Page 45 of Lighting the Lamp
“Come on. You can lean on me.”
Somehow, we manage to get in despite the slick floor and my lack of balance. She steadies me onto the built-in bench, then sits next to me, thigh to thigh, steam blooming between uslike a veil. We sit there for a few moments before she pushes to her feet. Steam swirls around her silhouette, then she turns and holds out a hand. I grip her fingers and rise, knees shaking, breath held tight in my chest. Just standing and taking a few steps forward into the water is potentially the hardest thing I’ve done in my life to date. By the time I finally step into the water, I’m already halfway to collapsing, but she catches me.
“I got you, Beau.”
She holds me steady as I turn around, her arms wrapped tightly around my waist for support. Alise is almost a full foot shorter than me, barely coming up to my shoulders, and I outweigh her by at least one hundred pounds, if not more, but somehow, she manages to support my weight. Maneuvering me around the shower like I weigh nothing.
“You’re stronger than you look.”
“Nah, just a lot of practice.” She moves around the water, careful not to get her hair wet. “I have to help Momma move around when she’s having bad days. Her physical therapist taught me how to do it without pulling a muscle.”
“I’m sor?—”
“Nope, none of that.” She cuts me off, practically silencing anything else I might have to say on the subject.
The water hits my back, and I gasp. It’s too hot, but I don’t ask her to change it. I deserve the burn, or maybe I’m hoping it’ll sear something numb back into place.
“Jesus Christ,” I choke, curling forward. “It feels like my spine’s trying to escape through my skin.”
Alise presses a hand gently between my shoulder blades. “Breathe. Just breathe.”
“I am breathing.”
“Try slower.”
Her hands move up and down my back as she reaches for the body sponge on the ledge beside us. She makes quick workof squeezing body wash onto the sponge and soaping it. She starts at my arms, working with quiet, methodical care. Then my stomach. My body jerks when she hits a tender spot on my ribs, and she pulls back immediately.
“Here?”
“Yeah.” I breathe through my teeth. “It’s like my whole nervous system is short-circuiting.”
She nods, shifting slightly and sliding one arm behind my back to support me.
“I hate this,” I say quietly, eyes squeezed shut.
“I know.”
“I don’t even know how to let someone do this for me.”
“Well,” she murmurs, gently tilting my head back to wet my hair, “you’re doing it now.”
She finishes soaping my chest, arms, and stomach with quiet, methodical movements—hands sure, touch featherlight. She’s careful to avoid the spot just beneath my collarbone where the monitor clings to my skin, skimming around it without drawing attention to the way I flinch when the edge tugs. My muscles twitch under her fingertips, overworked and frayed, but not seizing the way they were earlier.
“Turn,” she says gently, guiding me by the shoulder. “Time to rinse off.”
I shift with effort, gritting my teeth as I rotate toward the spray. The motion sends a hot, electric burn through my lower spine, but I manage it. Barely. She angles me just enough so the water sluices over my back and stomach but doesn’t hit my chest, shielding the monitor with one hand as if it’s second nature. Her other hand skims down my side, steadying me as the water rinses away the suds.
It’s the first time since I hit the floor that I’ve felt even remotely human. And the first time I realize she knows exactly what she’s protecting, even if I can’t bring myself to say it aloud.
“Back to the bench. You’re up next for a shampoo,” she says, giving my hip a light tap.
I glance behind me, eyeing the seat like it’s Everest. “Ummm… yeah, that’s a lot easier said than done right now.”
“It’s either sit or I climb up there behind you and wash your hair from above.” She gestures to the narrow bench with a shrug. “And we both know how clumsy I can be. Do we really want to risk me slipping, braining myself, and leaving you naked and half-lathered on your bathroom floor?”
I manage a raspy chuckle. “No. I’ll sit.”
I brace a hand against the wall, her fingers wrapped tightly around my bicep as I lower myself, inch by careful inch, onto the slick stone bench. My knees creak and my back screams, but I get there, barely sitting upright, but still holding on.
