Page 165 of The Fall
I don’t understand the question at first. My mind is a fog of wanting, and the shift throws me off balance. “Fine,” I say automatically, then stop. His eyes search mine. “It’s fine now,” I clarify.
“You were put on post-concussion watch. The update said you collapsed. Did they miss something after the hit?”
“No, I’m?—”
His eyebrows rise. There’s no point in pretending anymore. I sigh. “I’ve been dealing with some lingering concussion stuff on and off since Vancouver.”
His jaw tightens. “Torey.”
“I’ve been dealing with it. It comes and goes. Some days are better than others. Today is a good day. I’m here with you,” I say. “That’s all that matters to me.”
“Everything about you matters to me.” He steps back and takes a deeper look at me. “You get headaches right here, yeah?” His hand slides to the base of my skull.
Before I can answer, his thumb digs in, and immediate relief follows. My eyes drift shut.
“There,” he says quietly, his other hand coming up to cradle the side of my head while he works.
“How do you know—” My question dissolves as his thumb finds another knot of pain. I sway forward, and his arm comes around me, steadying me while his fingers continue their careful work.
“I’ve been through this.” His voice is close to my ear. He works across the tight bands of muscle where my skull and neck meet, easing away the tension and the pain. “That help?”
I’m drifting. “Yeah,” I say dreamily. The pain that’s been my constant companion for weeks dissolves under his touch.
“You’ve been white-knuckling through this, haven’t you?”
I nod.
“So stubborn,” he says. “Let me show you some balance work, too.”
I could stay here forever, letting him take care of me like this, but he’s stepping back, his touch trailing away.
“Come on.” He takes my hand and leads me into the living room. The carpet is soft under my bare feet as he positions me in the center of the room. “You need to retrain your proprioception,” he says, all business now. “Your brain’s been compensating. We need to reteach it.”
His palm settles on the small of my back, warm through my shirt. “First, we establish your baseline. Start with your feet hip-width apart. Bare; you want the surface tension.”
I follow his instruction, swaying slightly as he positions himself behind me.
“Close your eyes,” he says, his voice near my ear. “Arms out to the sides. Now focus on your center. Feel the ground beneath your feet.”
He walks me through diaphragmatic breathing: inhale through my center line, exhale through my heels. I follow.
“Good. Now, notice where your weight has settled. Which foot are you leaning on?”
“Left.”
“We’re going to fix that.”
His palm slides from my shoulder down over my abs.
“Tighten here.”
I do, and my balance steadies instantly.
“Perfect,” he whispers. “I’m going to apply a little pressure. Your job is to stay centered.”
His hand leans on my right shoulder. I wobble but correct myself.
“That’s it,” he says. His pressure increases enough to test me, and my core fires. His other hand hovers near my waist. “Now the other side.” His hand shifts to my left shoulder. This time I’m ready, and I adjust without thought, finding equilibrium.
