Chapter 4 - Sunday at the Rehab Center

Rachel Carter had learned to walk twice in her life.

The first time, according to Evelyn, she had been eleven months old and furious about it.

The second time, at thirty-three, she needed parallel bars, a gait belt, two therapists, and more patience than she believed existed in the world.

On Sunday, Milo watched from the doorway of the rehabilitation gym as his mother moved her right foot six inches forward.

“Don’t clap,” Rachel warned without looking at him.

Milo clasped his hands behind his back.

“I wasn’t going to.”

“You were thinking about it.”

“You can’t know my thoughts.”

“I gave birth to you.”

“That doesn’t make you psychic.”

“It should.”

Evelyn stood beside him carrying a paper bag with three turkey sandwiches.

Milo had checked.

Three.

One for each of them.

Rachel shifted her weight, lifted her left foot, and made another step. Her jaw tightened with effort.

The therapist beside her said, “Good. Keep your shoulders loose.”

“They are loose.”

“They are touching your ears.”

“Maybe my ears moved.”

The therapist laughed. “Two more.”

Rachel took them.

When she reached the chair, she sat hard and closed her eyes.

Milo waited exactly three seconds.

“Now can I clap?”

Rachel opened one eye. “One clap.”

He clapped once, loudly.

A man on a stationary bike across the room joined him.

Rachel pointed at him. “Traitor.”

The man grinned.

After therapy, they went to the courtyard where autumn had turned the maple leaves copper and yellow. Rachel wore gray sweatpants and a blue sweatshirt with the rehab center’s logo. A cane rested against her wheelchair.

Milo hated the wheelchair less than he used to.

In the beginning, it had looked like proof that his mother was broken.

Now it looked like equipment.

Something that helped her get where she was going until her body could do more.

They ate at a metal table under a tree.

Rachel unwrapped her sandwich and looked at Evelyn.

“You put mustard on mine?”

“Of course.”

“You used to forget.”

“I did not forget. I objected.”

“You objected to mustard?”

“It smells aggressive.”

Milo laughed so hard he nearly dropped his sandwich.

For ten minutes, they talked about school, therapy, and whether the neighbor’s cat was actually mean or simply selective.

Then Rachel looked at Milo.

“Can you get me a water from the machine?”

He narrowed his eyes. “Are you sending me away so you can talk about money?”

Rachel blinked.

Evelyn closed her eyes.

“I would like water,” Rachel said.

“Promise?”

“Yes.”

“And you won’t whisper?”

“Milo.”

“Fine.”

He took two dollars and walked toward the vending alcove.

The machine rejected the first bill twice.

He heard his mother’s voice from behind him anyway.

“Mom, you can’t keep doing this.”

Milo froze.

He did not turn around.

Evelyn said something too low to hear.

Rachel’s voice sharpened.

“I’m not blaming you. I’m saying we need a plan.”

The machine finally accepted the dollar.

Milo pressed the water button harder than necessary.

He could have stayed near the corner and listened.

Instead he carried the bottle back.

Neither woman was whispering when he returned.

“Thank you,” Rachel said.

He sat down.

“You were talking about money.”

“Yes,” she said.

“At least you’re honest.”

“I’m trying.”

Rachel twisted the cap off the water bottle.

“Your grandma told me about the school meal program and the grocery voucher.”

Milo looked at Evelyn.

“She also told me you’ve been helping her be brave enough to ask for things.”

“I annoy her until she does it.”

“That sounds familiar.”

Evelyn pointed her sandwich at Rachel. “You taught him this.”

“I accept responsibility.”

Rachel’s smile faded.

“I also need to tell you something.”

Milo sat straighter.

“My discharge evaluation is Friday.”

“I know.”

“The doctor thinks I may be able to leave residential rehab within six weeks.”

Milo’s mouth opened.

“Home?”

“Maybe.”

The word hit him wrong.

“Maybe?”

“There are things we have to figure out.”

“What things?”

“Stairs. Bathroom access. Outpatient therapy. Transportation. Whether I can be alone during the day.”

“We can help.”

“I know.”

“I can get your cane.”

“That’s not enough.”

“Then tell me what is.”

Rachel looked at him for a long moment.

“This is where being ten matters.”

His face fell.

“I don’t want everyone saying that whenever I try to help.”

“That’s fair,” she said immediately. “I’m not saying you can’t help. I’m saying you can’t become my nurse.”

“I didn’t say I would.”

“But you would if we let you.”

Milo looked away.

Rachel reached across the table.

“When I come home, I want to be your mom. Not another problem you monitor.”

“You’re not a problem.”

“I know. But I have problems right now. There’s a difference.”

Evelyn took a slow breath.

