Page 29 of For Her Own Good

I swallow and nod again, because he is close. So very close. And he’s being so very careful with me, it makes me ache. He always has been, but not in a way that made me feel weak, like some people.

This is an actual, physical hurt, one that it should be much easier to accept help for. Would I not get a cast if I had a broken leg? Would I not get glasses if my vision weren’t perfect?

Wordlessly, I switch my grip on the towel, and together we maneuver my arm into my shirt with only one sharp pain that makes me suck air through my teeth. I’d like to tell him I can take it from here, but the truth is, it’d be a bit of a challenge to get even my good arm into its sleeve since I can’t much use my other arm to help.

I switch my grip again, and finally my damn shirt is on. Quite the production.

Before I can, Lowry scoops up the towel from the floor and goes into the bathroom, and I wander over to my kitchen area and there’s a mug, still steaming, on the counter. Picking it up with my good hand, I feel its heat. It hurts my cold hand like when you’re chilled and trying to run yourself a hot bath and put your fingers under the stream to check the water.

I take a sip, and holy shit, that is not just tea.

“What the hell did you put in this?”

Lowry comes back, a sheepish, one-sided smile making his dimple appear. “Ah, yeah, should’ve mentioned. It’s more like a hot toddy than tea. So, whisky. And lemon and honey. But—”

“Mostly whisky.”

“Aye, well, my gran said it would fix just about anything. Figured it couldn’t hurt.”

It doesn’t. Hot enough to singe my tongue and my throat, but I’m not entirely sure that’s all the steaming tea. Could also be the more lingering burn of the liquor. I think I’d like Lowry’s gran, though I doubt she’s alive anymore. If she were, I’d send her a case of the world’s finest whisky.

* * *

Lowry

Starla’s standing there, taking slow, deep sips from the mug in her hand. She looks like hell, which is understandable, given what she’s been through, and knowing how she feels about going to the hospital for anything other than her ECT. That’s a necessary evil, and everything else feels like pile-on.

“Why don’t you sit, love?”

When I moved here, I had to practice beating “love” out of my casual conversations since Americans don’t use it in the same way as everyone back home. But with Starla, it comes out. While I did my utmost to never utter it when she was my patient, my tongue has loosened and I have more important things to spend my efforts on than not calling her love. Like forcing the stubborn hen to take a rest, for the love of God.

She wrinkles her nose and scrunches her mouth. “I can’t actually figure out how I’m going to do it comfortably.”

That’d do it.

“Well, come on then, let’s figure it out. You’re not going to be able to stand forever, especially since you look like a stiff breeze could knock you over.”

She’s clearly exhausted because she doesn’t even snap back at me, or insist that she’s a tank. Which she is, just…a tired one. One who’s already been through a lifetime of combat, not to mention a particularly nasty battle today.

Shuffling over to the couch, she looks like she might collapse. I don’t think I could handle that again. The first time it was as though my heart had gone through a shredder. Then she stands there, looking at the couch like it’s a damn Rubik’s Cube. Finally, she sets her tea down and lowers herself onto the plush cushions, wincing and sucking air through her teeth when she lands.

Frowning and looking miserable, she blinks up at me. “The entire right side of my body hurts.”

I can imagine. And I can imagine the ugly black and blues she’s going to have tomorrow, and how sore she’s going to be. What I’d like to do is wrap her up in a blanket and take her onto my lap, rocking her to sleep while I convince myself she’s okay because I can feel her steady heartbeat and the rise and fall of her breath. But there’s no way she would stand for that, even when she’s beat. Since that’s not allowed, I’ll try something else. There are several throw pillows on hand that I pile onto one end of the couch.

“What if you lean up against this with your left side? That should take some pressure off your right side.”

She tries it, arranging the pillows, but still looks like she might burst into tears from pain and frustration.

“Not working?”

She shakes her head and tries to burrow into the pile. It’s adorably pathetic, like a bunny trying to make a nest in leaves. She would hate that I felt that way, though, so I toss that idea, along with the pillows, and take their places at the far side of the couch, resting my arm along the top and patting the seat beside me.

“Come here. You can lean on me. Come on, before you lose consciousness.”

She regards me for a blink, clearly trying to determine if she has enough energy to fight me on this, but then decides no and scoots closer, snuggling into my side to rest her head on my shoulder. At first she keeps her arm curled into her chest like a bird’s broken wing, but eventually thinks better of it and snakes it around my waist, sighing when she lets the tension go.

“Better?” My voice is half a croak and I hope she doesn’t notice.

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