Chapter 10 - Physical Therapy
The first time I walked without the cane, nobody clapped.
That was good.
I had grown suspicious of dramatic encouragement. People clapped when they wanted pain to turn into a lesson quickly enough to stop inconveniencing them.
The physical therapist’s name was Morgan, and she believed in counting out loud with the same firm optimism of a kindergarten teacher leading children through a fire drill.
“Five more steps, Claire.”
“My leg disagrees.”
“Your leg is invited to the conversation, not allowed to chair the meeting.”
I almost laughed, and laughing pulled at my ribs, which made me glare at her.
She smiled like she had won.
Recovery was humiliating in quiet ways. I needed help showering. I got tired brushing my teeth. My ribs punished every sneeze like I had insulted them personally. There were mornings when walking from the bedroom to the kitchen felt like crossing a continent with a bad map.
But every small task returned a piece of me.
The first cup of coffee I carried without spilling.
The first night I slept without dreaming of metal screaming.
The first time I drove around the block with Laura Price sitting beside me, pretending she was not watching my hands.
The first time I passed the intersection where the delivery truck hit me and did not pull over to cry.
Tessa had wanted my injuries to become proof I was fragile, dramatic, unreliable.
Instead, recovery became proof of something else.
I could be damaged and still be accurate.
May you like
I could be afraid and still be right.
I could shake while walking and still keep moving.