“We may need to move the living room furniture,” she said. “The hallway is narrow.”

Rachel nodded. “And I need a shower chair.”

“We can get one.”

“And a rail by the toilet.”

“We’ll get one.”

“And outpatient therapy three times a week.”

Evelyn’s jaw tightened.

“That’s the transportation problem.”

“I can take the bus,” Rachel said.

“Not in January with a cane.”

“I can use medical transport if insurance approves it.”

“If.”

Milo looked between them.

“Dana knows transportation vouchers.”

Both women turned to him.

“What?” he said. “It was in the folder.”

Rachel smiled slowly. “Good memory.”

Evelyn did not smile.

“What if she doesn’t qualify?”

“Then we ask what else exists,” Milo said.

The words sounded familiar because Dana had said them first.

Evelyn stared at him.

Rachel laughed softly.

“What?” Milo asked.

“You’ve changed since I’ve been here.”

He did not know whether he liked that.

“How?”

“You used to ask me if everything was okay and believe me when I said yes.”

“That was before everything wasn’t okay.”

Rachel’s eyes filled.

“I’m sorry.”

“You didn’t crash the car.”

“No.”

“Then why are you sorry?”

“Because when I was hurt, all the adults around you started speaking in soft voices and half-truths. We thought we were protecting you.”

Milo picked at the edge of his napkin.

“I hate soft voices.”

“I know.”

“I hate ‘we’ll see.’”

“I know.”

“I hate when Grandma says ‘I’m fine.’”

“So do I,” Rachel said.

Evelyn glared at both of them.

Rachel took Milo’s hand.

“So here’s the truth. I want to come home more than anything. I’m also scared.”

Milo looked at her.

“Of falling?”

“Of falling. Of needing too much. Of you seeing me fail at things. Of your grandma spending every dollar and every ounce of energy trying to keep me from feeling guilty.”

Evelyn started to speak.

Rachel held up a hand.

“And I’m scared of pretending I’m ready because I miss you.”

Milo swallowed.

“Do you think you’re ready?”

“Not today.”

It hurt.

But the clear answer hurt less than “maybe.”

“Okay,” he whispered.

Rachel squeezed his fingers.

“Friday, the team will give me a list. We’ll make decisions from the list. Not from fear. Not from guilt.”

Evelyn looked at the paper bag on the table.

“Not from pride,” she added.

Rachel raised an eyebrow.

Evelyn sighed. “Yes, yes. I heard myself.”

Milo smiled.

Later, Rachel asked him to walk beside her for one lap of the courtyard while she used her cane.

The therapist followed several steps behind.

“Don’t grab me unless I ask,” Rachel said.

“I know.”

“No hovering.”

“I’m not hovering.”

“You’re hovering with your whole face.”

Milo shoved his hands into his pockets.

They moved slowly.

One step. Pause. Cane. Step.

Halfway around the courtyard, Rachel’s right knee buckled.

Milo’s arms flew out instinctively.

The therapist steadied her first.

Rachel breathed through the fear.

“I’m okay,” she said.

Milo stared at her.

She looked back.

Then she corrected herself.

“I got scared. My leg slipped. My knee hurts a little. But I’m safe.”

Milo released a breath.

“That’s better,” he said.

“What is?”

“The long version.”

Rachel smiled.

They finished the lap.

At the entrance, Evelyn waited with the empty lunch bag folded under one arm.

Three sandwiches had gone in.

Three people had eaten.

It was such a small thing that no one mentioned it.

But Milo noticed.

Before they left the rehab center, Rachel asked Evelyn to wait while Milo bought one more bottle of water.

“This time I really am sending him for water,” she said.

Evelyn watched him walk away. “He hears more than we think.”

“He hears less now because we’re finally saying more.”

Evelyn looked at her daughter.

Rachel rested both hands on the wheels of her chair. “Mom, when I come home, don’t make me your project.”

“I would never—”

“You would. Lovingly. Efficiently. With labels.”

Evelyn almost smiled.

“I need help,” Rachel continued. “I also need the chance to do things badly before someone takes them away from me.”

“That will be hard to watch.”

“I know.”

“And if you fall?”

“Then help me up if I ask.”

Evelyn’s eyes moved toward Milo at the vending machine.

“We are all learning the same lesson, aren’t we?”

Rachel followed her gaze. “Different versions.”

Milo returned holding water and three packets of crackers from the machine.

“One each,” he announced.

Rachel raised an eyebrow. “Did we request crackers?”

“No. But this is help, not management.”

Evelyn laughed so suddenly she had to put a hand over her mouth.

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Rachel accepted a packet.

“Fine,” she said. “But if you start making a spreadsheet, we intervene.”