Page 27 of The Promises We Broke
And it definitely had nothing to do with the way I'd found myself smiling every time someone mentioned his name.
Monday morning found me reviewing his file before our session, noting the remarkable progress he'd made over his first week home. Range of motion improving ahead of schedule, pain levels dropping consistently when he actually took hismedication as prescribed, mobility increasing every session despite his stubborn resistance to using appropriate assistive devices.
Everything about his recovery was textbook perfect, which made the nagging feeling in my gut even more confusing.
Something had shifted after Barrett's birth. Not just in his physical presentation—though that was notable too—but in something deeper. The way he carried himself, maybe. Or the way his family looked at him, like they'd witnessed something that had changed their understanding of who he was underneath all the guilt and self-punishment.
"Ready for some actual work today?" I asked as I entered his room, noting immediately that he'd managed to dress himself in a button-down shirt like I'd suggested. Progress.
"Define actual work," he said, but there was something lighter in his tone than there had been during our previous sessions.
"Weight-bearing exercises. Core strengthening. Maybe some crutch work if you promise not to try anything stupid."
"I never try anything stupid. Stupid things just happen to me."
The dry humor caught me off guard. This was closer to the boy I'd once known than anything I'd seen since he'd been back. Self-deprecating but not self-loathing. Resigned to his limitations but not defeated by them.
"Right," I said, pulling out my equipment. "Let's start with range of motion and see how you're responding to the increased medication compliance."
The session went better than any we'd had so far. His shoulder moved through almost full range with minimal discomfort, his core strength was returning faster than I'd projected, and when I had him try standing with the crutches, he managed almost five minutes before needing to sit.
"This is remarkable progress," I said, making notes on my tablet. "You're ahead of schedule in every measurable category."
"Good enough to be useful?"
The question was loaded with meaning I wasn't sure I wanted to examine. "Useful how?"
"I don't know yet. But useful. Contributing instead of just taking up space and being worried about."
There was something different in his voice when he talked about contributing, something that hadn't been there before. Like Barrett's birth had given him a new framework for thinking about his place in his family's life.
"Your brothers seem pretty convinced you're already contributing," I said carefully.
"They're being kind."
"Or they're seeing something you're not ready to acknowledge yet."
He looked at me then, really looked, and I felt that familiar flutter of awareness that had nothing to do with professional assessment.
"What are you seeing?" he asked quietly.
The question hung in the air between us, loaded with implications I wasn't prepared to examine. Because what I was seeing was the boy I'd once loved, emerging slowly from underneath years of guilt and self-punishment. What I was seeing was someone who was trying to heal not just physically but emotionally, someone who was fighting to become worthy of the love his family was offering.
What I was seeing was dangerous to my carefully constructed professional boundaries.
"I'm seeing a patient who's responding well to treatment," I said, the words coming out more defensive than I'd intended.
"Right. Professional assessment only."
"Exactly."
But even as I said it, I could feel the lie settling uncomfortably in my chest. Because this wasn't just professional anymore. Maybe it never had been.
"Billie," he said suddenly, "did you know they're working on something? My brothers?"
I looked up from my notes. "Working on what?"
"I'm not sure. Lots of hushed conversations that stop when I enter a room. Trips to Dex's garage for 'parts' that they won't specify." His expression was carefully neutral, but I could see the uncertainty underneath. "I can't tell if they're planning something for me or planning how to handle me leaving."
