But he makes it the little window in the hallway, pays, makes his next appointment, and he’s not sweating and shaking for once.

He hates the way he must look moving this way, but he doesn’t hate the whole not-falling-on-his-face thing.

When he reenters the waiting room, he sees that Lawson’s made a friend. He’s right where Tommy left him, but now there’s a little boy in the chair Tommy sat in before, no older than five, maybe, sneakered feet swinging off the edge of the chair as he talks animatedly. He’s gesturing with his hands, and his hair is bouncing on his forehead as he bobs his head, and Lawson has angled his body toward him and his whole face radiates amusement in a way so sweet and gentle that Tommy’s breath catches in his throat.

When asked, Lawson claims to dislike children. “I don’t do kids, man.” Followed by a quick, decisive shake of his head. Dana teases that it’s because he’s an overgrown kid himself, which devolves into the sort of back-and-forth banter that leaves Leo catching Tommy’s gaze in commiseration…only for Leo’s face to fall entirely when Lawson turns his snark on Tommy, and Tommy hurls it right back. It’s a miracle they haven’t been kicked out of a restaurant yet.

Tommy knows Lawson genuinely doesn’t care for teenagers. He’s dealt with too many in every coffeeshop, boutique, bookstore, and restaurant he’s ever worked in. But Tommy’s never seen him be anything but patient and indulgent with children. The way he’s being now.

“…and then itexploded!” Tommy hears the boy say as he draws near.

“It did?” Lawson affects surprise. “No way! You’re telling me the Death Starexplodes?”

“Yeah!” The boy throws up both hands in demonstration, stubby fingers spread. “It wasawesome.”

“Hayden,” a woman sitting a few seats over calls. “Please don’t be a bother.”

Lawson shoots her the sort of smile Tommy’s seen charm little old ladies and little girls, and everyone in between. He offers a wave. “It’s fine.” To the boy, he says, “What about Lando and the crew in the Falcon? Did they make it out before everything went…” He spreads both hands apart in a gesture eloquent ofboom.

“Yeah, they did.”

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